On Butterflies, Bras, and Tenth Birthdays

My Birthday Girl :-)

One night many, many years ago, I had just finished feeding a two-month old Sophie and had laid her down on her crib. I turned on our night light and flicked off the main light, then hovered over her crib and stared as she slept, her mouth formed in a charming little o, with her hands high above her head, as if in sweet surrender. Her eyelids fluttered, and I felt an overwhelming surge of love for this new, strange, lovely little creature that I was just getting to know. Impulsively, I swept her back up into my arms, and held her as I sat down on my bed. I held her close to my heart, and with the wisdom of mothers knew that this precious time I had with this baby version of my daughter was to pass quickly, and that I was cherish it. Then and there I promised myself that no matter how tired I was, or how my arms ached, or how much I wanted to sleep, that I would hold her and carry her as much as I could before things changed, before my baby grew too much and changed.

I remembered this moment, and wistfully so, when Sophie and I were driving home in the car with my father early this week. I had been so busy with work even from the week before, and had worked straight through the weekend and right up to the beginning of the new week. My father asked Sophie if she felt bad whenever I was away.

She leaned towards him and said in a clear voice: “Lolo, I love my Mama but we don’t have to always be together. She has her priorities and I have school and things to do.”

“Really now,” my father teased in a low, booming voice. To which she replied, “Yes! Who knows, she might need to go to India –“

“India? Why would I need to go to India?” I asked in amusement.

“I don’t know, maybe for work someday. But you have priorities-"

“You do know you’re my biggest priority, right?” I asked pointedly.

“Yes, Mom,” she said impatiently. “What I’m saying is you have things to do and I have things to do. We can’t be together ALL the time. If we were together all the time, then that would be creepy.”

My father roared with laughter as I giggled, then sighed. Sophie as a practical, no-fuss preteen was becoming more aware of her independence, and was beginning to see herself in terms separate from her parents, from me. She was in the process of changing, and was growing physically, emotionally, and mentally at lightning speed, and it truly was an exciting time for her. And as she sheds old versions of herself and begins her movement to maturity, I cannot help but feel a sense of longing, of loss for what was, for what we have had to say goodbye to, to give her the space to bloom and grow.

Early last year, I broke the news to her that she needed to wear a bra. Armed with the new training bras my supportive mother-in-law had bought, I told her the news in a bright and perky manner. (I believe it was something along the lines of, “Guess what? You now get to wear an ultra cool sports bra! Woohoohoo!”) She laughed in disbelief and insisted I was joking. I became more serious and told her that it was true, that her body was developing and that this was something she needed to do. She took everything in, her face slowly crumpling as she cried. I told her that it was okay to feel awkward, and that it was part of growing up.  But I saw the expression in her eyes and knew that she understood that something precious was to be lost, that she would now need to learn to be more aware and conscious of her body.

“I’m scared,” she told me. “I’m scared of growing up,” she said. I held her in my arms and opened my mouth to say “Don’t be,” but changed my mind. Instead, I said, “It’s okay. It’s okay to be scared.” And after our embrace, she stood up and I helped her wear a bra for the very first time, my heart breaking a little as I silently bid goodbye to the blissfully carefree little girl who never thought of her body, save for figuring out how it might run faster or jump higher.  

One day she came home from school, looking pensive. She went straight to her room instead of raiding the refrigerator for a snack. After a few minutes, I opened her door and saw her lying down on her bed, deep in thought. “What’s wrong?” I asked her. “Nothing,” she replied. I prodded gently, reminding her that she could tell me anything. Then she said, “I think I want to be alone, Mom. Is that okay?” I was hurt, but nodded and said brightly, “Of course,” and went out to do my chores. After a few minutes, her door opened. In a tiny voice, she asked me to come in. I sat on the edge of her bed and waited. Finally, she burst into tears and mentioned the name of a friend. “She promised not to hurt me. I thought we were friends. Why did she do that to me, Mom? Why did she break her promise?” Part of me wanted to send a text message to this friend’s mother then and there, but I knew that this would not be wise. Instead I soothed her, and tried to explain how people could do things without thinking, and how one eventually discovered who one’s real friends were. How it took me some time to find her Tita Ninang and the other friends I had that loved her and were part of our lives. And how to this very day, I am still figuring it out myself, as I meet and encounter different people. And in that moment, I said goodbye to the little girl I had kept in a safe cocoon and shielded from all pain. Because she was to go through experiences and pain that I could not protect her from nor should, experiences that she needed to go through because these were all part of life, and part of growing up. And I bid goodbye to the girl who wore her heart on her sleeve and told me everything, because she was now discovering a new secret, sacred place for her thoughts and feelings, a place where others - even her mother - could only enter upon her bidding.

And yet, for all these losses, there are incredible gains.  It has been wonderful seeing her grow, and seeing her assimilate all that she has been and experienced. I remember beaming with pride, when after discussing the term ‘delegation’ with her the night before, she came home waving a memo and saying triumphantly, “I delegated, Mom! For cooking club, we’re making shakes, and we’re bringing two things each.” It has been so fun having a responsible, reliable Sophie around. I appreciate having a grocery buddy, someone who now makes the list and checks that we get all the items that we need. I enjoy being asked, “How was work?” and getting her opinions on scripts I had written, and her ideas for new stories. I relish chatting with her about the things she likes and her thoughts on movies we’ve watched. I become so amused when taking her shopping (every few months, because she grows so fast!) and she staunchly declares, “Mom, my fashion isn’t girly. It’s a little bit sporty, a little bit rock star, a little bit rebel but not too much. Simple and casual, but cool.” And it has been comforting that when I am tired and sad, there is a sweet girl who asks me how I am and gives me a massage, while dispensing her own (oftentimes hilarious) versions of practical, no-nonsense advice.

I realize that even if I miss baby Sophie and various incarnations of her throughout the years, I have never wanted anything but who she was in the present moment. I do not wish to pause or turn back time, but perhaps have it oblige me and move a bit slower every so often, so that I could relish it, so that I could cherish her even more.

Tonight, I arrange her night lights - fairy lights encased in blue woven balls of varying shades, which I had gotten from a recent trip to Bangkok. I turn off her main lights and tell her to go to sleep. Her room is bathed in soft yellow light. My little big girl starts her climb up to the top bunk of her bed when she stops and says sheepishly, “Oops, I forgot something.” She laughs and climbs down, catches my hand, pulls me toward her, and gives me a big hug. I squeeze her tight, feeling her eyelashes flutter against my neck. She is that tall. And as I hold my beautiful butterfly close to my heart, I feel an overwhelming surge of love for this strange creature who is always different, always new, and who I will spend my lifetime getting to know.  And I am filled with the incredible assurance that no matter how many cocoons she may shed and how much she may transform over time, there are still some things that will never, ever change.

Happy 10^th birthday, dearest and darling-est girl. Thank you for the best 10 years of our lives.