Expecting the awkward beginning:

Lessons from being with my daughter and friends, part I

Photo by Caleb Woods on Unsplash

Some of us need warm-up time, with friends or a creative project, where others dive right in. Neither way is the right one. It’s our expectations that can get in the way.

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“Mama, I’m going to sit in your lap the wholllle time,” my daughter Noa said to me on Sunday as well pulled into the driveway of our good friends’ house.

“Okay,” I said. “You can do that, but let’s talk about it. Can you tell me what you’re feeling?”

Silence followed, as her attention disappeared back into the photo album she was looking at on my phone.

Shoot, I was thinking. I should have started this conversation twenty minutes ago. I was flooded with memories from the week before, when Noa and David didn’t emerge until close to an hour after our friends arrived because she didn’t want to come outside. I worried we were setting up for something similar.

“No no no, I want to look at pictures,” she said when I came around to her side of the car to get her out.

We started by letting her stay in the car while we unloaded, hoping that would ease the transition. But when we finished unloading, her “no” had only grown stronger. A few minutes later, she was lying on her back on the driveway screaming with our friends just on the other side of the screen door. In moments like these, I become momentarily convinced that the rest of my life will be one giant, embarrassing, tantrum, and I’ll never make it to my destination.

***

Oh, but I remember times like these at parents’ friends’ or relatives’ houses growing up. Like all kids, I wasn’t in charge of where we went or whether it suited my mood. Some kids love the adventure of a new place and burst with energy from the minute they arrive. For me, the combination of people I hadn’t seen for a while and new sights and smells made me squeamish. I remember people saying I wasn’t myself in those times, that I was acting out. But really, I was being exactly myself.

I still need warm-up time with friends. The first hellos and how are yous always feel stilted to me. I like longer times with friends, a whole weekend ideally, so I can really sink in.

***

I need this time in my creative work too. The beginning is always the hardest part. Whereas David loves the brainstorming stage and dives into projects with puppy-dog energy, I don’t get revved up until the middle, with lots of words already on the page.  

***

What if instead of bracing myself and feeling dread, I had expected Noa’s struggle to get out of the car? What if I’d let her look at pictures in my lap for as long as she needed to take in the scene, instead of insisting that that phone time was over?

After we finally made it inside, Noa spent the first hour in my lap singing to herself and not responding to questions. I didn’t prod her. I kept holding her and letting her be. But inside, I was flush with discomfort, thinking, This isn’t my girl with the lit-up face who loves to engage with adults. But this is her. It’s another side of her. What if I embrace this side of her enough to expect it?

***

This week, I’ve been experimenting with expecting the first stage of working on a legal brief or creative piece to feel awkward and awful. It turns out that expecting awkward and awful tends to make me feel less so.

***

After that first hour of Noa on my lap, we went outside. She held my hand as we walked through our friends’ yard. She leaned against my legs as we sat on the porch and chatted.

Then, slowly but surely, she stared speaking up. And before we knew it, she was setting off on an adventure, exploring the yard and coming back to tell us about it. Then she and our friends’ son explored together. By the end, even though it was past bedtime, she begged us not to leave.

“Just two more adventures, mama,” she said. “You stay there and let me go where I can’t see you.”

And off she went, charting her own path between flowerbeds.  

Stay tuned next week for the second installment, unpacking the visit that started with driveway tears.