Losing Contact
Yesterday I spent all morning stringing lights on the freshly cut Christmas tree we brought home. Every year my kids watch impatiently as I clumsily circle the tree, entangling myself in lights. They know they can’t unpack the ornaments until the lights and garland are complete. Finally, I plugged in the lights, dusted the pine needles off my pants, and stood back to admire my work. “It’s ready!” I exclaimed. My son and husband jumped up and started to pry open the ornament boxes. My smile fell when I realized my daughter was still scrunched up on the sofa, her nose buried in a book. My husband took note and asked casually, “Prov, we’re decorating the tree. Would you like to join us or would you rather read your book?” I glared at him. Why was he giving her a choice? She should be helping us; it’s Christmas.
“I’d rather read.” She said this as if it was completely in character for her to bypass a family tradition. I bit my tongue. This was new. I didn’t like it one bit. I thought for sure she’d put down her book once we got started and pulled out some of her favorite ornaments. She didn’t. And a little piece of me died inside.
My brilliant, beautiful daughter Providence turned eleven years old earlier this month. She has officially entered tweendom. I already know I have it easy with this one. She is unfailingly kind, generous, thoughtful, and compassionate. She comes up to me and rubs my back while I’m doing schoolwork. She strokes the top of my hand with her thumb whenever we hold hands. She habitually makes my coffee every morning. I have lost count of how many times she has insisted she will never want to leave home or the clutches of my embrace. Providence is perhaps the only child on earth that is dreading growing up. She is content to play pretend with her younger brother from sun up to sun down. She constructs forts, rides bikes, plays four square, and builds Legos. She also asks deep, thought-provoking questions, thinks strategically, and rolls her eyes at all the immature things "kids do these days.” I have yet to hear her utter a word about cute boys, looking cool, fashion, or celebrities. Prov is a beautiful dichotomy of a child and an old soul. Her love language is quality time; she will drop everything to enjoy a family day. When we are all home together, my daughter is at her happiest. This is why her decision to opt out of the family tree decorating stung so much.
I kept glancing over my shoulder at her as I hung ornaments on the tree, fighting back the urge to say, “You are being the pre-teen you’ve always said you don’t want to be! You’re missing out on making a memory! You’re choosing a stupid graphic novel over your FAMILY!” Spewing those words would have hurt her just as much as her lack of concern was hurting me. I’d rather feel the pain than inflict it, so I stayed quiet. My son Justice is only seven, and he relished every minute of unpacking ornaments and placing them on brightly lit branches of our Noble Fir (which he had aptly named Nicholas). He listened with rapt attention as my husband and I shared stories behind ornaments from vacations past and our newlywed years. He shrieked with excitement each time he uncovered an ornament he’d made himself. I smiled as I found several Providence had made in preschool. I held them up for her to see from her spot on the couch.
“Prov, look how little you were in this photo!” or “Can you believe your hands were ever that small?”
She’d shoot a quick glance over the top of her book, then she was gone again. Noticing, Justice commented, “P.J. isn’t even having fun with us.” I pretended it didn’t bother me.
“Don’t worry about it,” I said nonchalantly. But the lump in my throat was growing. With each adornment I found donning her toddler scrawl I blinked back tears. It went so fast. Everyone tells you it will. So why does it still feel like the rug has been pulled out from under me?
I knew this kind of thing would happen, of course. Over the last year or so Prov has been slowly stretching the muscles of her independence. Earlier this week she declined my suggestion we see the Christmas lights at the zoo; it’s always been her favorite seasonal activity. When I was wrapping presents and she offered to help, I got excited until I realized by “help” she didn’t mean to put her finger on the ribbon to make the knots like when she was little, but she meant to wrap the whole thing by herself. Her Christmas list consists of lip gloss, nail polish, lotions, and books; zero toys. She’s become very opinionated about what she wears, shrugs off all my attempts to help or suggest, and has mastered the phrase, “I got it.” She’s been just touching her toes in the waters of sarcasm, passive-aggressiveness, and manipulation. I catch glimpses of what lies ahead in her teenage years and I inhale deeply, surrendering the future with each release of breath. I remember a line spoken by famous TV mother Claire Dunphy of Modern Family: “Raising a kid is like sending a rocket ship to the moon. You spend the early years in constant contact, and then one day, around the teenage years, they go around the dark side and they're gone. And all you can do is wait for that faint signal that says they're coming back.” I brace myself because the moon is casting a dark shadow over my ship and I know I’m going to lose contact very soon and there’s nothing I can do about it.
Last night I sat on the couch next to my husband, looking across the room at our newly decorated tree and I let the tears fall. I confessed to him how much Providence’s neglect broke my heart. He gently reminded me that we were no different at eleven years old. We sulked and scowled our way through family activities and we chose our bedrooms or our books over “making memories.” My eyes squeezed shut, wincing in regret. I felt a sudden urge to call my parents and apologize.
I recognize that developmentally pre-teens are experiencing ALL the things in ALL the realms of their physical, emotional, and mental health. I refuse to be the parent that forces my daughter to participate in family activities against her will, building up walls of resentment on both sides. I want to be empathetic. I want to remember what it was like to be eleven and give Providence all the grace she needs to ride the waves of her age. I refuse to guilt her into engaging with me, her dad, or her brother. I won’t make it harder than it already is. I will let her be, and I will let my heart break in doing so. But I have one condition.
I will not let my daughter go without first making sure she knows she has a choice in the kind of teenager she becomes. She can live for herself or she can live for others. She can exercise her independence while still remaining kind, respectful, and humble. I don’t need her to like me all the time but I need her to remember I have feelings too. Teenage angst, rebellion, cold shoulders, and chips on shoulders are inevitable, but they are not excusable. Providence will be responsible for humbly admitting when she is wrong, seeking forgiveness, and welcoming fresh starts each day. I will be responsible for reminding her that we will always want her to be part of what we’re doing as a family. We will always welcome her presence, her smile, and her contributions. Our family is better with her in it. The memories we make will be richer with her in them. She can still decide to go off on her own, bury herself in a book, pout in a corner or throw on her headphones and slam the door behind her, so long as she understands the choice is hers; no one is sending her into exile to wait out the remaining years of puberty. I won’t love her any less if she does those things, nor will I punish her for doing so. Providence can isolate herself all she wants but she needs to know she will never be truly alone. I will choose to love her without condition, securing her spot in our family and my heart. I won’t get it right all the time and neither will she, but perhaps we can side-step some of the preteen potholes on the road ahead.
This morning before school I noticed Prov circling the Christmas tree. She paused to finger a small bell made from gingerbread.
“You made that when you were three,” I told her.
She put her nose to it and inhaled.
"Does it still smell like ginger?” I asked.
“It smells like my childhood,” she said before asking, “Can we make gingerbread cookies together this week?”
I breathed a sigh of relief. She hasn’t gone dark yet. I still have contact, if just for a little while longer.