Tween

 A 10 year old daughter is a living breathing mirror of all the pain you ever caused your mother. And sometimes a mirror of the pain your mother caused you. 

My daughter cut the tension in my life when she came along. If my son was raining fire, she was still waters. Cool and calming. She sang and cooed from the second she arrived. She would twirl and giggle and make her intense brother untangle. 


Then life tossed us all around a bit. I held onto them as tightly as I could, but when life whips you around, things shift. 


Things are supposed to shift.


And now she is ten. She is snarky and funny and a smart ass. We talk about writing and books and all the things happening with the other girls at school. And then she smiles, 


“Okay, mom. Bye,”


and shuts her door. 


All of this is normal. Me standing outside her door with that deep hurt in my chest. A cocktail of worry, fear and jealousy. Wondering what she sees in the mirror. Wondering if she still thinks I'm wonderful and fascinating. If she hears my voice in the world the way I hear my own mom’s voice. 


I hope I am living in her mind somewhere. My mom has set up camp in my mind. Little memories float to the surface daily. Small passing moments that were nothing at the time. 


When I was three and picked up a dead bee. It stung me and she coated my finger in baking soda and water. I remember the brick steps scratching my legs as I sat there gazing in fascination at my throbbing little finger while she pulled weeds.


The time I had a panic attack over a 9th grade paper about China and the next morning I came down and there it was. Nearly typed and perfectly imperfect. With a note, “Next time you start

earlier.” She got a B+. 


And in college, whenever I got my weekly allowance check, on the top corners of the envelope she would write DDD and DHS.


“Mom, thanks for the check. What do the letters mean?”


She was quiet for a moment.


Then in her raspy giggle,


“Don’t do drugs. Don’t have sex.”


I hope to give my girl loads of those memories. The ones that float to the top and remind her that her mama loves her. Even when I’m perfectly imperfect.

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