When I Jumped Over

by E. Marmer
posted Aug 2, 2015

found on sltrib.com

It all happened in miraculous, slow motion, where I could see everything unfold in real time.  Before I took the leap, I could see her very clearly on the other side: a young adult of 21, making judgments I questioned, displaying behaviors I thought were needlessly risky or abrasive or impatient, or whatever it was that I thought needed adjusting, and most definitely irritated by her ever gently lecturing mother. We were at a celebratory function, where alcohol flowed freely, and spirits were high, and in the moments before my leap, it actually slipped out, “Oh honey, no, don’t you think you’ve had enough?”  Rosy and free-spirited as she was feeling, eyes twinkling, she laughed me off and said something like “I know my limits, Ma.  I drink when you’re not around, you know,” and she graciously let my fretting pass.  That was the moment when I saw it all.  I understood fully and for the first time that I could indeed consciously choose to jump over the divide, that gulf growing between my daughter and me, which I had formerly identified but felt helpless to prevent.  I was actually in a somewhat altered state myself, so it truly was a miracle that I was capable of the clarity, but there it was. My daughter was an adult, albeit a young one, at a party, and I was a drag, tagging after her, fussing about her choices. And in that slow instant, I imagined myself, back at college, at some frat party, drinking freely, as and when I wanted, dancing to the band and alighting from one cluster of acquaintances to another, all with my own mother following me around and hoarsely whispering in my ear, “Oh no, honey, don’t drink that. You’ve had enough.  Sweetheart, don’t puff on that joint. You don’t know if it’s laced.  Don’t you think you should stay away from that guy?  He’s looking at you like some piece of meat.”  Of course that never actually happened, but what if it had?  It would have been unbearable. A wet blanket.  A block of cement.  My own shoulders sagged at the weight.  I was mortified. What was I doing? How had I become this, and what would happen if I persisted?

Suspended in that moment, I could see the choice laid out before me: remain or leap.  On the one had, if I remained, I’d forever have my little girl.  The one who nodded in everything I said with wide, accepting eyes, who unquestioningly gobbled up my care and my wisdom and felt safe with me.

found on browneesorchids.hubpages.com

If I jumped over, wouldn’t I lose her forever?  But if I stayed where I was, the adult she had become would move father away, wouldn’t she?  The fissure that had widened from crack to sizable crevice would keep spreading, to a chasm, with the terrain on the other side becoming ever more strange, alien, even.  I’d be that mother, that all too common figure, of familiarity and comfort, yes, but a fossil one liked to hold briefly now and then and returned to her place. Someone with no actual relevance in her daughter’s daily life.  Someone who offered unsolicited and pointless advice while her grown child silently and internally groaned. Who was relegated to small talk or obligatory, condensed nuggets of news, because the relating of genuine emotional or social events or interactions would inevitably lead to “helpful” suggestions and moralizing, instead of the commiseration or comfort being sought.  It was not enough that I had already begun to occasionally share my inner thoughts and feelings with my daughter.  That I threw across a rope bridge, a welcoming beacon to see me as a woman, a friend, a confidante, capable of doubt and insecurity, hurt and confusion.  In that slow moment, in that protracted dilation of my pupils, I understood that so long as I continued to use whatever opportunities came my way to get in that extra bit of guidance, that last bit of shaping before my chances ran out, I would remain on one side and she on the other.  I’d turn into a fixture she’d come back to visit now and again, and not an organic, dynamic contribution to her life.  Indeed, I could see  that I had already been retired from my position as guru, only without my knowledge or assent, and was merely being treated like a teacher emeritus, except not even as that, not even good-naturedly humored, but begrudgingly and half-heartedly respected. Why this all struck me like a mallet in that one moment is beyond me.  Was it because instead of rolling her eyes my daughter laughed me off? Because her ease in not even engaging me served to highlight how redundant I had become?

But, I wondered, in a last little bit of desperation, didn’t she need me to be her barometer, the voice of reason in her head?  Wouldn’t she go off the edge, make a dreadful mistake, ruin her life? I had to answer, had to come up with a defensible rationale in that crazy slow moment of reflection and grace I was offered.  And my answer was no.  She would not. I did not, when I was at those frat parties, my mother nowhere in sight.  I had my own voice of reason, my own measure of what felt comfortable and right, some of it derived from the common sense I developed under my mother’s watchful eye, and some of it wholly new, a considered rejection of her philosophies and fears.  My grown daughter had no doubt similarly rejected large swaths of my reasoning as wrong-headed, hysterical, obsolete.  Right then and there I made up not to interfere in her behavior or act to protect her unless the following threshold was met: would I say something if I were in the exact circumstances with her at her age, as one of her peers.  If I were at this social event with her as a 21 year old, would I suggest that she’d had enough to drink?  No, I would not.  I’d just be her companion, and laugh with her at her somewhat drunken behavior.  As a 21 year old, I’d only state concern or interfere if she became incapacitated, and needed looking after.  I’d be that trusted friend who’d lead her outside for some air, or to the ladies room for some prayer at the porcelain throne.   That’s what she’d welcome.  Not a tut-tut-tutter but someone with whom she could be an unedited version of herself.

So I leapt. I kept my mouth shut and simply laughed with her through the course of the evening. I’m so glad I did. I noticed that I started hearing more about her evenings out with friends or, a mistake she’d made but had worked out on her own, or something that came back to bite her or hurt her feelings.  And, it turns out,  my little girl is intact, in my memories, our sweet and lopsided relationship unblemished by the sighing and eye-rolling and frustration that threatened it in the recent past.  Sometimes I glance back at her lovingly, before accepting my adult daughter’s invitation to stroll with her in new territory, as equals.

mother and daughter by Claudia Tremblay, found on etsy.com

Related Posts

Tags

Share This