My daughter is an adult. I know this in my head. She is twenty six years old and has been supporting herself for four years. She has lived out of state for three years for her job. So, why is it so hard for me to admit to myself that she is a grown woman?
I look at the self assured young lady, and I still see the face of the infant studying me intently, the toddler that trails my every step, the girl that twirls around the house, the teenager that looks at me from the corner of her eye… Every time we talk or visit in person, I am bursting to give her unwanted advice and question her about everything going on in her life. If I am unable to stop the impulse to insert myself into business that is no longer mine, I see her face change slightly and her eyes become guarded. While she tends to respond and placate my curiosity, I know she is editing her responses and has to swallow back resentment that she feels treated like the child she hasn’t been for years. I feel a mixture of pride and sadness for the woman that her father and I raised to be an independent adult, and the little girl that has twirled out of my life and into my memory.