Letting go

I remember when I was able to hold my daughter close to me for the first time. The precise moment of her tiny naked body making contact against my own bare skin. Watching everyone leave the two of us alone in the hospital the night after she was born and the feeling of unbelievable terror as the gravity and immutability of my new responsibility as A Mother sank in. I remember the Christmas Eve when she was 6 month's old and she screamed for an entire 24 hours (at my poor aunt and uncle's house) like a rage-filled mini monster who just wanted us to know how PISSED OFF she was with things. Her first tooth cut its way through her gums and showed up on Christmas day. I remember thinking that I couldn't really remember what my life was like before she had started crying that Christmas Eve. Like time had concertina-ed into those 24 hours and that I would never escape them. She would be there, in my arms, face red and angry, screaming at me a great big "Why?" forever. After teething came ear infections. After ear infections came the moment of farewell at nursery in the morning. A multitude of moments when she'd look at me and say: "This is so not what I signed up for, mum."

And people would say: "It gets easier."

And I'd think: "Yeah, right."

Then after four years of hard, long, slog (and a lot of amazingness and joy be assured, dear reader) she started school and the fabled "getting easier" had happened. It was true. It was much easier.

This morning we got half way to school in the pouring rain on a duller-than-dull February morning and I had another moment when I realised that Things had Changed. We'd bumped into a friend of hers from the year ahead who was walking to school on her own. The two of them started chatting and wondered off ahead of me. I had to walk quickly to keep up. And I had a moment of realisation: she doesn't really need me here to do this with her any more. I stopped walking and she looked back.

"Do you need me to come all the way to school with you?" I asked.

"Not really mum," she smiled. "We can take it from here. See you after school."

She ran up to me, gave me a kiss and smiled again and then the two of them went on their way.

I watched them walk away from me until they were out of sight and she didn't look back at me once. And for a moment I wanted her to be tiny again. To be screaming in my face: "I need you to make things better!" It won't be long now until I stop being that person all together. She will need other people more than she will need me. She will need to be herself more than she will need my approval or validation. That's what growing up is all about. And only now am I realising in this new way what a precious and amazing thing it is to be relied upon and trusted in the way a parent is. And I'm also pleased to realise that I was, and I am, and I will be up to the challenge. I will be here for her, holding her hand and walking with her, or just watching from the corner at the end of the road in the rain if that's what she wants, for as long as she needs me to.

So stick that in your pipe and smoke it Jean Paul Sartre. If that's not the meaning of existence then I don't know what is.

IMAGE: by Flickr user Mr Littlehand (CC licensed)