I pull into our long driveway in silence. No cars are parked in the drive. I push the button and the garage door slowly
retracts. Sandy cat strolls up from the
deck with a long stretch, looking more perturbed that I’ve broken his slumber,
than happy to see me. He tangles himself
in between my ankles as a reminder that he is hungry. I stop and fill up his bowl. The puppies are going crazy. Their enthusiasm for my return seems a little
more authentic. Buddy is genuinely happy
I am home. Bean just wants me to fill his bowl too. After all the animals are fed I look
around. I can see where you left in a
hurry this morning. Packages from your
on the go breakfast and lunch are left behind.
I pick up your mess gladly. I
load the dishwasher. It seems that this
is what is left of motherhood, or what I have defined motherhood to be.
From the moment they handed you to me I have felt immense
happiness and a deep anxiety. Some
mothers may not understand that second part.
Anytime you hear women talk about having children they share the
happiness part, but some are ashamed to talk about the anxieties this
incredible role places on a person; on a mother. One day I drove to the hospital, just me, a
normal young woman who had never considered the absolute terror of being
responsible for another human being. I
left the hospital a “mother”. There was
no test to pass. There wasn’t a
competency checklist. No one walked in
before I left and said, “Okay you are good to take her home. We feel like you are acceptably competent to
raise this human being. You are by no
means proficient. We’ve included study
materials for that. But, we don’t think
you’ll kill her. Sign here.” Nope! They
just handed you to me with some discharge paperwork and took me to the
car. Dad was walking quietly behind
me.
I still recall the way the harsh sunlight hit my face when
they wheeled me out of the hospital. I
immediately looked down to see if the sun was in your eyes and adjusted your
blanket. Luckily that occurred
instinctually. I watched as dad
nervously adjusted the car seat. We
worked and worked to get you clicked in safely.
Finally we were loaded up. Dad
was in the front seat and I was strapped in beside you. I looked up and saw dad’s eyes in the
rearview mirror. He was just as
terrified as me, but was putting on a strong face. You know dad.
We left the circle drive and hit a bump.
My C-section incision seared with pain, but I didn’t care. I looked at you. Were you okay? Did that wake you up? Your tiny head was slumped over the car seat
strap; your underdeveloped neck muscles too weak to hold it up. I reached down and gently pushed it
back. I held your head up the whole way
home.
Home. The house I
walked back into seemed so foreign.
Everything was just as we left it, but none of it felt familiar. I didn’t know where to set you down. I didn’t know where to sit once I picked you
up out of the car seat. I just stood
there so…unsure. Hours turned to days
and days to weeks. Mothering during the
infant years was the hardest for me.
Listening to all the other mothers, old and young, I should know how to
decipher your cries. I would know when
it was hunger, sleepiness, or pain. I
didn’t. It was just crying and I would
have done anything to sooth you. I think
I got my stride eventually. Dad says I did.
I probably worried and read more books on mothering than anyone else who
has ever given birth to a child. I
wanted to mother you perfectly. If it
was considered best practice, well that was what we were practicing. Looking back I am sure your enjoyed the short
reprieves from my over-mothering when you stayed with Maw and Aunt Robin. Those visits were filled with ease of
atmosphere, yummy unhealthy foods, and lots of laughs. Part of me was terrified to what you were
exposed to, but there was a part of my heart that was so thankful for
this. I knew you needed it and it just
wasn’t something I could give. I
couldn’t give it because in my mind to be the best mother I had to follow every
rule that pointed to what was right.
Right. You are 16 now
and this term as it applies to mothering is laughable. What in the world is right? Who knows? Who cares?
Right is not a standard that applies to all children across the
board. Right is something so dynamic
based on the people involved. In our
little world those people are dad, you, and me.
Our right can be and is so very different than the right of other
families we know. The beautiful thing
about a family is that love is always right and we’ve got so much of that. I wish I would have known this sooner. I wish I wouldn’t have stressed out and
stressed you out over the stupidest things.
I wouldn’t have freaked out over the homework assignments you didn’t
quite understand. I wouldn’t have been
so hard on you for being too talkative in class. I wouldn’t have forced you to take piano when
you made it clear you didn’t like it. I
would have let you pick out more outfits because they made you feel pretty and
not because I thought they were cute and made you look like a kid that came
from a “good home”. I wanted people to
know that. I wanted you to be proud of
who you were and who I was. I wanted to
be proud of it.
So much of the silliness I inflicted on you over the years
came from some deep insecurities developed in my childhood. I wanted so badly to be like the little girls
that came from good homes. I wanted your
outfits to match and have pretty little bows to go with each of them. If I could do it all over again I would have
let you wear that same dress 3 or 4 times a week. The one that made you feel like a
princess. I would have let you wear the
worn out white church sandals with the heel and the missing rhinestones
everyday. I would have done that because
I feel like maybe I took away a little bit of what makes you Hannah over the
years. I toned you down and pushed you
in a box that the mother’s in our community created. I can’t be mad at them. After all they
created that box for the same reason I tried to jam you into it. They loved their daughters; however misguided
that can be. Luckily you retained some
of the things that make you magical. The
other night when I kissed your forehead and told you how glad I was that God
made you just as you are, your respond made me smile. “Mom.
I think God knew exactly what you needed when he made me. That is why I am the way I am.” You are so wise. You are not perfect, but gosh you are so very
close.
Lately you have made some very grown up decisions and I am
blown away when you explain why you made them.
They are well thought out and intelligent. They give me hope that when
you do leave our home for college you will be more than prepared to handle
whatever life throws your way. You have
made your commitment to God so apparent during these teenage years. I know there are things you struggle
with. I know you have big questions and
life is hard during this season. Heck,
life is hard in every season. You always
find a way to surprise me with how you process it all and then decisively do
what you know to be right, by God, and for you.
You do this with minimal instruction from me. So I do thank God for you and I thank him for
knowing what I needed in a daughter.
You will always be my baby.
I know I say that to you all the time, but that love and anxiety that I
felt the day they handed you to me, and every milestone you’ve come up against
and conquered, is still very present in my heart. Sure it has changed as the obstacles of each
season of life have changed for both of us.
My worries now center on everything I might of done wrong. Have I prepared you enough? Are you ready to
graduate and actually move out of this home I’ve spent so many years making for
you? Not only do I worry if you will make it, because I kind of know you will, after
all you are too smart not to. What I really
about is… will you flourish? Will you find a great group of friends to lean on?
Will you find a college church group that you love attending and continue to
grow in your faith? Will you love college and find a career path that brings
you joy and purpose, but still support you financially?
As you continue to mature, into this young woman before me, I
cant help but look around this big empty house, reminisce on the day that I
brought you home, and think to myself… how did this happen? I simultaneously ponder on the journey behind
us, the amazing life we celebrate each day, and the future before us. I am a little disoriented. I must admit that
this part of motherhood feels strangely like the first days I brought you
home. I look around and it is our
home. It’s all our things, yet the
people who fill it aren’t sitting in their places. It is foreign to me. You are out living your busy life, and I love
that. But some days after the animals
are fed and the dishes are loaded in the dishwasher I just don’t know where to
sit down. I don’t know what to cook for
dinner. I don’t know how to best mother
you right now. A clumsy dance of hold on and let go ensues. I don’t know what the perfect
response is to this season of motherhood is.
What is that..Perfect? Yes, I I know. I agreed to let that concept go. But you know me, kiddo. You know me better
than anyone else could.
