Tag Archives: Daughters

Rocked like a baby

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Sometimes I remember that even my 7-year-old needs to be rocked like a brand new baby.

She has such a sensitive, comedic, and pleasing soul. Layla is the kind of girl that can make anyone her friend. She is inquisitive, sassy, and beautiful – and she knows it. My first child, she has known me as her mother the longest of my three, and her place in my heart is absolutely untouchable.

Tonight, I realized that her heart wants so badly to please me, and how she is seeing me is changing – as she changes. Our relationship grows and deepens as we both continue simply trying to figure out how to make this all work, me in my life, and she, in hers.

It is so easy for me to get caught up in this world, in the day-to-day mire of housewife, mother, and partner, and I forget to see the naked blessings that are so obvious before my eyes; Layla, of all my children, will be the first to remind me to be here, now, and it’s something I love about her, though at times it drives me mad. Because she forces me, with words or sometimes merely a frustrated glance, to see that I owe them more than the very least I can give.

That getting down on the floor to color matters. That sometimes, who gives a shit about the dirty dishes and instead, let’s have a dance party. She reminds me that we need more milk because Jemma said three hours later that she couldn’t make warm milk, and she runs through the grocery store to retrieve from our list – just because she knows it’ll help me out.

It just pulls my heart apart to realize I don’t give her all of me, and I choose whatever else over these simple, eloquent moments – when before my eyes, they are changing and growing; she is changing, growing, and if I don’t stop, I am missing it.

There are times like today when I watch her get to know me better, intentionally.

We were upstairs during naptime. Jemma was fighting sleep in resolute protest against the very mention of a nap, and Delaney had been down for about twenty minutes. I unlatched the baby, set her in the crib, and walked myself into the playroom where I had instructed my oldest child to straighten up from the playdate yesterday. She had done her work and so I found her relaxing on the couch.

We talked.

“Mama, how come you’re always cleaning, or you’re mad that the house is a mess?” She inquired after I remarked, emphatically, how great a job she did cleaning.

“Well, baby, I just want to make sure you guys grow up in a clean place, and it is important to me to do my work as a Mama and a wife. That means I need to keep the house clean.”

She, silent, stared into the carpet, obviously in thought.

We quickly ventured into a new topic and I mentioned that I wanted to try and lay down, and sleep while Delaney slept. She said she would like to go downstairs and watch some TV, I agreed that was fine.

Fast forward to this evening.

Jemma finally succumbed to a day of no rest (she is one who absolutely still needs that nap!) and Delaney easily went down for the night.

I walked downstairs, collecting laundry and cups as I went, mentally preparing myself for the tasks ahead. Dishes. Wiping counters. Cleaning toilets (seriously, how freaking often do I do that and they NEVER stay clean! It’s almost as if people are shitting there every day!). Taking out trash. Folding clothes…

I greeted her on the stairs as I walked through the gate. Immediately I could sense her sleepiness and asked if she was ready for bed. 9pm, after all, way past her normal bedtime.

She lazily answered that she wanted to help me clean up. I casually offered that she could help for 15 minutes and then would need to go to bed.

The music on for company, I set Pandora to Crosby, Still, & Nash, tiptoed myself gracefully to the kitchen, and began my work.

She followed behind me, asking what she could do. Trash on the counters. Give the dog some dinner. Easy stuff.

I busied myself for a few minutes all the while keeping an eye on her. Her pace slowing, her eyelids drooping more by the second.

“Baby, ready for bed?” I motioned to the stairs as I asked, turning my head away from the sink to catch her eyes.

She began to cry.

A tired cry, yes, but something deeper there lurked. I dropped the spatula and scrubby and rushed to her, setting myself onto the floor to cradle her in my arms.

It was a posture I don’t take much with her these days. She is my big girl, after all, she doesn’t need me like the younger ones do.

Within my embrace she wept.

I held her tightly, silently, awaiting the inevitable dump from her heart to my ears.

“I just, you do so much for us, and you work so hard on this house, and I feel bad that we don’t help you”.

My heart, broken.

Except, in that instant, hearing those words, I rejoiced. She WAS paying attention! What a great moment for me! To show her what matters to me. What matters as a mother, a wife, a housewife. . . We take care of where we live. We maintain it…

Except. I was showing her THIS mattered to me? The house? The work…?

More than… HER?

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I squeezed her into my flesh and began to feel hot tears behind my own eyes.

How could I have missed it?

How did I not see this?

SHE needs me.

She wants me present. Untethered by this world and all I feel I am called to do, and be.

First I was called to be her mother.

FIRST.

As she cried, I just thanked God for these moments. I breathed in the scent of her freshly-washed hair, it smelled like apples. I ran my fingers down her arms to once again feel her skin against mine.

I realized she may be 7, but she needs me to rock her like a baby.

To give to her what I give to my youngest – all of me.

You see, I began to believe that she didn’t need me like that. She didn’t need my breast to give her nourishment like Delaney requires. She didn’t need me to walk with her to the bathroom to turn on the light, like Jemma demands.

I have been watching her grow, and change, and our relationship has moved on to a new place. Where I convinced myself if even in some small way that I could stop giving all of me to her. She doesn’t need it. She can handle less. Requires less.

I saw tonight that this isn’t true.

What a beautiful gift, but it’s a bitter pill unless I actually commit to giving her what she deserves.

She matters more than the house, but I learned tonight, with her pleasing soul, she wanted to give me what she thought I NEEDED.

She has heard me say a thousand times that it matters to have dishes out of the sink. To keep our toys picked up. To clean up after meals.

Could I have missed teaching her, showing her, saying and doing – that what matters to me IS HER! Her sisters. Their happiness, tenderness, and well-being. . .

“Okay, baby, time for bed”. I pick her up from a squat and walk us to the stairwell leading up to her bedroom and our goodnight.

“I just want to make you happy, Mama”, she whispers, her face in my neck.

I kiss her forehead, breathe her in, and lay her atop the makeshift bed on my bedroom floor.

“I am, baby. I love you”.

I hope she knows I do. And I hope I get better at SHOWING HER THAT.

And, sometimes, when she needs it, I will scoop her into my mommy arms and rock her like a baby. Like my first child. My daughter. My Layla.

The one that matters most.

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We Need To Let Our Children Dance

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As I watch my daughter dance barefoot around the living room my heart rate quickens and soon all the dreams of her future flashed within my mind. Her last day of High School when I kiss her forehead and shed a tear. If she chooses college that too will be another educational milestone skyrocketing her further into the sky. From there, will she wed? Will she become a mother? The possibilities, for both of my children, are tremendously unlimited.

Layla, my firstborn daughter, has a tender nature. The greatest goal she has in life is to love everyone she can possibly wrangle into a friendship. Eager, inquisitive – she is the person taking initiative, walking up to a stranger bravely and, with a smile, she coerces even the shyest of playmates into friendship.

Thinking about her, watching her move freely atop the cool tile floor, intentionally my mind drifted back into reality so that I could, once more with full intent, watch my sweet blue-eyed Lebanese American princess get her groove on.

Time stubbornly marches forward; babies grow, learn to walk and speak and dance, and soon they fly into the world. I am hesitatingly enamored with the notion that I will get to watch my babies grow into beautiful, intelligent young women… But slowly, time, can we make a deal?

Let her stay young. Fresh-faced, innocent. Layla to dance truly like it does not matter who is watching. Jemma, stark-raving naked running like a kitty-cat in the back yard… Their precious livelihood is a marvel to me, and lately, my heart has been quietly observing and taking in this moment. Right now. When she is five and baby sister is just two-and-a-half.

I can remember my childhood with an accuracy that at times shocks even my dad. Details of interpersonal relationships have always held specific importance to me: The way my mom held my hand while we were driving, or the way my dad would always stick out that one long finger just to jab me in the side because he knew it always made me buckle (he STILL does it to this day, and I STILL always collapse onto the floor merely to get away from that stinking tickle finger!) Everything my parents did, whether they knew I was looking or not, surely made an impact on their children. We all have traits we can say mirror our parents’ exactly, so obviously some sort of psychological mechanism occurs that make us learn from our parental examples.

What occurred to me is that the memories I have from even early on, well, my children are at THAT age – when their memories develop and they start to form an opinion about the ways of the world. Everything I do, say, feel, and teach them (inadvertently or intentionally) matters TREMENDOUSLY.

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I thought about that as she was dancing and I wondered, has she watched me dance? Does she see me move carefree and gracefully across the floor on my tippy-toes? Does she see in me the things that teach her what a lady should do, and is my example what she really needs? Mothers want to influence their daughters especially – to have tenderness, faith, compassion, love, grace, patience, virtue, honesty, and to pursue one’s passions… At least, these are the goals I have set for myself – but am I doing it right?

Right before I began recording her dance, she sat beside me and told me that dancing makes her heart feel happy. That her feet can even get tired but her spirit tells her she has to dance. It makes her feel alive, she said, and in her exact words, “I am so into this right now”. I about cried listening to her freely tell me what it felt like – the self-awareness and understanding of her feelings in that moment astounds me – and then she proceeded to show me, with her moves, exactly how those feelings translate into rhythm. It was… breathtaking, really, the whole sequence from emotional insights to the final tip-toed swirl.

You see, the thing is, time moves too fast – she will grow before I know it, and soon her little sister will be one who is five. The thing is, I am not the world’s best mom, and she will watch me make mistakes, but hopefully I will model forgiveness, grace, and unconditional love so perhaps they learn that from me, too. The thing is… This world is going to push my children to grow up.

From the media, to “drama” in the primary classroom between all the five-year-old girls, to the way I run my household. From the signs and billboards she soaks in that dot along the freeway, to the subtle sexually suggestive or otherwise negative advertising she will catch now and then on television. She will be force-fed propaganda and idealisms that strive to make her believe in accordance with mainstream trends in a world where freedoms are no longer free. She will be pressured to look a certain way; perfect hair, perfect teeth… Or else if she doesn’t, society will inform her both subtly and obviously that she is not good enough because her physical form is not an objectified, unrealistic standard.

Today, my big five-year-old daughter danced in the living room. Without a care in the world.

A thousand moments flashed before my eyes, but then I remembered that I, too, can live like a free, purposeful child whose radiance shines from within. Instead of dread the changes ahead, let me as her mother simply do my part to be present for her. To kiss wa-wa’s, explain about why people love each other, talk about God and the stars and why the grass is green, read bedtime stories and write short stories with brave characters named Layla and Jemma. I am the master fort carpenter, the bird-feeder filler as they eagerly await the chance to hand me up handfuls of birdseed. I am the chopper of their fruit plate, the scooper of ice-cream, the reluctant insisting that they eat their broccoli.  That is my job. To be HERE. Now. Because soon she won’t be my dancing blue-eyed princess anymore. And her little sister will not be far behind…

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I say, let them dance. Encourage the dancing. And when they do, stop, because in that moment, nothing else but her there, twirling with that smile that beckons, “just watch me one more minute, Mama,” will be the most important thing in the world to you.

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