Right now, my little girl is two years old, and I am her entire universe. As a stay-at-home mom, we spend our days together, and while she’s learning to cope with separation anxiety, there are still moments when I have to gently pry her off my legs before heading out, whether it’s for a quick trip to the store or a night out with friends.
Just five minutes after I leave, she’s usually fine, but that heartbreaking image of her sobbing on the floor, calling for “Mama,” lingers in my mind.
“Oh, she’s such a Mama’s girl,” people often say with a smile. I nod in agreement as she burrows into my chest, seeking comfort.
But underneath that affection lies a nagging worry. What if we don’t get along as she grows older? I’m not talking about the typical teenage eye rolls or disagreements; I fear that we might not truly understand each other.
I worry that she won’t feel comfortable confiding in me, that I might unintentionally manipulate her emotions, or that she won’t turn to me with her joys and sorrows. I dread the thought of not being the one she wants to share celebrations with or just hang out with during those quiet, ordinary moments.
These fears stem from my own relationship with my mother, which is far from close. I find myself envious of those adult daughters who describe their moms as best friends, sharing shopping trips, spa days, and heartfelt conversations. It’s a relationship I’ve mourned the loss of and continue to navigate.
I never had the chance to know my grandmother, who passed away before I was born. My mom often tells me how I remind her of her mother, which perhaps explains the tension in their relationship. As a child, I often envisioned what life would be like if my grandmother had survived. I imagined her as my anchor, a kindred spirit who would guide me through the turbulent waters of my upbringing.
In honor of that connection, I named my daughter after my grandmother. For now, she is indeed my little Mama’s girl, and while I worry about the future, I also hold onto hope. Hope that I can be everything for her that my mother wasn’t for me.
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