The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Hi Mom. Guess where I am?!?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Where?”
I hear my daughter catch her breath with anticipation and excitement. I’m sitting on my couch in suburban Minneapolis home. It’s cold outside and I’m under a blanket, it’s late, I have to be at work early. I couldn’t sleep.
“I’m in Canada! I got here! Oh Mom, I’m so excited!”
I hear her fumbling around.
“Mom, just listen…”
I hear the beep of a key card being accepted in a lock.
“That was me, I’m in my hotel room!”
I gasp, catching a little hitch in my throat as a tear escapes my eye. I am picturing my 5-year-old daughter standing on tippy toes. She is grinning as she opens the door, turning to see if I am looking.
“I’m so glad you got there safely, how was the flight?” I don’t want her to hear the emotion in my voice. She is my child, and she is a capable woman.
“It was great, no problems, and here I am. I wish you were here. I want you to hear me give my paper.”
“You will do great,” I say, wishing I could be there. I don’t want to make this about me. It’s not, it’s all her. My sweet and spicy first born.
So, this is parenting. I did not raise my kids so that they would need me. I raised them so that they would be capable, reasonable and compassionate. I don’t mean to speak of them as a group or a possession, singular or plural. The babies that I grew in my womb, that I gave birth to, that I suckled and nurtured do not belong to me. They belong with me. I belong with them.
In the beginning there were three, a daughter and two sons. My little crew. My daughter became a big sister at 17 months. My oldest son became a big brother at 28 months. It was crazy, I was struggling in an abusive marriage, with a mother who had struggles of her own. Precarious describes the first years perfectly. It is good that my precious posse was more important to me than life itself. We had adventures, we ate at McDonalds, we had guns that you could only shoot at charging pink Rhinoceros in the house on Tuesdays that started with J.
`I did the best I could to give them a good education, a good work ethic and the understanding that in many statements the word can’t actually means won’t. You should be honest and clear about what you mean. I gave them religious education in the hope that it would springboard them into a spiritual awareness. The ability to discover the importance of a faith walk, and dedication to their individual vibration. I encouraged sports and music. Joining a group and taking part for the duration of the commitment. You don’t need to sign up again. You do need to honor your commitment.
I could have taken them away from their father. I chose to share custody, legal and physical. I chose to love them more than the disdain I held for him. I knew him as my abuser. They knew him as daddy, they adored him, and they were of him. They had every right to know him on more than just the weekends. Warts and all, he was theirs. Warts and all, so am I.
I gave them as much space for self-discovery and development as I could. I grew up with suppressive rules. My mom was fighting the demon of anxiety and depression. Her safety was conditional on my compliance. I held loose reigns, and there could have been more slack.
Parenting is a dance of generations. You will always be influenced by your past, not controlled by it. My parents were donors of many loving hours with my children. They enriched the lives of these children as they grew into the adults that they are. My parents gave them deep roots, and heritage. There are many teachers, coaches and friends that took on roles of immeasurable value. The influence of adults outside our family group are the buds of branches in the young lives. Branches that will reach for the sky, nourished by the deep roots and supported by the strength of these remarkable young lives.
My daughter is standing inside her hotel room. In a different county. Alone. Capable, proud, and she is sharing the moment with me. I am crying. I am not proud of her; I am proud for her. Yes, I guided, and she accepted. Yes, I taught, and she chose to learn. Yes, she failed. Her failure is not my lesson. It is hers. Yes, she succeeded. The success is not mine. It is hers.
Three people. One momma. I love them all, better yet I really like them.