I gathered her hair in my hands and attempted the braid she requested. My daughter, now nine years old, was keenly aware of her appearance and valued it. She was particular about colours (bright) about pants (tight) and about jewelry (never too much). To me, this person appeared overnight, knocking me speechless with her maturity and compassion. She was kind, creative and incredibly intuitive. It occurred to me that she always had been, but I had not seen it all the time as I tended to her tears, tantrums and appetite.
Guilt and motherhood appear to go hand in hand, but I feel it’s true that they don’t have to. More days than not, I feel as though I can’t keep up, that I haven’t done enough and that I haven’t been as nice as I could have been. I often wonder if they know how much I love them, how fiercely I would protect them. Perhaps it’s not something they know intellectually as much as something they feel viscerally. That’s how it is for me: a primal longing for all to be right and good in their worlds…for them to always feel safe and cared for.
I slowly plaited the strands of her hair, hoping I was doing it right. She was looking down at her hands, telling me the latest goings-on with her friends at school. She tilted her head slightly to rest it on my rib cage and my eyes welled up. She saw my reflection in the mirror.
“What’s the matter, Mommy?” she asked in genuine concern.
“Nothing, baby girl,” I replied.
She knit her brow, unconvinced. “But you’ve got tears in your eyes.”
I held the braid with one hand and wiped my eyes with the other. “You’re just getting so big,” I told her.
She smiled at that for a moment and then looked confused. “And that makes you sad because you like babies, right?”
I laughed. “Yes, Mommy loves babies, and I especially love my babies. Seeing you grow up makes me proud, but it makes me sad too, because you won’t always be here with me.”
“I’m going to be an actress!” she announced for the billionth time since she could speak in full sentences. “Probably in New York. Maybe in Hollywood,” she fluttered her eyelashes in the mirror, speaking in her very best grown-up voice.
I smiled, but beneath that smile was anxiety. Did I ask her enough about her dreams? Did I nurture them? Should I be more involved at her school? Should I ask her more about her friends? Is she eating enough vegetables? Is she sleeping enough?
“Mommy?” she called faintly. “Mommy?!”
I snapped out of my nervous thinking. “Yes, baby?”
“Your smile is weird. What are you thinking about?”
Again, I had to laugh. “Just Mommy stuff, my love.”
The knit brow again. “I don’t know what that means”
“I know,” I said simply, tying her braid with her neon pink elastic.
“I’m going to be fine, Mommy. You know that, right?” she said, studying her chipped purple nails.
I swallowed hard. Did I know that? Because knowing that meant trusting in something beyond my control. Knowing that meant she had her own inner guide that was with her when I couldn’t be, and eventually, when I didn’t need to be.
Yes, I knew she would be fine. But I wasn’t ready to let go. I didn’t know that I ever would be. For today though, I could give my tiny worries to God. For today, I could trust the Light within her and know that the same Light was within me. I could do that, for today.
Our eyes met in the mirror as we each studied the braid I had made.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?”
She screwed her mouth up. “Hmm….it’ll do, Mommy.” And she bounced away from me to finish getting dressed, singing about swinging from chandeliers as I held myself tight and smiled.
“My baby,” I whispered.
♥
*Originally written November 2014
