Momster Grows Up

[This blog was written before news of the Newtown massacre hit the airwaves.  Please honor the lost children by hugging yours extra tight.]

My daughter likes to remind me—with emphasis—that she is “all grown up.”  She wants to be treated like an adult.  She says she has demonstrated that she can handle her life.  She offers proof that she is responsible.  She wants me to “stop” asking her questions, “stop” reminding her about important matters, and “stop” saying things she doesn’t want to hear.  For years now, I have heard false claims that no one else’s parents call them, or have ever given curfews, or put restrictions on what they can do or where they can go.  Apparently, I am the only parent who asks who is going to be there, what time will you be home, or how much is it going to cost.  Parents no longer provide consequences for their children, I am told; nor are they permitted to weigh in on the appropriateness of activities that they are asked to bankroll.

To a certain extent, she has a point.  She is now twenty, which affords her significantly more leeway than, say, seventeen.  On the other hand, she does not recognize that while she no longer feels like a child, I still feel very much like her mother.   Although I have eased up on the reins considerably, I cannot and do not want to stop thinking about her welfare or her happiness.  I refuse to believe that this makes me a bad mother.

This phase in our mother-daughter relationship conjures an image of the opening scene in Raiders of the Lost Ark.  Despite the trail of skeletons from those who have failed in their quests before him, Indiana Jones inexplicably reaches the prized golden idol.  To claim his treasure, which, to believe the evidence, must be harder to do than it appears, he realizes he must lift the idol while simultaneously replacing its mass with a counterweight.  The exchange of weight from one item to the other must be delicately choreographed.  If the first is lifted too soon, or the second applied too late, or if there is a mismatch in the weight between the two items, disaster is guaranteed. 

Motherhood is a lot like this.  We know we have to let go and are fully prepared to do so, but we are remiss if we withdraw too soon and we are overbearing if we linger too long.  It is not enough for our children to declare their adulthood; we must see it, feel it, and be convinced of it before we withdraw our scrutiny, our judgment, and eventually our voiced opinions.  What children do not realize is that their growth is not attained all at once.  A child who is brilliant academically may be a complete klutz in activities of daily life.  Or one who is acutely well organized may be an impulsive shopaholic.   When I look at my daughter, I still see shadows of a particular lapse fifteen years ago.  We were in the Boston theatre district on our way to see Blue Man Group.  She spotted the lights for the show and started walking toward them.  She walked right out into the middle of the busy traffic as a taxi cab sped around the corner.  I ran into the road after her—she was not tall enough to be seen by the driver—and plucked her off the ground just inches from the front grille of the cab.  Even to this day, she still retains elements of this split focus:   blisteringly insightful one moment and completely clueless the next.

I am nothing if not a good sport.  Although I have nightmares about the major Philadelphia streets she must cross several times a day, I am willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.  If I don’t hear from her, I have taught myself to check to see that she is talking to her friends on Facebook (an act for which she calls me a "stalker").  I can console myself from a distance that if she was in dire straits she would not be making small talk and posting concert photos.  When I see pictures posted of her with her friends, her beautiful smile tells me that she is happy.  Her eyes are bright and she is surrounded by people who love and respect her.   What more can a mother want?

There will come a time when she will not need me—not as a default fallback position, and not for financial support either.   I already know that she makes good choices.  I will be happy when she is financially independent because it is something that is important to her.  She has always taken pride in earning her keep and paying her way when she can.  But I also hope that when she no longer needs “things” and “stuff” from me, she will discover a new way to be my daughter, just as I have had to discover a new way to be her mother.