Letting my daughter grow

Or why I should have listened to Eminem

When my daughter left home for college, I promised her that I wouldn’t call often. I wouldn’t nag her about school, her eating habits, social life or any of the 101 things that was on my mommy list. NOT!

My baby had grown up but I wasn’t ready to cut the umbilical cord.

A friend who had already been through this scenario twice advised me, “Let her make the moves. Give her space.” My reaction was ‘duh?’

The concept of space is alien, especially to Indian moms, a club that I’m a card-carrying member of. We tend to take our jobs as helicopter moms rather seriously. I was no exception.

My daughter’s first few weeks in college were exciting for both of us. I reveled in her joy when she shared her experiences in the classroom, talked about her new friends, and how she was managing her expenses. I tried hard not to laugh out loud when she confessed, “Mom I never knew how you managed to keep the household running — it’s a lot of work!” When she bitterly complained about laundry taking such a long time or going through rice withdrawal symptoms after a few weeks I was sympathetic but a part of me wanted to get on a plane and head her way.

Every time I bumped into friends, I was hard pressed not to break out in tears when they asked about my daughter. I put on a brave front and pretended that everything was hunky-dory even when it didn’t seem that way. Sometimes a TV show or a book would remind me of her laughter. Announcements of local running events stopped me in my tracks.

There’s a picture on our mantlepiece of a young girl with a tired yet triumphant smile on her face after running a 10K. When she got home from the race, she alternated between the highs (yeah my timing was great) and the lows (what are those spots on my face). To me, it was quintessential her, a young girl on the cusp of adulthood — forever changing, often unpredictable, yet ready to break into a smile for the silliest of reasons.

Whenever I step into her room now the smell of turpentine oil assails my nostrils. I remember the first time she painted in her room with the windows shut. I came down heavily on her. We went a couple of rounds at each other before agreeing to some ground rules. The canvasses lying in the corner now look forlorn, a mute witness to our battles in the past.

When I first heard other parents talk about the empty nest syndrome I dismissed it off. Nah, it wasn’t going to happen to me. But in reality it did — and it’s hit me hard!

One day at a time, I tell myself and thanks to Skype and other technology, I get to talk to her and share in her life.

I’d like to think it will get better.We’ll just have to wait for her to post to Medium to find out if it does!