I often take Grace to the bathroom before I go to bed, just to increase the odds that I’m not dealing with a wet and cranky 5 year old in the wee hours. On Friday night, she was sleepy and limp as usual as I carried her into the bathroom. She is so long and lean now; I am struck anew by that every time I carry her. Her legs dangle down almost to my own knees and she feels like a full-fledged child. As is her wont, she tucked her head against my shoulder and barely even woke up as we walked to the dark bathroom. After she peed, she let me gather her up again and carry her back to her room. As I was putting her into bed, she murmured to me, “One of the things I love best is the way you carry me, Mummy.” She was only half awake but it was very clear.
I went back to my own bed blinking back tears, wrestling yet again with the potent cocktail of identification, intimacy, and separation. In that moment I saw my own odd blend of fierce independence and profound desire to be taken care of. All day long Grace fights me, wanting to do things “MY OWN SELF” (as she used to say at 18 months), spitting nails as she refuses all offers of help. She is determined and competent, and cares deeply about displaying her own ability to do things both well and alone. Underneath this, though, is a buried but rich vein of need. Like me, she is relieved when someone sees through her protestations of independence and insists on helping her. She does, at least some of the time, want to be carried.
I can see so vividly the young woman she will become. I just hope she won’t let either the bold assertion of autonomy or the honest admission of desire for support dominate her. I believe that these two traits, while contradictory on the surface, provide a useful check-and-balance for the ego and the self (of course I do – I have to, they are my own).