I have three children. A son and two daughters. My son came first and when my husband and I planned our next pregnancy (the only one we managed to actually “plan”), I crossed all fingers and toes praying for a girl. At the ultrasound the baby was shy so we were told we would have to wait to find out the sex. I painted the nursery the ever-dependable peach and continued to hope for my little girl. During the eighth month I started to bleed and went immediately to the hospital. Everything seemed to be alright, but, to be sure, the doctor ordered an ultrasound to check on my little one. During the exam the technician mentioned offhandedly, “Oh, she’s just fine.” I started to cry. My husband and I looked at each other and laughed. Our baby girl was born just a little bit that day. A month later she slipped out of my body and lay silently on my stomach looking at me. No cries, which the doctor didn’t like, so he roughed her up a little and Avery Gayle announced her presence. But for me it was that first look, that quiet stare as if she was telling me she had always been with me and always would be.
That is probably the first lie of parenthood, that idea we, as parents, seem to believe, the one where we think our children will always be around. At least, as you hold your tiny little person in your arms, you think, “I have eighteen years with you and that will be enough.” My children, all three of them, are almost grown now, and I can tell you there will never be enough time. Eighteen years go by in a blink. You find yourself looking back with love on even the long sleepless nights and the countless school functions. My time with Avery was cut short by a wicked divorce and a much more difficult custody choice. Growing up, Avery was always a daddy’s girl, so when the marriage ended, she chose to live with her father. It was so hard for me. Period. There are no pretty words or platitudes to help a parent stop missing her child, miss making her breakfast, tucking her in, sharing her everyday joys and sorrows. Those days are lost, and since I had her two siblings living with me, I was all the more aware of the time that was going by. Still, Avery and I managed to have a relatively close relationship. The trips to the Clinique counter for make-up happened and nightly calls helped with my tremendous separation anxiety. I guess poor Avery had the terrible job of bringing me up through all of this. Our roles reversed.
Avery is now nineteen years-old. She is a carbon copy of me at that age in so many ways. Just as I did, she struggles with her place in this world. She has her fair share of boy troubles and she is fiercely independent. I watch with my breath held as she chooses the hardest ways to navigate her life. Because for Avery (as it was for me) she only learns through doing. She has to try for herself. She has to stumble and she has to fall down. No one can tell her or warn her. Only the cruel slap of life can teach her the hard lessons, the ones that push one through life’s birth canal and into the next stage. I scream inside with frustration because I know exactly who she is, yet this knowledge is useless. Even though I recognize myself in my daughter I cannot seem to master the fact that she is actually her own person. She may remind me of myself at that age, but Avery is her own creation, an evolving work of art. I may think I know what’s best for her, but I have to come to terms with the fact that she is the artist of her own life. It makes me think of that day at the hospital with the sonogram, the day she was born just a little bit. Because the truth is, that’s what happens each and every day—she continues to celebrate entering the world a tiny bit at a time. My job is to watch, to cry and to laugh and celebrate with her. Quite a privilege, actually.
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
amandla
stormborns
origamiaround
pixelskylines
theartofmadeline
