helpless
I put away the gloves and the sweater and the coat. I dived right into the domestic duties of home, just after playing with Sophie for a few minutes in the almost rain. The suitcase was emptied and I laid the museum pamphlets in a pile to be looked at later. I looked at all my photos again, ready to show them to F and E, as soon as they get home. When a trip is over, it’s really not over. It sticks to me like the scent of something I brushed against and lingers for days... I hope. Knowing where she lives and where she walks and with whom she eats should help in this apartness from my first-born. After all, we’ve been apart for so long. But we were physically so close these past few days, sharing space and time and food. I entered her world in an intimate way, capturing her thoughts and some of her memories, things I never knew, things that are hers.
Parenting has always been a tough journey for me. I remember the nights before A was born, I wondered how in the world I could take care of someone else, a being totally dependent on me and her dad to survive. Then I just poured myself into her life. My pictures capture the closeness, the way a mother holds her baby, watching her every move, keeping her close. And I have journals that chronicle her growing up. I observed her every day without her knowing I was doing so, at the advice of a Montessori teacher. I thought that would help. I relished watching both my girls. But I couldn’t peg them after doing so. They were changing all the time and, besides, I was too wrapped up in their wonderful “being.”
How could I ever really know her? I mean, we talked, but I figured the important stuff she probably didn’t tell me. After all, that’s what growing up and away from parents is all about; normal developmental growth. I knew some of her fears, but apparently I had missed some things along the way. At least she told me now. Then there were things I knew but chose to forget, like a parent who’s afraid to see everything.
And that’s what’s tough. With all the care and watching and loving, she’s still her own person. She can love me and keep me informed but she is her own being; separate and different from me. Oh sure, she got some of the traits, the ones that glare at me and make me want to constantly apologize. But somewhere between me and F, she got a little mix of things that she balances well. I cannot project my own fears onto her. I cannot tell her much of what is best for her, if I don’t know her. At first I felt shame when I realized how little I know my daughters, but now I am okay with it. I’ve heard mothers talk about their children as though they know them so well and as much as I envy that, I am not sure I trust it.
I don’t know what I want to say, just that watching your flesh and blood grow up, struggle, make decisions, step out, step back, hurt, well, it’s a hard thing. I feel helpless, and I wonder if I knew her better, if I could help more. And I don’t understand how I could not know someone like the inside of my heart who is so dear to me, literally a part of me. But what I do know is that we do not have to understand everything and I know that she and I can stand together in the fear and helplessness. That’s what parents do.
10:37:01 PM 
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