Last night, I went to my daughter’s room to watch a movie with her.
She wasn’t feeling well, and maybe that gave me an excuse to do what I secretly always want to do: climb into her little world and be close to her, the way I used to when she was a baby.
While we watched the movie, I started annoying her—pulling her hair a little, grabbing her arm, scratching her, just being silly. Then somehow, without even thinking about it, we ended up playing with our toes, grabbing each other’s feet and annoying one another.
And suddenly, I started laughing.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing. It’s just funny. We are both equally annoying.”
We laughed.
And in that moment, I felt so connected to her.
She probably didn’t realize how much that little moment meant to me.
But I did.
I was happy just being there, inside her bubble.
I love watching her grow. I love seeing her smile, seeing how proud she is of her room, helping her redecorate, making posters together, taking pictures of her space, and watching her get excited to share it with her friends.
But sometimes, I wish I could slow time down.
Because one minute she is this little girl playing with me, and the next she is reminding me, “Mom, you have your own room.”
I know she needs her space. I know she is growing into her own person.
And I want that for her.
But that doesn’t mean my heart is always ready for it.
Sometimes I still grab her hands and pretend they are a book. I hold them together, open them like pages, turn them one by one, and make up stories about my little princess.
Except now, my little princess is also my little friend.
My daughter once asked me, “Do you love when I’m sick?”
Of course not.
I don’t love seeing her sick.
But I do love being needed.
I love those moments when she lets me take care of her little self, even if only for a little while, without the constant reminder that she is a teenager now and doesn’t need me in quite the same way she used to.
Because I know she is growing.
I know she needs independence.
And I know one day she will need me differently.
But I also know we will always need each other.
The kind of needing changes.
The hugs change.
The conversations change.
The way they ask for help changes.
But the connection doesn’t have to disappear.
So last night, while we watched a movie, annoyed each other, played with our toes, laughed, and existed together in her little bubble, I didn’t want to think about tomorrow.
I just wanted to stay there.
With my daughter.
With my little princess.
With my little friend.
Perhaps this is one of the contradictions of motherhood:
We spend years teaching them how to fly while secretly hoping they will stay close enough for us to keep holding them.
We want to help them grow. We want to teach them, encourage them, and slowly open their wings so they can fly on their own.
And yet, somewhere deep inside, we are quietly begging time to slow down.
We want them to be brave, independent, and ready for the world.
But we also cherish the moments when they still crawl into our space, ask for our help, laugh at our silly jokes, or let us take care of them.
Maybe Wave 58 is about learning to hold both feelings at once: wanting our children to fly and wanting them to stay; celebrating who they are becoming while treasuring every moment they choose to come back and sit beside us.
Because maybe letting go was never really about letting them go.
Maybe it is about learning to love them through every version of who they become.
And sometimes, if we are lucky, they will still let us sit inside their little bubble for a while.
Maybe even play with their silly little feet.
What part of teaching your child to fly has been hardest for you—and what moments do you cherish most when they still choose to stay close?
-TodayWaves
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