“I have my phone, Mom.” The words were said with a newfound confidence I’m seeing in her more and more often. She knows I don’t let her wander off unless I have a way to reach her. She knows I struggle with anxiety, especially about my kids, and she is very careful to respect that, though I do know it makes things harder for her at times. We talk about that.
This statement was her way of telling me she wanted some space while we were in the store. She doesn’t want to walk glued to my side at all times anymore, and I applaud her for that. It’s not easy for her either, walking away. While my heart aches, my eyes on her back as she heads off, my thoughts on her past three-year-old hand tucked firmly in mine, I want to cry. She is my last baby, and I don’t want to let go.
I am also aware of how important gaining independence from me is, and I am proud of her for taking this step of asking for a small dose of it.
It may not seem like a big deal to some people, but to me, it is. My baby is eleven years old, and she’s been through a lot the last few years (I don’t mean just Covid). Her world has been turned upside down more than once. And she has quietly surfed the waves as they crashed in.
She doesn’t say much. She is my quiet one. A deep thinker. She sees no reason to talk unless she has something specific to say. She is not a people person. She finds socializing, especially in groups, draining. She is definitely on the far end of the introverted scale. I’m not sure how much of that is from living through a global pandemic and being isolated for so long, but even before Covid crashed into our lives, she was not destined to be outgoing.
It’s a new world raising her on the heels of her extroverted sister.
This one still steps behind me a lot of the time when people approach, not comfortable holding conversations on her own, even with people we’ve known for years.
I can relate to that personally, but her sister never met a stranger, and I often had to remind myself not to squash Big Sister’s friendliness out of her just because I didn’t feel the same way. It was hard finding the balance between teaching her about safety and strangers while trying to avoid shaping her into someone she wasn’t. I loved her friendliness at the same time it scared me to death.
But before my youngest baby came along, I had spent seven years as the mother of one of the friendliest people I had ever met, and I had adjusted (mostly) to what that meant for me. Now, I have to switch between the two, and the extreme differences can leave me feeling off balance.
This one, the baby, her heart’s a little leery, like mine. She doesn’t trust easily at all. She’s cautious and quiet, and I have to encourage, push, to get her to open up to people. It is unlikely a person would choose friendly as an adjective to describe her, though she is kind.
And again, I find myself having pep talks with me, but now, it is the complete opposite of the pep talks me and myself had about her sister. Now I am reminding myself not to push her too much, and not to let her hold back too much at the same time, because I relate to her a little too much on that aspect.
I also still want to step behind my own mother, despite being almost forty and almost always acting as the shield myself these days. I also don’t want to talk to most people I meet. So, part of me just screams to let her hide forever, but I know that won’t serve her well when she has to enter the workforce, or even now, at school, despite the fact that it is her natural instinct.
I’m so proud of her as she takes these small steps out of her shell. I am eager to see who she decides to be, what balance she will find for herself. She doesn’t need to be an extrovert, but she does need to be able to make her way in the world.
And it’s my job to help her learn to navigate that world. The balance is just as difficult, but so very different from the struggle I had with her big sister. With both of them, I want to encourage and support and help them reach farther and bigger, but also never give the impression that their best isn’t good enough.
Raising children, especially ones as different as my two, is a constant checking of myself. A constant reality check of whether I’m asking from one what she isn’t capable of just because the other is.
Motherhood is a complicated journey. I am so proud of these girls. I want to always be their support (if and when they need it), and I always worry I’m messing something up. I don’t want them to need therapy to recover from me.
At the end of the day, I know I’m making mistakes. I just hope they’re the kind that my girls will look back on and be able to see how hard I tried anyway. How important they are to me. How much being their mom matters.
Motherhood is complicated.
Bringing these fabulous humans into the world is the best thing I’ve ever done, and there is nothing more important to me than loving them.
I hope they both know that, at the very least.
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This post was previously published on medium.com.
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Photo credit: Johannes Plenio on Unsplash