What If She Scares Me? One Mother's Deep Dark Secret

She’s like a steaming bowl of soup in 98 degree weather. Exactly. She’s almost too much. She’s delicious. She’s what I need and might even want, but guaranteed, she makes me sweat. Profusely. My first-born reminds me of my least inhibited self. A manifestation of all the places in my mind that I knew of, but dared not go. She’s intricate and delicate, like a perfectly woven web. Entrusted to me; intentionally and exclusively.

What if that scares me?

How come there are times when I scold her, and the look in her eyes makes me feel like we’re playing a game of chicken, and she’s winning by a long shot. She’s old inside; perhaps ancient, and I am so intrigued by her spirit.

But what if that scares me?

When the idea of your child coming into herself causes an angst in your stomach to rival the feeling of your baby getting her first vaccination shots, what do you do? How do you react? As a strong woman intent on raising strong women, how do I walk the fine line between teaching her to respect me, and facing my own fears? I ask because some days, I’m sure I’ve figured it out, and others, well, not so much.

You know how some little girls come built Terminator-tough? You ask them a question, and they answer you with an attitude only befitting of a queen or a CEO, but somehow they’ve gotten the idea that they should not be bothered by the likes of….let’s say, you, for example. Well, my first-born ¬ ¬¬—with her elaborate life-experience spanning a whopping five years —has aced that attitude like a Rhodes Scholar. I love that about her, and still, it scares me.

Confusing, right? Imagine how I feel?

It scares me because somewhere along our year journey together thus far, I’ve grown convinced that her Warrior Girl, take-no-prisoner persona will eventually drive a wedge between her and I, and that’s the scariest thing in the world for me. After all, how does one tribe facilitate two Chieftresses?

It scares me because I know my job as Mother is to facilitate Offspring’s journey by providing sideline coaching, not dictatorial commands. Yet and still, I find it necessary to speak “at” her sometimes, because talking to her —in her limited experience and narrow frames of reference —results in face-offs that just don’t register as “sensible” to have with a person who, on her tippie-toes, only reaches my ribcage.

It scares me because her younger sister makes much more sense to me, and I wonder if they notice that dynamic, and if so, how does it cause them to perceive me? Does that make me weak? Does that make me less like a mom and more like some chic who lives with two other chics and some dude? That scares me.

But, shh...please don’t tell.

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