Last weekend I visited my middle daughter Hosanna. Being plunked in the center of nine kids did mean that attention was somewhat diluted. For part of her childhood she slept on the floor because the room couldn't bear another bed. It resulted in personal space that was, well, permeable. She wasn't ensconced in the dynamic of the older four siblings but neither was she integral to the interplay of the younger half.
All this fueled her resolve to be independent. In high school Hosanna wanted a women's literature class but it didn't fit in the schedule. No problem. She knew the art of jimmying and coaxed them to offer it before school.
Hosanna researched and applied to the college of her choice with no help from me, landing five on campus jobs in addition to keeping up stellar grades. After a few years in the workplace she plunged into the MBA program at Yale, graduating first in her class.
Staying in her Cambridge apartment was as sweet as the berries we picked up at the open air market. Hosanna treated me to an improv show at the venue where she takes classes and we laughed long and loud.
The life my daughter has forged for herself is all hers.... the food in the fridge, the shoes by the door, the books by the bed. The one with legs and a frame.
Yet there were gifts scattered among her belongings from birthdays and Christmases past. Quilts I'd forgotten, that keep her warm in a Massachusetts winter. Paintings on the wall. Pottery with quotes that find one more expression of my love.
I was surprised to see them. It tamped down the voice that says she blazed the way with no help from me. Maybe the two posits need not cancel each other out. Our children need us. Until they don't.
