Growing Pains

As Amelia grows up, she is more and more like me. Her red hair, brown eyes, lanky figure and dimple on her right cheek are just the beginning of our similarities. At four, her personality has begun to emerge. She is an observer, more comfortable to stand on the outside of the action until she gets a feel for it; she isn't one to jump right in to the fray. Though she sings and dances and laughs and makes jokes at home, she rarely does so in public. Her preschool enrichment teacher says that she rarely talks; it takes a long time for someone to work their way in to Amelia's circle of trust. She is incredibly sensitive and emotional. If she is defying me in some way, all I have to do is say that I am sad and she will almost always comply. She is also able to express the way she is feeling at a depth that is unusual for a child of her age.

It is a bittersweet thing to see myself reflected in Amelia. When I watch her draw for hours, making up stories about her characters, I celebrate her imagination. When the question, "why" follows every little thing I say, I celebrate her curiosity. When her brown eyes sparkle with laughter over a "joke" she made up, I celebrate her sense of humor. I love these things about her because she gets them from me. Then, there are other times. There are times when she lingers behind my legs, too shy to engage with other kids at a birthday party. I admit that I cringe a little bit when she refuses to go down the inflatable slide or jump in the bounce house because she is scared. And sometimes when her emotions swing dramatically hot and cold, I wish that she had inherited her father's temperament. I struggle with these things because she gets them from me, and throughout my life, these qualities were painful.

Amelia's bright little life will not be hindered by my emotional baggage. I made that decision a long time ago. However, I have dreams for Amelia. As parents, our dreams never involve our children experiencing pain, but I know that if I want her to excel in her gifts, I also must relinquish her to her flaws. I know that some of my flaws became scars in the wake of a very difficult adolescence; some of them, admittedly, by my own consequence. What this has taught me is that pain is inevitable; I can not and will not eliminate this reality for her. I also realize that what I may see as flaws in myself, depending on how they manifest themselves in her, may become a part of Amelia's beauty. That's why, I stand back, hold my tongue and focus on her gifts: her bountiful imagination, her curiosity about the world, her off-beat sense of humor. I will teach her to lead with these gifts and let the rest fall away.