booandbunny

Tucking her in last night, searching for the right word, all I could tell her was: “You are so strong. So strong. It’s one thing to learn to go out and punch and kick. It’s another thing to go out, knowing you’re going to get punched and kicked, and take it and keep fighting. You are so strong. Here,” I kissed her forehead. “Here,” I squeezed her bicep. “Here,” I squeezed her leg. “And here,” I tapped a tickle zone. She flashed a weary but ever-sparkling smile and burrowed deeper into the covers.

Every day I marvel at her perfect blend of girly frills and tomboy force. Last night was a great example. To advance to orange belt at karate she had to fight for 30 minutes, prove she could defend herself even when worn out. Six four-minute bouts with a one minute break in between, all carefully monitored by parents and instructors. She stayed on her feet, blocked, punched, kicked her way to the next level. Took a few good blows (mind you, she wears loads of protective gear, limiting damage but she still feels the pain).

“Mommy, I couldn’t hold back the tears,” she said all red in the face, snot streaming from her nose after the crying, hair sticky with sweat. She was smashed between two 11-year-old boys, the friends who just fought her as she took the next step in her journey. She was embarrassed about the crying, but more about the boogers I think. Free from the congratulatory grasp of the final 11-year-old boy (No, her dad and I aren’t sure how we feel about this ;p) she took a hug from her hero, a 15-year-old girl balancing the same frills and force at a different stage in life, then pulled off gear and went to clean up her face.

The evening at the dojo wore on and her dad and I finished our tests. As I was cooling down I looked over to see my daughter with her back to her hero, who was carefully braiding the long shiny locks I’m not allowed to braid.

At 9 my daughter’s getting too old for some of the kinds of time we used to spend together. Maybe I just don’t want to admit how close she is to leaving her childhood, to entering adolescence, to discovering the kind of woman she is and the kind of woman she wants to be.

She was sitting across the table from me working on a scrapbook about her cats while I worked on my scrapbook about her. Suddenly I had a vivid memory. Seeing this amazing person before me, it was hard to realize it was the same body I had held in this full-color recollection.

She was about four days old … smaller than a bread box … wearing a green and white striped onesy with a little Noah’s Ark embroidered on it. Surrounded by pillows, none of which was in the right place to help us. My early ’90s jewel-tone paisley bedding was quite the clashy background to that gender-neutral onesy. Her hair was much darker then, what she had of it. But that’s not what I remember most in this moment. Its her beet-red body, tensed in a perfectly rigid protest … her shiny, toothless gums … her trembling tongue as she silently screamed holy, bloody murder. The only sounds she made came when she gasped for breath. All this I remember through the blurred vision of a sobbing mother.

“This is not what I expected,” I blurted to my husband when he came in. “She won’t eat! I can’t get her to eat!” What a man, calming us both down the way he did. Nothing’s more irrational than an engorged first-time mom with a baby who won’t eat. Looking at her scream all I could think was “We can’t go to the zoo together. I can’t read you stories or do projects with you. I can’t even FEED you right now! How am I going to this?”

But then an amazing thing happened. She figured it out. I figured it out. She grew. I grew. I’ve found so many new corners of myself in my daughter’s eyes. And we go to the zoo and we do lots of projects and she loves stories … all kinds … a good book … a good movie … an inspiring piece of art.

Of course sometimes she doesn’t mind the kinds of time we used to spend together. Over the weekend she wiggled her way next to me on the sofa and covered us both with a blanket. She watched Harry Potter, I drifted off to sleep, just like those late nights in the rocking chair after she finally figured out how to eat. That’s my girl … my young woman.

Frill and Force.

I can’t wait to see what else we figure out together.

// posted by HoBess @ 4/18/2007 10:14:00 AM