Journey: Windy City and Willow Trees
There’s a photo I took of my oldest daughter, Emma Grace, when she was about eight years old that I believe captures the essence of her childhood. It’s one of my favorites that I’ve ever taken of her. She’s wearing a dress that’s silky and cream like vanilla ice cream, and her tender arms are holding it up so she can run through the grass, barefoot and carefree. Her golden brown tresses are backlit by the evening sun and the length of her calves are delicately propelling her toward a willow tree (my favorite tree of all time). I took it from behind her, so she’s running away from me. I’ve turned to that image many times in the last 10 years. She was a truly happy child at that age, and I felt the image captured the easygoing spirit I so much wanted her to possess throughout her life.
At 18, her legs are still graceful and her hair is still golden. Her arms are tender, but they’re stronger, and, she’s still enjoys pretty dresses (that will never change). I’ve come to realize, however, she might not have been running toward that willow tree after all. She may have been headed on the shortest path that helps her fulfill her own individual calling in this world, and the dangling branches of the willow were just a whisper of beauty along her journey. As she begins her senior year of high school, I'm fully aware that she'll be on her way sooner than I ever thought. Now, that image of her running away from me is more like a punch in the stomach than a badge of parenting honor.
“I’m not you, Mom,” she told me last year during a guided architectural cruise along the Chicago River. She wasn’t referring to trees. She was referring to the fact that I eagerly embraced the allure, excitement and appeal of a big city, and I was disappointed she didn’t share the same passion. While I was energized by standing in the shadows of tall buildings and successfully navigating a crowd along Michigan Avenue, she wasn’t much of a fan. She was sufficiently humbled and respectful of our country’s third largest city, but she would have rather been straddling a blackboard fence, admiring a family of alpacas out in the middle of Nowhere, U.S.A.
She’s not me. Why did that simple phrase catch me so off guard? I had taken her to Chicago for her 17th birthday to celebrate her soon-to-be coming-of-age as a young woman, ready to take on the world all on her own. I had planned that trip thinking she would enjoy the excitement of Chicago like I do – the thrill of walking through busy streets where live theatre performances and taxi cabs were hailed amidst crowds, bright lights and honking horns. I sat there on that boat, anchored by the heaviness of her having to tell me something so simple. She wasn’t me.
We enjoyed the trip together, despite my newly discovered separateness, and we made some incredible memories. I found a deal on Expedia and booked a room at the Sofitel Chicago Water Tower Hotel, where everyone greeted us in French, and there were tiny jars of honey topped in blue and white gingham cloth laid out for us to enjoy with our morning tea together. We devoured overpriced appetizers and Shirley Temples at The Signature Room on the 95th floor of the John Hancock Center, where Emma Grace's curious blue eyes eagerly soaked in the city landscape from her bird’s eye view, and she noted the extravagance of how people in higher tax brackets spend their afternoons. We took Instagram-worthy pictures at a cupcake ATM and in front of the “The Bean” sculpture in Millennium Park. We even saw the real, live American Gothic painting in The Art Institute of Chicago. It was a fantastic trip, and despite her lack of enthusiasm for large crowds, she grew more comfortable with navigating through the streets and reading bus routes. She practically skipped her way across the street to Tiffany & Co. as if she was Audrey Hepburn herself, and we pretended we were buying something expensive that came in little blue boxes wrapped in white colored bows. We bought tickets for a play one evening near the Water Tower, just a couple of blocks from our hotel, where we later enjoyed cheesecake on the patio for a midnight snack. We devoured a piece of Pizano's pizza like true Chicagoans for our last official meal, before heading to the airport. I smiled, watching her eagerly dig into it. (She wasn’t as much "not me" as she led on.)
Later, into her junior year of high school, she wrote an essay about that culinary experience entitled, "A Slice of Chicago," and I realized that the trip did exactly what I had hoped it would, even if she didn’t share the same love as I did for bright lights and big cities. It has expanded her world view -- at least of pizza.
Our flight home was delayed by weather, and we sat on the runway for more than an hour before heading back to the gate so security officials could escort an unruly passenger off the plane. For a while, we believed we would be sleeping in the Chicago airport, instead of our own beds back in Georgia. It wasn’t the ideal way to end our trip, but she learned a little something about people and customer service. And, I learned that you often get what you pay for when it comes to cheap airlines.
Throughout the last year, I’ve been reminded many times that she’s not me. However, the night her boyfriend of nearly two years broke up with her and she bravely opened her bedroom door with tears streaming down cheeks and her lips quivering, I desperately wanted her to be me, just so she could escape being herself for that moment. I begged God to give me her pain so I could battle the heartbreak for her. I held her tight, remembering the stab-in-the-gut feeling when I was her age and the slippery rug of teenage love was yanked from under my own unstable feet.
Two hearts broke that night I opened her bedroom door. I felt her pain. No matter how much I pleaded with God, I couldn’t be her. I couldn’t carry that burden for her. She wasn’t me, and I couldn’t be her.
A few days into her suffering, however, I realized how valuable this experience would be for her to navigate on her own. It wasn’t something that I could or should interfere with. It was a part of her development that would shape her into the strong, confident, empathetic woman she is quickly becoming. Those weeks that followed were probably among the most important in her development, but they were certainly among the most painful in my tenure as a mom. It took a while, but her heart finally healed and she’s grown so much through having experienced it.
Emma Grace’s younger sisters watched her maneuver through that experience with strength and grace. They, no doubt, learned something that I hope will prepare them for life’s challenges when it’s their time for their hearts to head into battle. I’m looking forward to introducing each of them to new, exciting places that I hope they’ll love as much as I do. I’m prepared, however, for the reminder that they aren’t me. None of them are. And, that’s okay.
As I stumble upon similar runaway images of my 13-year-old, there’s a common theme. Each of them will embark on their own path someday. I now understand that a big part of my job is to prepare them for that journey, not lament that they are taking a different route than I would have – or that they would face challenges along the way. I look at Aubrey and Ally and I see a familiar spark in their eyes, much like that of their older sister. Behind those shades of blue, green and brown, their ambitions, although different, are just as worthy as mine. I’ll still introduce them to some of my favorite places in the world. They might become their favorites as well – and, they might not. My hope, however, is that when they’re ready to venture out onto their own paths in this big, wide world, they’ll feel secure in how they’ve been raised, instilled with a love and respect for God and the knowledge that their opinions matter and that open minds are an important ingredient to success. I know their individual journeys won’t always be easy, but my prayer is that somewhere along the way they’ll encounter the comfort and beauty of a willow tree, and they'll stop to rest in the comfort and peace of its shade – just for a bit.
