Pulling Away, Rolling Away

I suppose we each choose a different time, a different way to assert our independence.  A rite of passage. And right on schedule, my oldest has began pushing the boundaries, just enough to make me worry about the future, recalling all too clearly what I myself managed to try and get away with.

Last night she was supposed to go to the mall with a friend and her family, but there was a last minute change. Instead of calling me, she waited for me to track her down.  Now I would have been fine with the new plan, had I been given the opportunity... But I wasn’t! So of course I can’t help putting on my motherly authority like armor, beginning her lecture over the phone before she even got home.

“She’s grounded tomorrow and we should take away phone!” I blast off at my husband as we awaited her return.

Gently trying to quell my windup to a full tirade, he suggested, “Why don’t we wait until tomorrow to decide what to do?” while giving me his all-knowing, seen-it-happen-before nod.

“Why!?! She lied. She didn’t do what she was supposed to do. She...”

“I just think it would be better if we avoid a big fight tonight. We’ll let her know that we will talk about it in the morning,” my husband offers, trying again to reach the rational part of me.

Fine. But when my 12-year old entered the front door wearing make up, which she knows she is not allowed to wear yet... Well, I had to do everything I could to grit my teeth and not start yelling.

She is pulling away, claiming her independence, growing up. It’s hard for me, because she has always wanted to be at my side, my shadow.  But even though she wants to go and do, when she returns to the comfort of the nest, she has to have affirmation that I miss her and love her and need her. For me it’s a comfort to know that she’s not quite ready to take the full leap.


On the other end of the spectrum is Sara. Sara was born independent.  She began sleeping through the night in her own bed almost immediately.  I would sit her in her bouncy seat as I cooked dinner and she would stay there just watching the world, not needing or wanting to be held. Fine with her own space.

When she decided to quit nursing at three months, I was devastated and I struggled not to compare her with Hannah who I had to cut off at 13 months. My mantra became “If she’s happy, then I’m happy....”  When actually I was thinking, if she can’t be happy any other way, then I guess I will relinquish.  I wanted to embrace her independence, but I wanted her to need me just a little bit longer.

Sara was only two when we moved to Arizona. Our new house felt so big, almost empty and it didn’t help that after days of unpacking there were still boxes everywhere. Sara, as my little helper, tore into each and every box she could find.  Not really caring about the contents, as much as the dismantling.

In the general confusion, a box of toys meant for the backyard had made it upstairs.  It hardly mattered since it was 118 degrees and anything put outside for more than an hour would probably melt anyway.  But it was within this box, she finally discovered something that intrigued her enough to keep her from ripping into the next box, Rolling Pony.

She was so proud of her find, as straddled him at the top of the stairs. Her smile was truly grand, like secretly spying Santa’s arrival or being handed the biggest piece of chocolate cake.  But even from my vantage point downstairs, in less than a split second, I realized what she was contemplating.

The scream to STOP had yet to escape my lungs, when she propelled herself, full force, over the edge, and down our stairs.  Knuckles white, gripping the handles with all her might she somehow managed to hold on.....  But her expression had changed... She wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t scared exactly either.  It was more like determination. Possessed determination.

That was, UNTIL she hit the last two steps... where I helplessly watched her transform into a twisting, tangle of wheels, legs, arms and flying blonde curls. With a deafening thud, Sara collided with the wall at bottom, leaving a lasting impression of her head. And Rolling Pony toppled to rest on top of her, one handle lodging deeply into the sheetrock of the wall.

The entire time I had watched as if everything was in slow motion, my feet mired in mud and my own worst fears. But I was there, somehow ready to grab her up when she came to the end of her ride. I hesitated to take her instantly into my arms, because I feared she might have broken her neck or worse. To my great relief, as I pull the wooden toy off of her, she clamored dizzily to her feet on her own.

My husband and I began frantically questioning her if she was alright, if anything hurt, looking for cuts, blood, scapres. She began rubbing the side of her head, as she looked at no one directly, and stated almost matter-of-factly, like making a mental note for her own future reference, “No ride Rolling Pony down the stairs.”

She didn’t cry, and quickly wiggled free from my arms before I could find any serious injury, besides the wall.  We were dumbstruck as she ran on to her next adventure, and I’ll admit a little impressed.

That is my Sara. She has always been like that.... one independent little cuss. She has to figure things out in her OWN way. Though it can be quite painful to watch, I’ve had to learn to let her go. Let her go in ways that I didn’t have to with Hannah.

Sara has enviable spirit and confidence. In Hannah’s company I have a friend.  Although my daughters can be so different from each other, they give me a wonderful outlook of the future and all that is possible for both of them, in their own way, in their own time.