Transitions
Forseeing a change, I've learned, isn't the same as handling it.
My oldest daughter has been "out of the nest," so to speak, for three weeks now. I prepared for this all summer -- or maybe longer. Even so, it feels strange and surreal, like trying to write with my left hand after writing with my right hand since I was 5. It's not that one hand is better than the other; it's a matter of adjustment and ease. Of comfort.
She's doing fine, as I knew she would. She was an independent, fearless child from early on, and I saw nothing that led me to believe that would change now. So why am I wondering why she hasn't called? Why am I feeling disconcerted at not having visibility into the day-to-day detail of her life?
Letting go, apparently, is a skill that has to be learned over time. She knows I'm here if she needs me; why doesn't she need me more?
I know she's not supposed to need me as much now. I know I could even take her lack of "neediness" as a positive sign that I did something right these last 10 years, preparing her for independence. I'm trying to give her the space she needs to figure out who she is right now, to determine the shape these next four years will take for her. Of course, more than anything, I want that shape to be a responsible, healthy, sustainable one, a shape that's rooted in her intellect, her independence, her long-range goals for her life. But I also know that I have to let her make her own mistakes and define those goals, that shape. I may not agree with each decision she makes, but she has to learn to fly solo, even through the bumps and turbulence. I know there will be rough spots. I need to determine how I should manage -- or NOT manage -- those spots.
And then there's my younger daughter, left behind to look at the dust settling after her sister's departure. It's been a difficult transition for her, I think. She feels that she's lost a shoulder, a sympathetic ear. I do my best to be available and listen, but I know it's not the same. How could it be?
There are parts of the high school world I'm no longer privvy to by virtue of being an adult, a parent. There are things I can't understand because they really have changed. And there are things I honestly don't want to hear, because I'm the mom. I want -- I need -- to believe the best about my daughters. But they need a place to be uncensored and honest, too. But that place is no longer totally with me. And that is another transition to deal with.
My oldest daughter has been "out of the nest," so to speak, for three weeks now. I prepared for this all summer -- or maybe longer. Even so, it feels strange and surreal, like trying to write with my left hand after writing with my right hand since I was 5. It's not that one hand is better than the other; it's a matter of adjustment and ease. Of comfort.
She's doing fine, as I knew she would. She was an independent, fearless child from early on, and I saw nothing that led me to believe that would change now. So why am I wondering why she hasn't called? Why am I feeling disconcerted at not having visibility into the day-to-day detail of her life?
Letting go, apparently, is a skill that has to be learned over time. She knows I'm here if she needs me; why doesn't she need me more?
I know she's not supposed to need me as much now. I know I could even take her lack of "neediness" as a positive sign that I did something right these last 10 years, preparing her for independence. I'm trying to give her the space she needs to figure out who she is right now, to determine the shape these next four years will take for her. Of course, more than anything, I want that shape to be a responsible, healthy, sustainable one, a shape that's rooted in her intellect, her independence, her long-range goals for her life. But I also know that I have to let her make her own mistakes and define those goals, that shape. I may not agree with each decision she makes, but she has to learn to fly solo, even through the bumps and turbulence. I know there will be rough spots. I need to determine how I should manage -- or NOT manage -- those spots.
And then there's my younger daughter, left behind to look at the dust settling after her sister's departure. It's been a difficult transition for her, I think. She feels that she's lost a shoulder, a sympathetic ear. I do my best to be available and listen, but I know it's not the same. How could it be?
There are parts of the high school world I'm no longer privvy to by virtue of being an adult, a parent. There are things I can't understand because they really have changed. And there are things I honestly don't want to hear, because I'm the mom. I want -- I need -- to believe the best about my daughters. But they need a place to be uncensored and honest, too. But that place is no longer totally with me. And that is another transition to deal with.
posted by Mary at 6:42 PM
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