My Daughter

My daughter. Amazing, compassionate and a real thinker. Sometimes, mature beyond her years, sometimes, still 'a little girl', as is her right. When big things happen, as they are apt to do in this 'situation', she draws upon an amazing inner strength not often seen in one so young.

Our relationship started the day after she was born. I remember, so clearly, the moment I bonded with her. She was breast feeding and the whole time, I couldn't take my eyes off her. Her eyes were huge, brown melting pots, drawing me into her soul. When she finished, without fuss, she quietly went to sleep on my chest. So tiny, she only weighed in at 6.1lbs. At the moment she went to sleep, my heart and love for her soared. It literally filled me up, like nothing else had ever done. Pure happiness because this little girl was mine to hold, to take home, to raise and to show the world.

As any mother knows, breast feeding is not easy, and it hurts, for a few weeks anyway. One or two days after the 'bonding', I was sitting in a chair, again attempting to breast feed her. She'd latch on, then come off and do this over and over again. During this time, her eyes would look in my direction and every time I would expect her to cry. Yet she didn't. Not a peep. It was like she was being so patient with me and I was so grateful because I really was trying very hard. In the end her patience and my persistence paid off. She latched on and stayed there. I breast fed her for 13 months after that which was something I never expected I could have done.

3 days later, we were home in our own beds and nothing had felt more right. When she was 4 months old, laying over her father's shoulder while we went for a walk, she laughed - not just a giggle, but a full on heart felt laugh. Again my heart soared, as it was the most wonderful sound I'd ever heard. I never knew it was possible to feel so happy.

She was a great baby. True, she didn't sleep as well as some, but she did sleep and gurgle and play and before she was two, she was talking. We'd moved to Portsea on the Mornington Peninsula by then. The time for her brother to make an entrance into the world was drawing near, so we were preparing her to move to her own room. I remember telling her in full sentences what was happening and she seemed to understand. "This is going to be your bed soon", "mummy bought you a new quilt to go with your special new bed" and "do you like your new room?" "Yes" she'd answer. It was like she'd always been talking, always understood.

It was easy being a mum to her, caring for her, playing with her and providing all the necessary experiences that she needed to grow and develop physically. I never doubted my ability. Not that I didn't make mistakes - the time she came out of the toilet holding the toilet brush and me not thinking to take it off her comes to mind (I know, I know, I've been told) - but all in all, I thought I made a good mum.

When my son started to get a little older and we started taking them out to the local golf club for dinner or to a friends places, we always got compliments about how pretty she was and how well behaved they were. My kids are mixed because her father is a Chinese malaysian. His race is Chinese, his nationality is Malaysian. So my kids have that lovely 'coffee' look - brown hair (I'm blond-ish, ex is black - how do they get brown from this - they should be either / or, not a mix. It's not like you can mix hair, like paint!), they have chocolate brown eyes, slightly almond shaped and of course, that beautiful coffee skin - not light, not dark.

It's her eyes that get me. They are big and beautiful and wise beyond their years. The eyes who saw that mummy was pretty, those eyes that exuded compassion and maturity when I left her for 4 months last year. Those eyes that looked into mine, so deep and caring, and said "Mummy, I will miss you but if you have to go, then go".

And I did, I went. I left her. Ohhh, the guilt. She handled it amazingly well. Since then, seeing how she has responded to me, with all my humaness, makes me determined to never leave her again. If I'm upset and she happens to know, she will hug and pat me on the shoulder til I am OK again. I know she shouldn't see me when I'm upset, but sometimes it can't be helped, especially when it's just me and them. In her own wonderfully compassionate and mature way, she does take care of me. And I know that, in itself, is something special.

There have been times since I've been back, that I've noticed what effect my leaving has had on her. Times when I wanted to go out, even just for a few hours and she'd beg me not to go. Countless times when I've had to reassure her that yes, mummy is coming back, serve to remind me of what I did, of what I had to do. Indeed, going away may have just saved my life and it's allowed me to understand the importance of me being here for her. It has set the foundation for our future together, no matter what happens.

Most nights, before she goes to sleep, we have a 'chat'. It's come to be a special time where she can talk to me about things that are bothering her, or things that make her happy. Lately, she's been asking about people, life and growing up (as opposed to "what are we doing tomorrow?"), voicing her curiousity at the things she's seeing on tv and around her. It's through these chats that I hope we will communicate about life and become close when she's older. I want to nurture our connection and help it grow, so that if she needs me, she has a way to approach me that she's comfortable with.

The book, Cherishing Our Daughters by Evelyn Bassoff, Ph. D., which I purchased when she was just 2, says it's OK to be a "good enough mother" and goes on to say that we can't be perfect, we will make mistakes and our daughters will forgive us for it. I know that my daughter and I will have our difficult moments. Her temper and stubborness and my insecurities will assure us of that. But what I also know is that for her, and indeed her brother, I will always be there, beside her to help her cope with the journey of life.