By Jamie Krug
Parker is almost six, though she will correct you immediately that she is “five and three-quarters” if she hears you say that because she is precise, and detail-oriented, and very much her father’s daughter in that way.
But she is my daughter too.
A daughter that I was petrified of having, and then elated that I was having – all because of a very tumultuous past I have with my own mother. And because, while my experience with my mother may be unique, I realize that anyone who is the daughter of a mother or the mother of a daughter has a bond that is fraught with all the complications that have been written about, talked about, and psychoanalyzed long before Freud ever uttered the words “Electra Complex”.
And while I am careful not to attempt to live through her, and admittedly find myself recoiling a bit at the concept of living for her, I do want to try my best to experience the world with her. I want to show her the things that have made me happiest – hoping they might enrich her life as well – along with forewarning her about what I feel might cause her harm or heartbreak.
All of this, while walking that tightrope of parenting that that cautions agains becoming one of the many stereotypically “wrong” types of mother. You can’t be a “Helicopter” mom or too much of a “Free-Range” mom, and the “Tiger” mom is too overbearing yet the “Best Friend” mom is too permissive.
I just want to be her mom – yet I feel I have failed her to a certain extent in successfully figuring out who exactly that is and how exactly to execute that role successfully.
Parker and I went away together this weekend on a four-day road trip we have both been eagerly looking forward to. Watching her run free, being able to say “Yes, we can go on that ferryboat” because I’m not worried about her trying to throw herself overboard, or “Yes, we can go down all of those big waterslides” because she is big enough and her brother wasn’t there to get upset that he couldn’t go, or “Yes, we can play Skee Ball and Air Hockey at the arcade” because I wasn’t concerned that she might send those wooden balls or plastic pucks flying into the heads of other unsuspecting game-playing patrons, well, it made me realize something with a jolt that felt very much like a figurative slap in the face. [ Read More ]
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