Letting Go

Source: Technocolor76

“I’m a big, big girl, not a baby, Mama,” Claire announces proudly.

“Yes, you are a big, big girl,” I say with a mix of emotions. The "double” big swells my heart. Yet, there’s also a wistful lump in my throat.

She is big, big. And she’s going to get bigger, bigger!

Today, I am happy and sad. I’m cheering her on her steady march towards childhood, while mourning the disappearance of my baby.

The complexity of my emotions takes me by surprise. Up until now, I have unequivocally celebrated each new milestone, and been completely mesmerized watching Claire’s growth. The particular milestone that has elicited such emotion surprises me too.

I thought I would be shouting from the rooftops, “hooray!”, when we got here. I anticipated yelling, “no more diapers”. I imagined some sort of ritualistic ceremony like setting the diaper genie on fire before throwing it off of a pier and into a river.

Potty training is tripping me up. How about that? Weird, huh?

It’s just that, with every milestone we’ve celebrated so far, some of the baby has still been there. We’ve started solids, learned to sleep through the night, to walk, to throw a ball and climb a wall at the playground, to say "I love you" -- just to name a few of my favorites. The baby has sat alongside each new big, big girl triumph. But potty training seems to have hit me symbolically as the door to babyhood slamming shut.

Today, we celebrate two rites of passage. I am now a mom who has experienced letting go. And Claire is a little girl.

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The Homage, Marc Chagall, 1972

I stare endlessly at my daughter and marvel. Her face is compelling, purely because she is mine. Sometimes, my purpose is to see how she’s grown and changed. More often, I simply wish to behold.

Lately, I’ve been looking for my father. I search for him in the shape of her eyes, the set of her mouth, the way she furrows her brow. No trace of my dad is evident there, at least not yet.

I don’t know which I fear more...that my daughter will never come to resemble him...or that I have lost the ability to recognize him altogether.

My dad died when I was eleven. I am now 45. Much of my life has been marked without him in it. I have come to identify more with his absence than his presence.

Sadly, this space only grows larger as I grow older. Tragically, I no longer miss my dad.

I long for him, though. I search for him, too. Lately, I’m searching for my father in my daughter’s face.