All along I knew I was getting her ready for the world but now that the inevitable is knocking on the door, I’m panicking. I’m not worried about her future; it’s all the days in between that weigh on my mind, which is no different from the last seventeen years of my involvement in her life: have we made the right choices, is she ready for the next milestone, is she safe and happy? With her independence hurtling toward us, and my slow acceptance of this major change, it only ups the ante of my apprehension wondering how the pressure to raise her game will play out. I understand this big step happens to every person eventually but just because something happens all the time, doesn’t make it easy (childbirth comes to mind).
The worst part is I don’t believe we’ll ever fully know how difficult or easy the transition was for her because although I’m sure the first few days will be hard, this kid rarely admits to fear and has often shown the wherewithal to stoically endure her situation. This “I’ll show you” attitude has always served her well. I felt the first inkling of her figurative middle finger when she came home after the first day of Grade 2. I had sent her off on the bus that morning, to a school she had already been to for a year, assuming the teachers would help the kids find their way to their new class. Apparently not. But she figured out what to do and was stronger for it—while I added one more strike to my running list of guilty mother moments. I lost more clout when she was nine years old and we dropped her off for a 9-day camp an hour and a half from home. She didn’t flinch but I wanted to turn around and pick her up before we even got back to the main road. If she had felt any homesickness over that week, she didn’t say anything when we picked her up but I was teased for months.
As a teenager, that figurative middle finger has become more vocal but with every needle to my heart, I’m counting on this independent, stubborn, I-can-take-care-of-myself attitude she`s had ever since she kicked off her blanket in the delivery room to be there when she needs it. I have no choice but to be more like my daughter and resist showing signs of weakness. I will have to pull it together and be the spring board she needs to set off on her own, even though I secretly, or not so secretly, hope she bounces back every once in a while.
