I didn’t take my eyes off her during the following fifteen minutes, as she slowly moved up in line, tiny in the midst of the rest of the people going to get sandwiches and smoothies and other things that took longer than a quick pick from the chest freezer … when it was her turn, she disappeared, the massive line building up behind her.
Suddenly, she broke free. With slushie in hand, running across the sand with a smile on her face, towards me.
I realized right there, her confidence had gone up a notch. The pride on her face (and mine) proved that perhaps I wasn’t totally screwing up in the mothering. And I realized a little bit of sadness too as this was a reminder that both girls will at some point be going off into the world on their own, whether I think I can stop it or not.
I don’t want to and I won’t try.
Some things I do rejoice in, where I feel the need to stick my foot out and nudge their bottoms. To be sure they will eventually make it out on their own one day. Work to pay the rent or mortgage. Follow their passions. Safely cross the street. Be able to make something other than scrambled eggs for dinner. Know how to clean a coffee pot.
My secret hope is that they will know how to make bread, without a machine and I hope that’s not pushing it.
My greatest hope is that they will always remain safe and decide things for themselves based on a perfect mix of emotion and intellect, leading with their hearts and gut, but rationalizing with their minds.
I start with the small things that they can shower on their own and get dressed. That I don’t need to sit there beside the tub reading a magazine while they play in the bubbles and fight over toys. I still find myself wandering in and sitting on the closed toilet seat to listen to their conversations or scrub their hair, even though they can do it on their own.
