I'm Freeing My Daughter From the Cage of Me
It was rough going there for awhile.
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Go back with me to October, 2019. It’s a Thursday. Dan and I are headed to Parent and Family Weekend at the college where our daughter Avery is a first-year student. By the time I'd signed us up, the hotels in the area were already full – rookie mistake. I'd also noticed that the event fell on the same weekend as my 30th college reunion back here in California. But the decision of where to be that weekend wasn't even close. I miss my girl's pirouettes in the kitchen. Her soprano voice in the upstairs hallway. Cooking her favorite things. Nuzzling her forehead. I miss her smell. There was no doubt that I was going to spend this October weekend with my baby girl.
Dan and I take a 6am flight out of SFO to get us to the East Coast at 2pm. We get our rental car with no trouble, check into our AirBnB, and hustle over to campus. I text Avery to say that we're outside her dorm, an impressive gothic structure we last saw at Orientation. (I include Dan in the chat even though he's standing right there beside me, because who knows how she will respond and I know that I would not want to miss out on any morsel of interaction with Avery.)
Within seconds, our phones simultaneously light up with an excited YAY response from our girl. In the two minutes it takes her to wend her way through her dorm, I'm like a dog at the window awaiting the person who's been gone far too long. The dorm's massive wooden door opens outward. Just the sight of my child makes my neurons burst. My heart yearns to know How is it that you manage to travel around in this world without me? I blink back tears as a smile takes over my entire face.
Avery, Dan and I fall into a tight three-way hug. Then we go over to a bench on the edge of the green quadrangle, a bench so large that as I climb up into it I feel that it belongs to a giant. Avery nestles herself between Dan and me. I settle my back against the wide wooden slats, zip my coat up to my chin, and lean my head over onto Avery's shoulder.
In these moments, I envy Dan. He's naturally calm, which drives me nuts. For example, babies and small animals sense his ease and just trot over to him, whereas if I want to hold them I have to chase them around the room. That's just me on a normal day. But when tremendous emotion is the backdrop (as when visiting my child who has been away from home for longer than ever before) my anxiety takes over and tries to be sure that every moment is staged for success. (This rarely ends well. I know this.) So, seated on a hard wooden bench on a sunny quadrangle, pressed against the warm and sweet smelling body of my eighteen-year-old daughter, I want to ask all the questions, and respond to any need she may have, and I know this is not what is wanted which means I need to get my shit together.
I zip and unzip my fleece jacket thinking Settle down, don't fuck this up. I casually look around, make a few small jokes, try not to ask ALL THE QUESTIONS and say ALL THE THINGS!!! I try to let Avery take the lead.
Did I mention how lovely my girl is? She’s like a forest bathed in the golden sun of day’s end: shimmering, warm, deep, a little mysterious, a little majestic.
She also speaks a second language, now. That of ever-changing youth. When I was a college dean, I interacted so frequently with young adults that I understood their neologisms. No longer. Sitting here on this bench, I try to hang onto every one of her words, which are often familiar word yet with obvious new and different meaning, and I tumble the oddities over and over like stones in the river of my brain. I try to discern Is she joking right now or mad (do we laugh or support?) Is she being sarcastic or frank (do we nod or lament)? A person walks by and Avery shouts something over at them. Is this a friend? Can she introduce us? Can I shout Hello! We're Avery's parents! I don't, but I want to. I want the people in this new place to know We are hers.
I pull out my phone and take pictures. Some of Avery, some of her and Dan. In the past, I've looked back on family photos and wondered why I'm not in any of them, and then I've gotten mad at Dan for not taking any. For not thinking to take any with me. I feel a pre-concern rising within me: We'll have come all this way to Parents Weekend, and I won't have any photos of me with her. Yet, I don't want this pre-concern to become a thing. Instead, I take a selfie of the three of us. Post it to my Instagram story. Try to chill the fuck out.
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Let me remind you that on any given college's Parent and Family weekend, parents practically scream into their Facebook group Why are the kids so busy!! But college is an ongoing enterprise, a thriving hive of continual activity, and an intense one at that. It can't just shut itself down for a weekend. (I know this; I worked at one for half of my career.)
Avery’s college is no exception. It’s the middle of fall semester where she’s taking a full load, working extremely hard, singing in an a cappella group and dancing on the university's official team. I know that we'll see bits and pieces of her here and there, and that our job is simply to make those moments good ones. The bonus (her idea!) is that she'll spend every night at our AirBnB. This way we can kinda sorta replicate the vibe of home. The dog in me wags its tail at that, too.
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Back on the giant’s bench outside Avery's dorm, we spend about twenty minutes together then it's time for her to go to class, followed by a dance practice. So, the plan is to see her at our AirBnB tonight. We give her a big hug goodbye.
Dan and I go into town to search for groceries. We find a store whose name we don't recognize. Each of us pores through the unfamiliar aisles trying to locate what we remember our child loves the most, so that she'll have options for what to eat when she stays with us. We end up bickering over the smallest things, like who will push the cart and where, and how to completely satisfy our kid's every culinary need without being wasteful. We have to remind ourselves and each other: It's only three nights.
At about 9pm, Avery texts to ask for the address for our place which is a garage apartment less than half a mile from her dorm, and only two blocks from the edge of campus. It's night, it's a strange city, it's dark. I text her, trying to be nonchalant:
Do you want us to come get you or
No I'll walk
As she heads over to our place I fuss about the apartment, and don't realize until she knocks at the door that I've been holding my breath the whole time. We welcome her in. I open a bottle of wine and whip up a quesadilla the way I make it at home, which is different than how Dan makes it, and that he lets me be the one to make it for her here tonight is therefore a gift to me. She eats. I drink some wine. We chat. We settle back into knowing each other. At midnight we unfurl the pull-out couch and she snuggles into it and we flood her with kisses and hugs. We retreat to the bedroom. It's quiet and warm into the night, like a lullaby.
Friday morning Avery’s up and out early. We're dragging, because we're still on California time, but we make it to the official stuff the university offers parents, then hang about, enjoy the sights on the beautiful campus, and await text updates from our girl which come periodically throughout the day. She has to "table" for her a cappella group, which entails sitting outside the student union and encouraging passers-by to come to their Saturday concert.
Do you wanna hang while I table?
Yeah!
We settle into seats nearby so as to be able to chat when tabling is slow. When she's done, she heads off to another practice of some kind, and I overhear Jerry Seinfeld (who is also visiting his kid this weekend) asking no one in particular where a certain building is. I answer him and get a smile of thanks. I like to be helpful. I like to be needed. We head back to our rental car.
Avery joins us for a late dinner back at our AirBnb. She begins to enumerate a lengthy list of things she has to take care of on Saturday. This is where things start to go south.
You see, Saturday features an a cappella performance which Avery is helping to organize and run, followed immediately by a basketball game at which she will dance, with a lot of homework to finish along the way. She sighs audibly. Frets over where she’ll change into her dance uniform following the a cappella concert, whether she’ll have time to catch a bus over to the game, and wonders aloud where will she get food in between all of that. Dan and I both hear I need help. He suggests that we could drive her to the game? I suggest we bring her some food at one of these stops?
"Guys," she says, addressing us both. "I handle this all the time when you're not here."
It's a verbal stop sign. I feel chastened. I also feel embarrassed because I know better. For chrissake I give other people advice about this stuff! Yet here I am acting like my girl can't wipe her own butt. Months later, I will see that our need to help her is overtaking her need to share with us the trials and tribulations of her life and to demonstrate to us that she can handle it all. But I do not get that right now.
I take a deep breath. I try to lighten up, but it's hard to lighten up when everything feels consequential and when I feel criticized. It's possible my lips are quavering. I tell my neurons to make a smile to cover it. To summon a cheerful tone into my eyes. To bring a positive gleam to my voice. Dan and I both apologize to her. We agree that tomorrow Avery will do her thing, and we will do ours, and we will see her at the 3pm a cappella concert and then quickly catch the nearest bus to the game. We say our goodnights and all go to sleep. It's fine, I tell myself, you're fine.
But I'm not fine. In fact, I'm about to blow it.
Saturday arrives. Wagging my tail like a dog we’re one of the first to arrive for the a cappella concert, and we take seats in the center of the front row. The group comes on stage and there's our gorgeous girl in a beautiful blue dress with heels and that powerful voice that came to her through the ancestors on my side. I take a few pictures of her and do my best not to sing out loud to these familiar songs. The concert ends. Wild applause ensues. Avery receives hugs and kudos from friends and friends' parents. We stand proudly off to the side nearby, hoping to meet some of her friends and waiting for our turn for a hug.
She's finally free. I want to be seen with her. I want people to know that she's mine. I also want my followers to see a photo of us together. So I hand my phone to one of Avery’s friends and ask if they will take one. But Avery protests, because time is short and she needs to change into her dance uniform and catch the bus to the other side of campus. Yet in a mashup of passive language and a pleading face, I practically insist, and she complies. When I get my phone back and flip through the photo options, I see that Avery’s smile is pained. Strained. I feel embarrassed to be the parent who forced my kid to take a photo with me. I’m also embarrassed that I came all this way and seem to have to practically force my kid to act like she's glad we're there.
Avery rushes out of the room to change into her dance uniform. I fight back tears. Dan says that she's just stressed. But I regard her behavior as rude, and feel a flush of embarrassment overtake me at being the parent so mistreated in public.
I do not realize yet that I am the source of my own problem.
We leave the concert hall and head to the place where the three of us will board a bus to the basketball game. This dance team she's on is famous. Storied. I can't believe she made the team, and soon she'll be here in the shimmering outfit and later this evening she'll perform and I will watch with boundless pride. In seven minutes, we see her stride toward us in her uniform, walking with quick determined eyes. I’ve moved from being the dog with the wagging tail to being the child awaiting a sports hero, just dying for her to look over at me and smile. But her eyes are drawn to the pavement like a magnet. When she finally looks up at us it is with the withering look of resignation. Still, I ask someone at the bus stop to take a picture of us. I feel entitled to force it. She's our kid after all. We came all this way. By the time we're on the bus Avery and I cannot make eye contact. She and Dan chat. I am elsewhere on the bus looking out the window and fighting back tears.
Things get worse.
Avery performs beautifully and the game is played, and after the game, Dan and I return to the AirBnb and talk through all tensions, all the feelings I'm having. When Avery gets to our place, we make a meal for her. Then I open a conversation about respect and propriety, and she and I both start to yell and cry. But I feel satisfied that I've finally made my point–that I feel disrespected, and that that's not okay. That we came all this way. That I missed my 30th college reunion for this and feel like I'm twisting her arm to get her to deign to take a picture with me. She says she did not intend that and she just has a lot going on and she wants us to respect that and also not treat her like a child. We make amends. Fall asleep. Wake up. Pack. Say our goodbyes. Dan and I fly home, satisfied.
Six weeks later, Avery is home for Thanksgiving. Her brother Sawyer, two years older, discloses to me that Avery told him she might not come home at all if I was going to behave like I did at Parent and Family Weekend.
Wait, what? ME?
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At Parent and Family Weeknd, we were supposed to offer unconditional love and support. Instead I imposed my own clamorous need.
Few young adults do well on the receiving end of a tsunami of parental love. We don't mean to be a tsunami, of course. We want to be the idyll in which the most perfect and peaceful waterfall washes over our child, bringing them delight and drawing them ever near us. We want to be safe and yet captivating enough to our young adults so that time spent with us feels to them to be worthwhile, even more worthwhile than friends and media and music, like when they were three. But some of us, myself included, are more like a tsunami, because it's not just love that comes up and out of us, it's also:
worry
need to know
need to curate
need to ensure
need to control
need to know I am liked
need to know I am needed
need to know I matter
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It's NOW: August 2022. Avery made it through her freshman year, which included the onset of a pandemic. Sophomore year, she lived off campus, and classes and activities were almost entirely virtual. This past year, her junior year, she was back on campus and she stayed on campus this summer for a paid internship in the arts. Now she's twenty-one and a rising senior with a used car she bought and a rented house she leased for herself and some friends near a campus where she is a leader in the arts, has deep friendships, and handles her responsibilities more than many grownups I know.
A month ago, she came home to California for three amazing weeks in her childhood home where her big brother calls her "little one" and the house exhales a happy sigh each night when all the beds are full. We four loved deep these past three weeks, talked well, ate and drank and celebrated so many things. And when I began to get anxious about something related to Avery, I named it out loud to her in apologetic but clear terms, and in so naming it, I tamed it. Avery understood. She took an iPhone charger cord that was pulling itself into a knot and tugged at it until the knot was undone. "We gently pull it back into place," she told me, as a metaphor for handling the anxiety she sees in me and perhaps in others in our family and perhaps in herself. That tight knot can make it hard to think straight, I know. When we loosen the cord again, relationships return to ease.
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Avery's three week visit was wonderful yet came to a close all too soon. A week ago, Dan and I drove her to SFO for her long flight to her other home, and she played a chosen soundtrack packed with memories of moments from youngest childhood through to today including Hey There, Delilah (Plain White T’s), Tiny Dancer (Elton John), and The One Who Knows (Dar Williams). When I hugged her goodbye on the curb at United departures, I said "You’re amazing. All we need to do now is stand back and applaud." Her eyes brimmed with the delight of being seen fully for who you are, as she wiped away spilled tears.
My girl is so grown. And she’s growing me up, too. And I’m grateful.
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Breathe my self says to my self. And to you, if you need that advice. Breathe. Look after your own emotions. When that anxiety roils up, that need, that longing to make someone else be or do what you need, talk to yourself lovingly, ask yourself what's going on. Tell yourself you are working to get better at managing these feelings and that it's all going to be okay.
Can you relate to any of this? Share in the comments. And meantime, c'mere, I've got a hug for ya.
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CODA: Avery read this piece, and it led to a wonderful exchange between us which I won't repeat verbatim here, but with her permission I will share this:
To be honest mama, in my heart I'm still waiting for the paragraph that says: "I shook my daughter's feeling of stability in our relationship that day. She thought we were one of the strongest mother-daughter pairs she knew, and I made her believe it was a farce. I shouldn't have done that to her and I regret the emotional pain she faced because of it. She was 18 and it was not her job to manage my feelings or needs, which I had not communicated well to her until it was too late."
After I (Julie) reflected on what Avery said, I offered back to Avery: "I absolutely adore the paragraph you wrote above. I had no idea until just now that you'd felt that we were one of the strongest mother-daughter pairs around. I literally did not know you felt that way. I wish I had known that the strength and security of our relationship was there all along. In failing to see it, and instead trying to build it, I shattered it."
I got back all kinds of love from her about this, and ultimately:
"REALLY good convo i feel like! so proud of us!
My god, what a gift this child is!
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🎤 Avery and I both sing, and when she was visiting us this month we recorded ourselves doing an a cappella version of one of our favorite songs, Galileo, by Indigo Girls. If you want to hear us, click here.
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