Columnist Adair Lara is the author of The Granny Diaries (Chronicle Books, 2007), a satiric guide to grandparenting. She is a former San Francisco Chronicle columnist, and lives in San Francisco with her husband, three blocks from the grandchildren.
My daughter, Morgan, is a young woman of steady temperament, deeply appreciative of even the smallest of favors. But recently there was a slight dip in our otherwise perfect relationship. I felt a little unregarded, a little taken for granted, but attempts to talk about it fell through, as she is a busy lawyer who doesn’t always read her e-mail.
I decided to back off a little, in the hope of getting her to take a step forward, but my friends were dubious. They know I am not good at staying mad. So I wrote a note to myself: "Stay mad!" This is necessary because it might take her a while to notice I was upset; not noticing things about me is part of the problem.
Can You See Me?
I think you could reduce most mother-daughter conflicts to a simple heartfelt exchange of the same concern: "You don’t see me."
I’ve been teaching essay and memoir writing for years, and reading my students' papers has convinced me that all women hate their mothers and yearn toward their daughters. They can talk in one breath about how awful mother was, and in the next about how angry their daughters seem. One writer told of rushing to her daughter’s hospital room and the daughter, just diagnosed with cancer, saying, "See? I
told you I was sick!"
It’s as if the relationship between mother and daughter is so close that only disappointment is possible.
As for me, my resolution to be chilly did not keep me from going over to Morgan’s house, 15 miles north across the Golden Gate Bridge, on the next Wednesday as usual to spend the afternoon with her daughters, Ryan, 7, and Maggie, 5. It was our walk-and-roll to school day, and Morgan wanted me to give Ryan some tips so she could begin riding her bike safely to school.
"I know how to ride a bike, Mom," Ryan objected as she heard Morgan tell me this.
"You almost swerved into a car," Morgan told her.
Ryan flared. "You’re saying I’m no good at bike riding!"
| Do you and your grandchildren see their parents as a common enemy? |
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We sure do; it's what brings us together 39.1%
No way; all the generations get along here 60.9%
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"No, sweetie, I didn’t say that," Morgan rushed to reassure her. "You
are good. You just need to learn to ride in a straight line in traffic."
"It’s too late for you to say that," Ryan said as she turned her back on her mother and went to find her shoes.
Who's Your Mirror?
I chose the empty lot of a long-closed supermarket for our bike lesson. It was a soft Indian summer day, the kind that Marin County gets exactly right. Maggie, worried that there were no training wheels on her bike, had been quiet ever since I had announced we were going riding. She asked me how old I was when I learned to ride a bike. "Six?" I said, and she smiled thinking she had a whole year before she could reasonably be expected to ride on her own.
Actually, she had only ten minutes. Now we were in the lot, and I was holding Maggie on her little purple bike, trotting behind and holding it up as she pedaled. Maggie was immediately entranced by the motion. I let go only for brief seconds — Maggie, being Maggie, had worn a dress and flip-flops to this lesson, and so I couldn’t let her fall. "I can ride!" she crowed, looking back at me.
And I smiled at her and Ryan, these two little girls with whom I get along perfectly because they are not my mirror, the one that reflects how I am doing as a mother. I’m not in charge of how they turn out. And I am not the one they look at, either. It simply doesn’t matter as much to Ryan what I think of her bike riding skills. It’s her mother’s recognition she wants. It’s a relief to all three of us, and adds to the charm of this day out in the parking lot with my granddaughters, as I run behind Maggie and watch Ryan wheel in exultant circles.
Read more on what happens when two generations don't see eye-to-eye on raising the third:
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