I've always known my daughter was a grownup...

I've just spent the past hour rereading Oldest Daughter's earlier blogs and have been blown away yet again. You see, she's a grownup, an adult, a self sufficient wife and mother and aunt and sister and niece and business owner. If I sound surprised about that, I'm really not. It's just that I sometimes loose focus on it.

I read about her sometime concerns about not being the best mother and shake my head because I think she's a damn good mother (Nearly Perfect Grandson says I shouldn't cuss because I sound dorkey doing it. Perhaps I just need to practice more...). I read the ocassional comment about hanging off the cliff and have to stop short. I get reminded that just because she acts completely in control and unwavering, that she, too, has doubts and fears.

We've not always had the best relationship (translate to: it's been buried six feet under several times, but always resurrected). Some of it's been my fault and some of it's been hers. I tend to think there have been other hands in there, too, but they've been minor roles. I think it's ironic that I don't have a relationship at all with my mother and I'm HER oldest. (But then have to remind myself that MY mother is completely nuts and my daughter's mother is only partially nuts).

I just know she got her good parenting skills, her common sense approach to raising her children, somewhere else than from me. I did the best I could with what I had, but most days it was woefully inadequate. When you grow up being a victim, it takes a multitude of "overs" before you can climb out of that victim pit in which you tend to stay buried. (Maybe because it's safe? Well we're not going there because it doesn't matter what the psychobabble crap is...you eventually climb out because you want out).

I've seen her smoothly pull off the most wonderful entertaining events, she's an excellent cook, has fantastic decorating style, a good, strong, stable and loving marriage, organized, hard-working. Now before I give the impression that she's a candidate for sainthood, I'll stop. The point I've been heading to is none of these things are what made me realize that she is an adult. It was something totally different for me.

About two years ago, I was at her house hanging out with 6-month-old Izzy Doodle when Amy came in the room and sat down with us. As she reached for her daughter, I saw her hands. My stomach flip flopped and I had to just sit and breath for a moment. I was looking at adult hands! Not the smooth, character-free hands of a child, teen or young adult, but the hands of a woman. Hands that had their own tales to tell. I knew (head knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up but when I saw her hands I knew (heart knowledge) that my daughter was a grown-up.

And she had done it, for the most part, without me.