I Guess She Still Needs Me

My watch is a step/stair counter. I put it on the moment my feet hit the carpet. Dedicated? Maybe. Weird? Definitely. But I consistently log 1000 steps (including stairs) before 7 am and I haven’t even left the house. This is because I am held hostage by my 12-year-old daughter and her sleepy-head inertia. Getting her out of bed and out the door in the morning requires crossing the house to trudge up and down the stairs more times that I like to admit.

My daughter is at “that age” where the teenage sleep pattern shifts to night owl who wants to sleep until 12:30 pm (her record to date). I know that’s normal but it still gripes my butt. The school bus comes at 7:18 and she needs to be on it, zombified or otherwise.

But the other morning was different. My daughter wasn’t in a blurry-eyed fog when she emerged from her bedroom…she was in a big, smelly funk. Fog and funk look similar at first glance…yet they are different. I thought I picked up on the latter but was not going to test the waters with a cheerful “Good morning!” or “How did you sleep?” because I really didn’t want to suffer a fire-breathing response. The stink lines of pissed-off-ness that replaced my daughter’s usual fluffy cloud of mild disorientation were enough to confirm my hunch. I decided to give her some space.

Until she was heading out the door.

I’ll pick you up after school, honey.

No! I’m coming home on the bus!!!

I’m picking you up so we can be at the park at 4:30.

I’m not going! I’m riding the bus home!!!

D….

I don’t care!!! I’m coming home on the bus!!!

It was like a schizophrenic tennis match: my (barely) patient lob of the ball to her side of the court and her line-drive slam back to me, ending with my daughter stomping off the court.

She slams the door, leaving a shaky silence in the house and a cold, uneaten breakfast. I no sooner scrape her plate into the sink when I hear the front door creak open and close with a soft thud.

There stands my daughter in the doorway, in tears.

Arms hanging limply at her sides, she shuffles over to me and drops her head onto my shoulder, her whole body one undulating series of sobs. I wrap my arms around her and guide her, still in her heavy coat, to the couch where I press my face into her bedhead and she lets it all out.

I don’t stop her. I wait for her to drain herself of tears and sobs. I just hold her close, like I did when she was an infant, fussy after her curious toddler brother doinked her in the face, or age three and fell off her trike.

She tossed a monkey wrench into my and her home-schooled brother’s morning, as she missed the bus and I had to take her to school. But then again, she monkey-wrenched her way into my heart the moment I took that pregnancy test thirteen years ago. I panicked then, wondering how my husband and I were going to parent three children under the age of two. And I panicked now, when I realized my morning of writing was not going to happen and homeschool would get off to a late start. But my daughter is the best surprise ever. And I unconditionally accepted the surprise of her return home to cry on me, to the comfort of my hug, as one of the parenting moments I’ll never forget.

She needed me. Her emotions overcame her and she needed her mom to lean on. To give her permission to cry until she couldn’t anymore. To admit she didn’t know why she was so upset. To confess life was feeling just too big to handle alone.

To be the one she needed, I will always be grateful. Because tomorrow it could be different, with the pubertal highs and lows in the driver’s seat. She may cringe at the sight of me. But that particular morning, I was just what she needed.