New Years Day, 2009
You confuse me so much, oh daughter of mine. You seem so impossibly mature at times, yet at other moments you behave more like a tantruming brat then the 11 year old girl that you are. Girl? Young woman? Nymph? How do I characterise this in-between stage of yours? It frightens me more then anything else.
Some days I feel like shrinkwrapping you, keeping you in stasis in a closet so I can just pull you out at times and squeeze you to bits. Other times I would gladly throw you into a time machine and alternately turn you back into the perfect 8 year old, or send you into your thirties without a look back.
I don't know. I'm not even sure I know how to parent you properly right now. You push buttons in me I didn't even know I had, like the scene in Elf where he runs his hands up all the elevator buttons, lighting it up like a Christmas tree. That's me... all lit up with emotions firing everywhere.
I feel frightened because I look at you, look in you, and see me at your age. I see nothing of your father in you besides his blue eyes and a propensity to hate mornings. See, I so much want to do better by you then how I grew up. I want to make sure that I don't limit you based on my own perceptions, Girlie of mine, I want you to fly high and free.
Butfor all my talk, Momma bird really doesn't want to think of you growing up and leaving the nest. And while the reality of it might be years away, all your growth from here on in is just in preparation of that flight. And that's okay... that's what it's supposed to be. All the adolescent turmoil that's to come is so that you can separate for me/us appropriately. I *know* it's developmentally de rigueur, I'm well read and well aware on this topic but DANG!
Someone said being a mother was like living with your heart outside of your body. I can't think of truer words right now.