Mother-daughter relationships have been complicated since the dawn of time and mine is no exception.
Given our complex 18-year history, I assumed that when she embarked on her new life as a college freshman, she would flee from me like a gazelle narrowly escaping the jaws of a crocodile. I also accepted that our conversations—which have become increasingly disjointed in her teen years—would cease until Thanksgiving. But I was wrong. Without fail, at 8 p.m., she’d FaceTime me and not only babble on for over an hour but also ask me questions that she’d never asked before, like, “What did you do today, Mom?”
The first time she posed that question I was positive I had misheard her. I wondered, “Did she actually just ask me a question?” Typically, I was the one, as she so eloquently phrased it, “interrogating her” or barraging her with aggravating inquiries like, “How was your day at school?”
Instead of responding, my mind ran through all the ways I might have misunderstood. Perhaps she had asked: “What did you say?” or “What is today?” or the least plausible, “What is hearsay?” And the last is implausible only because I assume someone who was as adept at arguing as she is must have been a decorated lawyer in a previous life—and was thereby very familiar with the definition of hearsay.
I think the root of our issues originated where most problems begin: in the womb. During the last three months of my pregnancy, my daughter’s derriere prodded my right rib, causing continuous pain. While experiencing the jabs of discomfort, I dreamt of the day when I would finally meet my baby. But little did I know that dreaming or any type of sleep would be impossible for the next six months. After all, who can sleep to the soundtrack of incessant newborn crying? Though, if you asked me, she sounded less like a newborn and more like the shrills of a hyena caught in a bear trap. One distinct memory stands out in the haze of this time period. Picture me, hurling The Happiest Baby on the Block book over the bassinet, while proclaiming, “My baby is anything BUT happy!” and you might get a sense of my disposition at the time.
The toddler years proved to be more harmonious. She preferred to stay within my orbit, waddling behind me like a baby duckling. Her infectious giggles could brighten even the most despondent demeanor. And dare I admit that her strong-willed nature was endearing?
The preschool years were even better. Mundane tasks like grocery shopping were transformed into a celebratory event with my daughter beside me in her blue Cinderella princess gown and bedazzled tiara. She’d greet the customers who passed by us with a royal wave while they complimented her attire. So when all these moments came to an unceremonious halt, I was dumbfounded.
In hindsight, my college degree in developmental psychology should have prepared me for the teenage years. My in-depth knowledge of normal adolescent behavior in all its egocentric glory, paired with their need to assert their independence, should have helped me cope. Instead, I was exasperated. Overnight it seemed as if my communicative cub turned into a surly one-worded bear who only knew the word “no.” On rare occasions a few other words would be peppered in, like “I don’t know.” If The Happiest Teenager on the Block book existed, I would’ve hurled it at my daughter’s bedraggled bedroom.
Besides the lack of communication, there was the continuously closed door to her room that signaled, “I no longer prefer to be anywhere near your orbit.” This distance, I’ll admit, led me to overcompensate by conducting inquisitions whenever she was within 10 feet of me. I’d seldom see the former princess from the grocery store, but occasionally, she’d emerge willingly to engage in conversation. Since these times were so infrequent, I had low expectations that she’d stay in touch once she went to a school over 200 miles away.
At first, I chalked her daily FaceTime calls up to homesickness. But after the initial separation period passed, and she continued to call, my assessment of her behavior shifted. Like a detective I noticed how she voluntarily divulged details about her day or appeared genuinely intrigued when I rattled off a list of quotidian tasks I completed. She willingly offered information, like the meal she had for dinner, the drama among dormmates, and the assignments she struggled with—all without any coercion. My astute deduction was: We were having an actual conversation!
The regularity of her calls transformed me into a Pavlovian dog. Each day, I’d eye the passing minutes with barely contained anticipation for our nightly conversations. In much the same way the Earth’s orbit around the Sun changes over time, so does the mother-daughter relationship.
After being away for three months, she returned home for Thanksgiving. Much to my dismay, our magical conversations disappeared into whatever vortex they had materialized from. The one-word sentences reemerged along with the closed doors. When my husband noticed my melancholy mood, he proposed a simple solution, albeit one that seemed absurd.
“Why don’t you FaceTime her?” he suggested.
Reluctantly, I pressed the FaceTime icon on my phone and waited with bated breath in the living room for her to answer from one floor above me.
“Why are you calling me?” she asked with a look of bewilderment and a hint of irritation. “It’s time for our daily call,” I replied in a matter-of-fact tone.
Like the Cinderella princess, she pretended to be in the grocery store and played along with her mother’s outlandish ruse, rambling on for her usual 60 minutes. The mere illusion of being 200 miles away seemed to revive her ability to have a conversation with me. Hopefully one day we can transition to IRL.
