My second daughter, Abi’s sister, is growing up.
OK, that’s not surprising and I should be thankful, she has now surpassed Abi’s age by three years. Yet, now, aged 15, I see this young woman transformed before me. The same height as me, the same determined look in her eye, the same belief that she is right…
She shouts at me to stop ‘staring’ yet I find myself unconsciously gazing in wonder at her beauty and maturity.
All of a sudden.
I’m told (by text) I don’t need to collect her from school, she’s off to town with her friends. Having spent so long trying to establish friendships with new people who don’t know her history, I know how important this is to her.
Yet I’m sad. I’m unprepared.
Her meal is kept warm in the oven, waiting for her to return. She’s straight up to her room after eating alone and happily snuggled in bed chatting online and listening to music with headphones in. She doesn’t see me, or hear me.
I hover outside the now-always-closed bedroom door, finding an excuse to drop by with an harmful of clean laundry. She now tells me to leave it outside.
Of course, I’m busy enough with my other three children not to be completely overwhelmed by this new situation, or so I thought. I have plenty of things to keep me occupied, yet she isn’t one of those things anymore. Only my mind is left to wonder about what she’s doing, if she’s okay, if she still needs me, if there’s anything I can do…
She yells and complains and demands sure enough, but this was once punctuated by funny chats, advice, foot rubs and bedtime reading… the hours of sitting with her at night, now she goes to bed without so much as a ‘goodnight’.
I complained so much about the demands on my energy from her, the neediness, the physical and emotional strain of trying to show love and normality when our world was upside down. She blocked out the pain of grief all too easily, a normal reaction to a then 10-year-old mind. We soldiered on, but we were together.
We spent hours travelling and attending therapy and other appointments to help smoothen this transition to grief. School appointments, GPs, counsellors, therapists… all to get her to this point of what… normality. So, it was worth it, in the main.
This isn’t about wishing she was Abi. This isn’t about making her live Abi’s life. Yes, my nest is busy, I’ll rarely be alone thank God. But this particular darling girl is one of the few connections on earth I have to Abi. They were so close in age and shared so much, just 22 months apart. The memories of Abi all include her, memories she appears to have forgotten, and as she pushes me away it feels scary to know that in a way I’m losing her too.
I suppose this is what ’empty nest’ syndrome feels like. The transition from child, to young adult, to me letting go. With every argument, I am afraid of losing her. She’s of an age now where should could go, sleep at her friends, get away from the memories, let loose and be free of us. How do you be firm when you are so scared of what that will do?
I never dreamed I’d be like this. I’m fiercely independent myself! I left home at 18 with a pay packet and a sure sense that I would be happier living alone. I don’t consider myself to be motherly, needy or coddley. I just love, deeply. Being cut off, because what I say is wrong, uncool, unhelpful, overprotective or challenging, hurts more than I could ever know. I try to say the right thing, on her level, but always seem to get it wrong.
The other day she shocked me with her words. ‘You’re just jealous, Mum. Jealous!’ I wasn’t expecting that. But when I’d had time to reflect I realised she was right, this clever girl of mine. I am jealous. I envy the fact she is more interested in the people in her phone than me. That she wants to spend more time with her friends than me. I’m jealous that she is spreading her wings, and isn’t interested in this ‘dull’ 41-year-old woman.
Yet, I love how she’s growing and changing and seeing her finally bloom. She’s quite late to the party, but she’s picking up speed so quickly and I suppose it’s that which is the shock for me. Yes, there’s the teenage angst, the ‘not fairs’, the miscommunication but I’m so proud of her my heart could burst.
We are so similar and sparks fly, but I live in hope that we will get through these years with her knowing that I love her, and grow older and closer so that, one day, she will be able to sit with me and talk about Abi.
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7 thoughts on “My teenager is growing up, and I’m the one who’s crying”
Thank you so much for sharing your experiences. Much of what you’ve written is familiar to me, having lost my 13-year old daughter two years ago. Her brothers (one older, one younger) are growing up and needing me less. While I’m happy that they’re thriving, those feelings are often tempered with sadness about their ability to move forward without their sister. xo
Thank you Tamara, it’s comforting to know I’m not alone. Funnily enough the minute I hit publish my daughter sent me a text message that said ‘love you xxx’ 💕
Our children grieve deeply but they grieve differently to us. One of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do is to be a grieving mum who is parenting grieving children.
Ditto. Thank you Vicky xxx
Of all the books that I have read on grief this is probably the one that has resonated with me the most, as this mum describes the delicate process of finding space for her grief while honouring the grieving styles of her husband and surviving children (young adults), all in the context of a deep faith: https://victoriawhyte.wordpress.com/2016/05/21/colors-of-goodbye-a-book-review/
Thank you so much for recommendation. I’ll look that up. I struggle to find books of faith on this complicated subject xxx
I remember going through this, too. I felt such sadness for not seeing my son grow up. And as much as I loved my other children, their milestones reminded me of what I missed with my son who died.
I guarantee you that there are those moments where our children seem distant. But mine are older now and we are very close. Love never dies and they will always love you. Sometimes they need that space to grow, which I know you understand. It’s just temporary. Trust that you will have their love and closeness later on. Children are very complex!
With you extra time and space, I might recommend filling it with something that nourishes your soul. 🙂
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