With My Arms Open

My daughter is only five. So why am I already letting go? Just this summer alone, I waved goodbye, and watched her and her father pull away in a taxi headed for the airport in order to catch a flight to England for a week long to visit his parents, whose aging had made hosting the entire family impractical.

Then today, I packed her bag for an all-day out-of-town trip with her new camp, which does not require a parent's presence on their outings. Even her transportation to and from camp itself, at the beginning and the end of the day, is a form of goodbye. She travels by car pool instead of walking beside me, her small hand entwined with mine.

I am letting her go, and she is moving slowly beyond the small world I have created for herI am letting her go, and she is moving slowly beyond the small world I have created for her, to experience the fullness of the world beyond the one we have shared. Yet her excursions are temporary, and our reunions are sweet. Yesterday, she squeezed herself into the toddler seat of my supermarket trolley, and explained how she will always remain my baby, even after she herself is a mother, and I am a grandmother. Just like I have remained my own mother's baby, she concluded joyfully.

I nodded, acknowledging her reasoned argument. The problem is, I have not remained my own mother's baby. Already at age five, I had moved much further beyond my own mother's boundaries than my daughter could ever imagine, and by age eleven, I had broken out of those boundaries entirely, because my mother's progressive mental illness had rendered her incapable of providing the permeable boundaries allowing safe passage in and out of the world that childhood requires.

Rather, her illness had caused her to view the world as an overwhelming and threatening force, lying in wait to consume me just beyond our door, necessitating the creation of, not boundaries, but a fortress impenetrable against invasion. And having left my mother once to enter the world, my return was barred forever, since I became part of the world she herself so feared.

My daughter does not know this, does not know that sometimes the trail of breadcrumbs can't provide a safe passage home. And it is not my job to tell her at this point. Instead I reassured her, stressing only the elasticity and durability of our bond, healthy and capable of the transformations required in order to accompany her on her journey into adulthood.

Reassured, she ventures progressively further and further out into the world, in search of experiences I can't provide for her. And I, in turn, extend the boundaries of our home. Just this past year alone, I hosted both a music class and a gymnastics class in our living room, complete with professional instructors who could provide what I myself cannot. I have never learned to play drums or to stand on my head, and at this point, I have already resigned myself to that fact.

Yet I celebrate this daughter who will move beyond my limitations, to experience parts of the world that I myself have not.

I celebrate this daughter who will move beyond my limitationsDespite my joy at her emerging independence, I am nevertheless terrified that our bond is neither as strong nor as elastic as I believe, that it will at some point be stretched beyond endurance. Last night, as I thought of her all-day outing, and everything it represents for her, I couldn't sleep.

I didn't sleep at all, until she herself awoke, terrified of nighttime noises, and snuck into my room. Then, rather than sending her back as I usually do, I welcomed her into my arms, where she slept the rest of the night, thoroughly and completely mine. In the morning, she asked me why I had allowed her to sleep in my bed, a pleasure that is usually forbidden except when she is sick, and I told her that she was just so cuddly, I was enjoying cuddling her too much to send her back.

In fact, we all overslept, and almost missed her bus entirely. She responded that if I would let her sleep in my bed again, she would be even more cuddly tonight. I told her that once would have to be enough.

Once will need to be enough, and I will need to learn how to love her with my arms open rather than closed, allowing her to plan her own departures and returns, allowing her to depart for longer periods and return for briefer periods until she herself journeys from childhood to adulthood, and from her mother's daughter to become somebody's mother.

Then, if I have done my job well, she will return, not from need, but rather from love. It is a risk, choosing to trust that she will ultimately find her way back. Until then, my job is to let go, and to hold her loosely in my arms.