Birthday Blues
The benchmark of a birthday often gives me pause to notice what I have missed in the ebb and flow of daily living. Like how your long and lanky body reaches the upper third of my torso now, how I can take in the scent of your blond hair, peer into your dark, sometimes brooding sometimes laughing eyes, tickle your neck and give you a hug with a gentle bend of my knees. You still do need hugs. I must not forget, even though you're nine. Even though my arms can't contain the all of you anymore.
You're changing so quickly again, not just in size. There is also the mystery of watching a self emerge, of watching you establish a distinct identity that is like us but not us. Last night you requested some alone time before dinner. On the verge of tears, you were struggling with not having as much of your own play time as you desired. Torn between what you were feeling and how you knew you should come to the table, you rocked in the playroom hammock until laughter from the dinner table drew you back to us--quiet but smiling. There is a new maturity in your desire to have more space from us. I can see you working out the tension between our expectations and your own desires. The readjustment of boundary lines, the loosening of a bond is no small task for a girl newly nine. It is no small task for her mother either, who wants to hold her close just a little longer but who realizes the danger of holding too tight.
During your early years (I feel this still with your sister and brother), so much of who you were and of how you experienced the world was tied up in who I am. You needed me both to meet your physical needs and emotional needs. Our identities were so intertwined, even I often failed to notice where I ended and you began. School has taught you to sort through social dynamics on your own, to make your own friends, and to take charge of your own learning. There are things you have learned that I know nothing about--artists and novels, local history and ways of learning math that I never encountered. The older you get and the more time you spend away from me, the more our life experiences begin to diverge. Now I'm more like your anchor than your captain. You seek me out when you need to feel grounded, when you're sad, when you have a funny story to share, when you need to be folded into a hug. But you most definitely do not want me steering your ship.
A recent passion for cooking is less about food and more about your discovery that in the kitchen you have me to yourself. When we cook together, you still call me Mommy and you ask me questions about what you wonder and about how to wield a knife, about what you fear and how to slice a peach, about conflicts you're trying to sort through and how to brown onions and it all goes together like basil and tomatoes, olive oil and garlic. Sometimes you ask me to leave so that you can cook on your own; I watch from a distance, your blond head bent over a three-step recipe. You pull out an enormous mixing bowl to beat one egg, you settle a dusty bowl of cookie dough into the fridge to chill, still half full of unmixed chocolaty flour. And you are proud of your work. "Wonderful," I will say just passing through or "You won't like how that flour tastes after it bakes. Try mixing it in more."
"Cooking," I tell you, "is about trial and error. In cooking it's good to experiment and make mistakes." I am conscious that you and I do not live at ease with this philosophy. We like getting things right the first time. We like knowing. We like new experiences and adventure, so long as there is a field guide to take in hand. So long as we have judged the risks in advance. But in the kitchen, it's trial and error. Recipes only get you so far. The object lesson is not lost on me. Maybe it's not lost on you either. Mistakes are good.
You are well into third grade and while you cruise along academically, I can see a storm brooding on the horizon of your brow. You are keenly aware of social dynamics but not terribly keen on negotiating them. You have a strong sense of justice and an equally strong gift of empathy. It's your birthday and you have come home sad. "It was not exactly the day I imagined," you say. "It was kind of a hard day. Two bad things happened." We're emptying the dishwasher together; you tell me of a friend who has been goaded to tears, it is as if you were the one ridiculed. When you spoke up, another classmate turned on you. A retreat to your seat only brought more pressure to join the group of girls clustered in one part of the room. "It was so loud during the game, Mom," you tell me. "I just wanted to be at my own seat, but they kept trying to get me to come over. And I didn't want to." I can see that the episode distressed you, troubles you still. And I am grateful for the flatware that needs putting away, the plates that still need stacking.
Your empathy puts you often in the line of fire--you can't abide meanness; you are bold to defend. But sometimes the assailant turns on you. These tales make us both sad--there is a grief in knowing that people have the power to pierce the tender flesh of your feelings when I am not around, in knowing that I myself have done this on more occasions than I care to name. I look for a happy ending, a quick recipe I can turn to to heal your hurt. I find it--in affirming your bravery for sticking up for someone and in the beauty of forgiveness. And this I can teach. There is power in surrendering hurt and anger to grace and mercy. But it's so complex and these are lessons I have not fully learned myself. I see now that the time has come to show you all I only half-know, what I can name but only sometimes practice. If being the mother of an intuitive nine-year-old is anything, it's humbling. Here in the spotlight, where you watch my every move, I am suddenly conscious of the small snags and tears in the fabric of my character. Suddenly aware of the questions I cannot fully answer for you.
But we are not always brooding--you and I. Many hours of a day are given to delight and wonder. Climbing trees, riding bikes, creating imaginary worlds with animals and people that you and your sister spin into elaborate games that last for days on end. The world must seem like a giant question mark to your always inquisitive mind. You have many questions that span all subject areas. You love stories and history (aren't they really the same thing?), the natural world, your family. You love God. Your eyes, sometimes dark with worry, also fill with mirth with the slightest of provocation. I am glad the depths of your brooding are equally matched with the depths of your joy. I am grateful for, amazed by your depths.
Your response to all you see and imagine and love and wonder about is often writing. You have set up a corner of your room to write and there are snippets of stories and chapters and pages of illustrations drifting about our house like tumbleweed. Your ideas are your friends.
On the Wednesday of your birthday blues, we celebrated you with Grammy and Papa at a pizza restaurant. We all waited with bated breath for you to solve the word riddle in your card that revealed your gift from all of us. Horse back riding. You've been asking for two years and finally. Your ear-to-ear smile told us we chose right. Saturday morning you'll take your first lesson and later we'll have your birthday party with five or six girl friends who are just as unique and imaginative as you. You've formed a secret, unified name for yourselves using a syllable of each of your individual names. You join arms on the playground and walk around like a giant amoeba, laughing at jokes only you understand. Silly as your antics get, I am so grateful that there are friends like these girls in your world.
And so, my sweet girl, you are nine. Just like that. And I cannot conceive how it all went so fast. Here we are with just as many years left until you leave our nest. What a gift to be your mother. What a gift you are to Dad and to me and to your sister and brother. What a gift your creativity and empathy and compassion are to us. What a gift your laughter is. Happy birthday, my little Love Bug.
