Detachment Parenting

Before my daughter was even twenty-four hours old, I was learning to let go.

I am not good at letting go. I am the opposite of letting go; I am holding tight, I am arm in arm, bear hugs, hands clasped. I am all up in your business. And yet, the morning after my daughter was born I found myself listening to the tiniest, kindest pediatrician tell me that my daughter has a “concerning case of jaundice” and will have to be “put under the lights” around the clock, only to come out for feedings every three hours.

Receiving this news in my uncomfortable postpartum bed, my yellow-tinged daughter in my arms, I am sure my biceps instinctively curled around her more tightly. No, my mama heart roared. You may not have her. You will not pry her from me. I will not let you. I will not let go.

But of course I did. I did what was right for my girl. My Reese. I wept outside the nursery. I waited for her release every three hours as though she were a tiny inmate. I stared at her through the nursery window in her special isolette, outfitted in miniature sunglasses and a diaper, the sun lights beaming all around her, curing her, bringing her closer to going home. When we got the word two days later that she was okay and would be discharged, my husband and I couldn’t get her out of the hospital fast enough. Reese remained in our arms it seemed for most of that first year, eventually toddling off on her own, a cautious, smiley and thoughtful little girl.

When it was time for preschool, we found the perfect one. Walking in for the first time was like coming home: a playground with a canopy of trees, the sun darting in and out, softly-spoken teachers in flowy skirts who sang and captivated and loved completely. If heaven is a Montessori school, it would look and feel exactly like this one.

I was grateful and smitten. Reese, not so much. She was what they called “slow to warm.” She clung to our legs at drop-off, she cried at the waving window as though we were off to France instead of off to work down the street. Eventually though, she fell in love with Amy, her teacher, following her everywhere, even to the restroom when necessary.

Worried, I emailed Christine, the head teacher. It’s been a few months and Reese is still velcroed to Amy. We met in person, under the canopy of trees in the playground I loved so much and Christine listened to me patiently, her blue eyes taking me in. Would my three-year old be okay? Would she be following her teacher around until she was in high school? Would she still cry at drop off in middle school? Have we broken her? Has my tight clasp on her ruined her?

Yes. No. No. No. And no. She spoke slowly and gently to me, as though I were one of her students, which I was.

“It is okay for Reese to be attached. We will let this be okay. She can stay close to Amy for as long as she needs to. She can remain attached until she is ready to detach.”

She can remain attached until she is ready to detach.

Those words of Christine’s etched themselves on my heart that day. Of course, wise teacher that she is, she was right. When Reese was ready, some months later, she detached. A little at a time, at her pace. Making one friend, then two, then a gaggle. Finally, she was off and flying, working the slide, the art table, the circle time. She had warmed. Reese had been given the time she needed to feel secure enough to let go.

I read somewhere that when you look into the face of your child, you see all the ages they’ve ever been: the giggly baby, the determined toddler, the sassy threenager, the earnest school aged kid. As Reese heads toward middle school this year, I do see all of those Reeses in her and I marvel at her sure-footedness in her current pre-teen state. She is lovely and quietly confident, witty and kind.

At dinner after the middle school tour the other day, I asked her how she felt about leaving her beloved grade school to head to the big campus, one filled with actual teenagers and woodshop and band and a surprising amount of facial hair. She said that she was excited, that she was ready.

As she said those words, I felt my heart loosen its reins just a bit. Yes, she is ready.

Then I thought: we are both ready. Christine’s words came to mind. We have attached and now we can detach when needed and come back together. We will not be torn apart, instead we will simply let go, knowing we will come together again.

My girl and I. It seems we are growing up.