When my
daughter was four she folded her arms across her chest and walked with her hands tucked under her armpits, just slightly ahead of me. I wasn't surprised: This was the child who, upon taking her first few steps
unassisted, tossed me a triumphant look, then lurched across the front yard, heading for the fence like an escaping convict. When dropping Elizabeth at the day care center on my way to work she would skip
happily into her classroom, sometimes neglecting to kiss me goodbye. Other mothers would be stuck in the door, their kids plastered to their legs and wailing as though they were about to be cast into a dungeon. I would
smile and edge past them, then sprint to my car and wonder where I had gone wrong – why didn't my child cling to me? Didn't she need me?
I was necessary for obvious things: She was too short to reach the top of
the pantry and too young to do her laundry. She wasn't allowed to cook or drive a car and sometimes had trouble telling time. She needed me the way kittens do their mothers – to provide the basics until they're old
enough to be on their own. But when it came to being dependent, Elizabeth could be as cool and remote as an ice floe, only wanting me when she was out of sorts or tired or too small.
This made me feel vaguely useless.
Friends observed how fortunate I was that Elizabeth is so capable, never clingy. Instead, she approaches life without the slightest tremble, meeting change with confidence. She expects me there when she falls, but
prefers to walk alone.
When Elizabeth spends the night away from home, she relishes the experience. Other girls call home, tearfully telling their mothers how they miss them. But not Elizabeth. She embraces freedom
like a wild bird suddenly turned loose, her wings perpetually unfolded and ready to ride the wind.
My child leans into life, arms open, gathering to her all the joy and the pain it brings. When she was little she
preferred it less honest, with a bit more sugar. Now that she's moving from childhood to adolescence, she wants it straight, not buffered.
She started middle school this year, moving gracefully to a place where her
stubborn independence is nurtured and encouraged. She spills out of the car each morning with her friends to wade into her studies and social relationships with gusto. And she does it with a confidence I never
envisioned: I thought she would be like me.
When I was Elizabeth's age, I was awkward and ungainly, like a big-footed puppy not yet grown into its appendages. Shy and unassertive, I was held back by the fear of
rejection. But even girls who lack charisma dream of friendship and attention. I pressed my nose against the glass during my middle school years, wanting to join in, but incapable of doing so. My self-assurance came
later.
Against this backdrop of longing, I raised a daughter who somehow was infused with all the things I was not. Elizabeth – bold and assertive – is unafraid to push off into the abyss, trusting that she will
fly.
My daughter is going to a dance tonight. She brings her brush in and asks me to help pull her long, dark hair back into a pony tail. With each stroke I remember a toddler who took off and ran on short, sturdy
legs across the damp morning grass.
At the time, I thought she was running away from me, but I was wrong. Elizabeth – strong, opinionated and unafraid of what awaits her – was not moving away from me.
