LIKE AN AUTUMN TREE SHEDDING LEAVES
Long before my daughter was that miraculous mass of embryonic cells dividing and multiplying, I created an imaginary photo album of sentimental memories: I saw us, during her elementary school years, together baking cookies, tickling each other silly and reading stories aloud at bed time.
I imagined her in high school—excited by her first love, discovering new interests and talents, and driving me nuts with her rebelliousness. And I pictured her college years: We drive each other nuts, as mothers and daughters do. Nevertheless, we trust and love each other deeply. My daughter feels free to call me at 2:00 a.m. ' Mom, I had the most horrible day!" she sobs. And I, who normally hates being awakened, don't mind having my sleep interrupted--my daughter wants to share her life with me.
But my dreams have not come true. Instead, in my present time real world, a police officer calls to tell me, "We want you to come to the station. We've retrieved a gun that we want you to claim. A minor we have in custody was shooting it off. He told us that your daughter gave it to him."
Horrifying phone calls have occurred so frequently I can't remember what happened when—suicide gestures, stealing, running away, truancy.
Where is my dream child? She wasn't supposed to be anything like this heavily made up young woman who talks incessantly on the telephone, conversations muffled by the wall between us.
I'm ashamed of myself. I know that I haven't been 100% available to love my daughter as she is. And like an autumn tree gradually shedding leaves, my passage to new growth is long and often in the dark.
My values--my compass for life--are not hers. We do not travel well together, she and I. Sometimes I want to whip her into my shape. Sometimes I'm simply indifferent. And then there are inexplicable moments when my fog lifts, and I see such brightness in her, I am filled with honey love.
I have two master's degrees. I try hard, I apply myself and I'm successful—most of the time. I feel passionately about many things, and lust for life—most of the time. My daughter may never go to college. She burns at a low flame. Few things interest her. And most of the time, she doesn't give a damn about what I think, do, or value.
"Get over yourself, you selfish, arrogant woman," I scream at me. "Can you only love a reflection of yourself?" I know the "right" answer. I should be able to love her as she is.
It's hard. I'm attached to my values, not hers. And I think they're good values--values that will genuinely serve her.
But grieving my disappointment has made me face myself. And that's my daughter's precious gift to me. Serving me, by being exactly whom she is, I am humbled--and I don't mean the pseudo-humility that simply makes me feel better about myself.
Odd, isn't it. In facing the filter through which I view my daughter, my own self-illusions fall away—and I see myself. And though I don't like this new view of myself, I have discovered that there is sufficient love within me to accept myself, my daughter and my mother—exactly as we are.