I'll return to my state of irreverent normalcy after this, but thank you all in advance for reading how I feel about my daughter. I'm never going to be a "soccer mom," I'm never going to be on the PTA or do bake sales or any of that "typical mom" stuff, but the pride I feel for my daughter is boundless, and I don't try to take credit for it. I was blessed with having this wonderful person brought into my life. She's not some lump of clay, being molded into shape. My daughter is a timeless sculpture, and I'm the curator, who's here to protect her, and from time to time, put Sponge-Bob Band-Aids on her boo-boos.
My daughter, taking a nap, age 3.5.
Growing up, I never really thought I would be cut out for the whole parenthood thing. As a kid, when I'd see babies on TV or around town, I'd usually grimace. My mom would ask me, "Isn't that baby cute??" and I'd respond with a sneer and the response of, "Maybe to its parents, sure." As a teenager, when all my friends eagerly awaited the day when they'd be considered "old enough" to babysit, I abhorred the concept. After my one and only foray into babysitting, I got home and told my parents I never wanted to do that again (and it wasn't even an eventful experience; I just hated it). The idea of having a small human under my charge alternately disgusted and terrified me.
Then, when I was about 23, that little clock inside me, the one I thought I'd never hear, started ticking. I tried to ignore the metaphoric sound, but it grew within me, resonating, the echoes trembling throughout my mind. Later that year, I became pregnant with my now 9-year-old daughter.
EDIT: Yes, I realize that 23 is awfully young to start hearing that biological clock. But maybe my body knew well in advance what was to come in my life--that this was going to be my one and only shot at motherhood.
At first, being pregnant felt surreal; I kept expecting to find out it was all some strange dream. But when I flipped through a book of baby names, selected a good first and middle name, and said them together in my mind, I felt her kick for the first time. That kick, that one small flutter, seemed epiphanous to me, as if she was saying, "That's it, Mom! That's my name! Call me that!"
Thus, our bond was formed.
Incidentally, I recognize it could be argued that this wasn't some kinship between us, but rather she was crying out to me, as if to say, "FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT IS GOOD IN THIS WORLD, DON'T NAME ME THAT!" but I prefer to think of it in the more positive light, thankyouverymuch.
Almost four years later, we found ourselves moving into my parents' house. We were damaged, but we were together, and rebuilding our lives. As much as the thought of parenthood had frightened me, the concept of
single parenthood PETRIFIED me. Here I was, this depressed, fragile, numb creature, who didn't have a clue who I was. How on earth was I going to instill in my daughter the values she needed in order to become a happy, whole person?
I wish I could say that I suddenly and magically turned into Super Mom™, but I didn't. The fact is,
I learn from
her every day.
We've both grown immensely in the past 5 (almost 6) years. From the age of 2 or so, until we moved in with my parents, whenever she was faced with any sort of conflict (people arguing, someone being angry with her, whatever), she would close off. We called it her "dark place." Even in day-to-day happenings, I can see the difference, just in her eyes. There is no "dark place" any longer; now she is happy, and I learn from her (even envy her, sometimes) in many ways:
She knows who she is, and makes no apologies for it.
For as long as I can remember, I have always apologized. For who I was, for what I said, for things I did... even for things others have said and done. But my daughter... it's cliché, but she radiates confidence. When she was told in 2nd grade that she would need to wear glasses, she met this concept with excitement. I asked her what the other kids said about her glasses (fearing that they would make fun of her, as so often happens when kids get glasses), and she said, "Well, some of them said they didn't recognize me, but I can see now, so I don't care what they think!"
She has unbridled ambition.
My daughter has always had an interest in science and medicine. Over the years, she's narrowed the scope of her interest, from being a doctor, to now wanting to be a surgeon. She vacillates between general surgery, cardiology, and neurology, but she always looks at the world through a doctor's mind. When family friends visited over the summer, and she found out that one of them was a Vietnam War veteran who had lost his eye in combat, she was naturally curious, but we asked her to be polite and not ask him about it. When he offered to take out the artificial eye so she could see how it worked, her face lit up, like it was christmas morning.
Apparently*, he took his eye out, placed it on a paper towel, and let her look at it. She took great interest in the shape of it--it wasn't a simple ball, but had this conical shape and a mechanism to allow it to "lock into" his eye socket--but took even greater interest in his eye socket, in the procedure involved in making the artificial eye fit.
*I say "apparently" because I'm squeamish about eyes, and when I heard he was going to take his eye out, I excused myself and got out of the room as quickly as I could.
My daughter is a real "girly girl," with Barbies and My Little Ponies and pink everything, everywhere. But interspersed with all the pink, you can find a model human skeleton, brain, heart, and a frog on a dissection table, complete with "x-ray" image and scalpel. She also has collector's editions of the original Gray's Anatomy, and Bodies Revealed, the touring exhibit of uniquely preserved real human cadavers and internal organs.
Discovery Exclusive Dissect A Frog
(I only include this because it's really cool, and not exactly something people think to look for)
My daughter at her Daisy Girl Scouts graduation in 2007.
She thinks before she speaks.
This is a lesson that I'm
still trying to learn, to varying degrees of success (and, more often, failure). When our family doctor talked to her during a routine check-up, he asked her about wanting to be a doctor. She had been swinging her legs, and she stopped, looked at him very seriously, and said, "Well, please don't be offended, but I want to be a surgeon. I don't want to be the kind of doctor like you, filling prescriptions. I want to cut people open and find out what's wrong with them and fix them!"
This exchange took place when she was 6. The fact that a 6-year-old could have the foresight to think that a family physician could be insulted by hearing that she wanted to be a surgeon instead was both charming and mind-boggling.
She has genuine compassion for everyone.
Whenever someone at school is sick, be it a teacher, classmate, librarian, or member of her family, my daughter always asks how they're feeling, if she can do anything for them. Obviously, part of that is hard-wired into her, as I truly believe she was born to be a healer. However, she also heavily leans toward being either a heart surgeon or a brain surgeon... and both cardiologists and neurologists are known for having the biggest egos and the least compassion in the medical profession (just ask anyone in the medical community, particularly hospital nurses. It's true!)
The compassion my daughter shows for everyone she knows goes far beyond the typical lip-service that goes around so often. So many of us are caught in our own little bubbles that we don't really see how other people feel--our own maladies, when they happen to
us, are just so much
worse somehow! But not with her. With her, when she sees someone who is ill, her face changes. Her eyes change, soften. It's obvious that she genuinely
cares.
Raising my daughter is a team effort. My mom, dad, and I all take active part in various aspects of her day-to-day activities. But I often feel like I'm dealing with a truly "old soul" (argh, there I go again with the clichés, but sometimes they really are appropriate, I guess). It often feels like I'm just lightly guiding her in the right direction if she starts to veer off-track--as if she's already on the right track, and I'm just there like a set of training wheels.
With my daughter, every day brings a new adventure. She truly has
joie de vivre, a vitality that I have always strived for but never quite attained. As her mom, my daughter admires me, turns to me for advice. But I admire her every bit as much, and in many ways that I never would've expected, I have grown from her existence.
I may have spent most of my early life doubting that I'd ever be a parent, and I know I won't have another child (among other reasons, I physiologically can't have more), but having my daughter in my life makes me want to be a better person--she enriches my life in ways I can't express.
At the Rainforest Café for her 6th birthday.
No, she didn't dissect this frog.
Okay, so maybe the term "Ode" isn't all that accurate, since at least in my mind, "Ode" connotes poetry, and I absolutely HATE poetry, and this wasn't a poem at all. "Homage" might be more appropriate, but I don't really like that word. So, "Ode" it is. Was. Whatever.
