Let Me Be
I come into Tate’s room to see what she’s up to, but pretending I’m looking for something. Right there, I’m busted.
“Mama, what’re you dooooing?”
“Ohhhhh, I was just picking up and …” I plop onto the chair by her bed.
“I’m kinda busy, Mom. Do you need something?”
“No, I guess not, I mean - how are you?”
“I’m fine. I’ll talk to you at dinner. Can you just let me be?”
Heart sinks.
“Okay, sure, I just want you to know that I’m here and it seems like maybe you had sort of a rough day and …”
“I did NOT have a rough day, why are you saying that, just because I’m not all chatty? I just want to be. Let me! Mama - let ME BE!”
Sometimes her clarity and frankness hit me like an icy gust of wind. And still, I can’t hear it. I’m just cold and numb.
“Okay, well, in case you did have something going on, just know I’m always in your corner …”
Again, “Mom! Go, Please. Please let me be.”
I’ve got a girl not only very in tune with her emotions but also very astute at conveying them clearly. And still, my heart won’t listen to what’s being repetitively begged for.
Weeks and weeks and weeks of this same mantra in our home. Daily, I take it personally, worry she’s hiding things and fret. Nightly, I lie down and wonder what I did wrong, why there’s a disconnect, hurting at the very idea that I might lose her one day.
Until one chilly morning at last, a dear friend on a hike listening to me tell the story, simply says to me, “Maybe she just needs you to let her be more.”
I chuckle. Exhale visibly in the cold. My mouth hangs open. Then, there’s laughter in the trees. Hard, teary, humble laughter. It just keeps coming until my friend is giggling alongside me.
Whattttt? It couldn’t have been clearer and yet I’d circled around it so many times, trying to make to make it something else, examining it for my fault, seeing if I could drum up any tangible reason.
Finally, what a relief - another adult to point out the obvious.
