Assuming the Best
I pride myself on letting Tate venture out on her own. Our historic neighborhood is made up of many folks in their nineties who grew up in the same house they’re still living in (yes, more than a few examples) all the way to new couples with young babies and everything in between.
Lots of both unruly undergraduate renters and focused graduate students, professors, hippies, co-ops, etc. It’s a real gritty mix.
Tate began by first collecting borrowed sugar from next door, to lending eggs around the corner, to sharing our home-baked bread with the older woman all the way up the street and out of sight of my kitchen window.
At first, she took a walkie-talkie with her and we chatted a bit here and there, as she felt like it. Or after each road crossing.
At this point, she’s able to go to friends nine blocks away, to ride up to houses even further to take care of her plant-watering duties for them.
Sometimes, she just wants to go on a walk to get some fresh air, but be alone. This I also trust and support and often she goes with no tech at all - upon my urging. She’s big, aware and safe.
After sleeping in Sunday, she came out all primped and told me she was walking to Walgreens to get Mycilar water, that she’d be right back. Tate often walks the dog as a ‘chore’ so I asked her to take him along (always makes me feel like she’s protected too).
She said she didn’t have the energy to get him to listen and heel while also enjoying quiet alone time. She promised to walk him later in the day.
I know her and believe her when she says she needs to mono-focus, when multi-tasking is the opposite of what her body needs. She’s taught me a lot about listening to oneself and how young we can really teach our kids to do this, and do it well.
Tate writes just ten minutes later, asking for Apple Cash because strawberry milk is on clearance (the only time we ever splurge for it) so I send the money.
Then, she’s quiet. For a long time.
We don’t live far so I expect her home fairly soon. Busy with my own Sunday tasks, I let time go until I realize she’s been gone for almost an hour. This seems long. One part of my mommy mind goes to worry - you know that part. It acts fast. It’s reckless.
What if she had a sultry encounter with a homeless person (of which there are plenty outside that particular store). What if she forgot to charge her phone, needs me and it’s dead. What if …
I don’t want to bug her. I don’t want to convey distrust or pass on my anxiety. So I pause. The hour passes and as an hour and fifteen approaches, I decide to send a ‘light' text check-in.
“Hey, kiddo. WYA?” Very hip text slang, I assure myself. It surely conveys chill vibes.
It takes her at least ten minutes to respond. I self-regulate over and over, continuously removing all the scary images that invade my brain.
Then, I can’t help it anymore. I’m either heading out with the dog to look for her or trying once more. After a few rings, she sings, “ Hi Mommy. What’s up?”
Trying to keep my cool, thrown by her casualness compared to my nerves, go with, “Oh, just checking in. I’d texted and hadn’t heard back and was just sort of wondering …”
She cuts me off, “Ohhh, I have my phone on Do Not Disturb so texts don’t come through but your call always does, of course. Sorry I missed them, Mommy. Just was wanting quiet. What did they say?”
So damn composed. So calm and kind.
I scold myself for having wondered if she met up with those boys from the other middle school I don’t respect who also live in our neighborhood or if she stopped at another store to sneak something.
“Oh nothing, really, I was just noticing how long you’d been out on the Mycilar run and wanted to know you were all good.”
“Ohhhh, thanks, yeah. I’ve actually been just sitting here in the park, listening to the birds for probably a half an hour or so. It’s just so beautiful out and they’re singing like crazy today.”
My overly-efficient, controlling adult mind right away says, then why couldn’t the dog have come with you? You’d have killed two birds with one stone, seeing as though that’s his favorite park too.
Until I shut it up.
Deliberately. Humbled.
I return to the beauty. Hers. The knowing.
The beauty of assuming the best. Of her.
Every time.
Isn’t this what I’ve raised her to do? Stop and smell the roses? Use her senses and time outside to come back into her own body, when she needs to (and boy, has she needed to, after the weekend she had)? What business do I have to doubt, to judge, to analyze, to do anything but believe and support?
“Wow, babe. Good for you.”
“I can come home now, if you want Mom.” She senses my nervous system - still not totally recovered - though trying like a son of a gun to fake it.
“No, no, you do what you need to do. I’m glad I know where you are. And that you’re taking care of yourself. I love you, Tate.
