Letting my Lily out

Tomorrow my baby turns 10. It sounds significant, maybe even awful. What, precisely, though does it mean?

That times passes quickly?
She's no longer a baby?
I'm a decade older?
I should be smarter?

Is it about her, me or both of us? If I'm honest, it's really about me. How I've witnessed her growth, been there to hold her hand, scold her and let her go at times. How she has changed me, loved me, pushed me, crowded me, molded me and increased my capacity for love.

It hasn't always been perfect, probably almost never. It has been sweet, bittersweet, maddening and I wouldn't trade it for the world. Well, catch me on an off day and I may respond differently.

You see, she's my wild child. Just tonight we had to threaten her to pick the beans she promised to pick last night. Nothing is ever easy with her. She whined our entire vacation, reminiscent of when she was a toddler. I know transitions are hard for her and if they're hard for her, they're hard for us.

Her bark is far worse than her bite and I have to remind myself of her age. She's fierce, feisty, persistent. And she's also my mirror.

She shows me what it's like to be wild and free. I model responsibility and discipline. We each desperately need each other, although it's hard for either of us to admit publicly.

When I'm having a bad pain day, she has always been my medicine -- a private tonic only she and I share. She also knows pain is my Achilles' heel and can manipulate that. I haven't yet figured out what that means for me. That I should always rise above the pain? That I don't need the pain?

I really am going to write a book someday soon titled Letting my Lily Out. I have to. To understand why each of us is in the other's life.

But tomorrow, the anniversary of the ten years since she first arrived as a beautiful bouncy hairless infant, I will focus on the celebration of having her in my life ... warts and all.

Happy birthday dear Lily!

• Is there someone in my life who acts as a mirror for me?
• What do each of us mirror for the other?
• How can I navigate a somewhat rocky relationship to know my lessons and give the other what he/she needs from me?
• What makes a mother-daughter relationship one of the most complicated? The most precious?
• How can I be more present in the celebration of that relationship?


You were
always
quick 

to be
born

to
walk
explore
talk
talk back
love
rebel 

I
attributed
it
to doing
yoga
throughout
your
pregnancy
and
labor


but
you're
really
here
to
teach
me about
myself


and
how to
love
all
the
parts
of
me
...


even
the difficult
and
feisty
ones

just
as
I love
those
parts
of
you 

Up the kite string

Lily's been wanting to be with me lately – like really close and snuggly. Just us. So, she set her alarm for 6:15 am, a half hour early, and crept into my bed. Tad was up at 6, so it was just the two of us. I had forgotten how wonderful that can be. So much melts away. She has always had a loud bark, which, often, makes me forget how young she is. The snuggling reminded me that she still does need and want my care and touch.

We both fell back to sleep. Later, she asked if I felt her medicine. I thought a minute and said, yes.

Ever since I've discovered I have fibromyalgia, she has physically comforted me in particularly bad spells. Either I haven't had as many lately or I haven't remembered to ask. So much of parenting happens in a blur that special nuances and rituals get lost. Even forgotten. I am so glad to be reminded that she is my medicine. Wild thing that she can be, she has a really big heart.

I have always loved the book, Where the Wild Things Are, and get a lump in my throat when I watch the movie because Lily is Max and every kid who feels alone, different or isolated ... until he finds a kindred spirit. As Carol, the wild thing, and Max are medicine for each other, Lily and I do the same. I have that relationship, though differently, with each of my daughters.

What intrigues me most about Lily is show different we are. Autumn I know like the back of my hand, which has its pluses (I totally understand her) and minuses (because I do, I often pay more attention to Lily and her wildness). I am learning that Lily and I are mirrors for each other. I teach her about discipline, dedication and respect and she reminds me to be fierce and playful. Sometimes together. Some day, I want to write a book called Letting my Lily out.

I had an interesting dream several years ago about being attached to what seemed like a kite string and looking up to see where it went. When I did, I saw Lily boosting herself up and waving for me to follow. She is fearless. It was as if she knew the grand adventure of climbing into the mystery and had no qualms about starting.

I'd put my child-development books away and hadn't thought much about them until a month or so ago, when Lily's behavior perplexed me. Then I read a really revealing article from the Waldorf School on the development of nine-year-olds and how it is such a pivotal time as they move away from the comfort and safety of childhood and familial closeness to gaining a sense of singleness, isolation and identity. The whispers of individuation. I feel that on the opposite end of the spectrum as I grow beyond middle age and into new, uncharted and wild territory.

Guess I will always be following her up the kite string. Thank heavens I have a trusted, though sometimes feisty, guide!

• What are my children or the children I know teaching me about myself?
• Is there anything in their development, fears or anxieties with which I can identify?
• Is there anything in their fearlessness and enthusiasm that I should reclaim?
• Who is my medicine? To whom am I medicine?
• What's up my kite string?

I've been
so busy
looking
down
at the
ground,
that I
hadn't
noticed the
string
the string
gently
looped around
my wrist
so as not to
get lost
for me,
not to
get lost
the tugging
made me
notice and
look up
up to
where
Lily
was
climbing
into the
clouds
with a
ferocious
smile and
wild wave,
begging me
to follow
and,
I did