The Stitched Aviary: Learning to Fly

black capped chickadee, embroidery, memoir, motherhood

I park and get out of the car, passing my daughter as I move from the driver's seat into the back seat. My daughter slides behind the wheel of the car as I settle into the backseat. My husband, in the passenger seat, steels himself to begin my daughter’s first driving lesson.

As we lurch around the empty parking lot, I fall into disbelief. Wasn’t it only yesterday that we nervously brought her home from the hospital? I sat in the backseat that day too, my hand resting on her tiny body, worrying for her safety. Was she breathing? Was the car seat in the locked correctly into position?

As my daughter begins her lesson, I sit in the back of the car thinking of the many times I drove with her as an infant, car seat facing backwards, listening to her cry and not being able to comfort her. My attention torn between her dismay and the knowledge that I needed to stay focused on driving in order to get us to our destination safely. I am abruptly pulled back to the present as she brings the car to a lurching stop, crying in frustration because controlling a car is much harder than it looks. I hold myself back from jumping out of the car to hold her, only able to murmur soothing words of comfort because we are, once again, locked together in a vehicle and the momentum of moving forward cannot be stopped. Not even for a crying child.

When the first drive is over and we all emerge, dazed, from the car, I tell my husband he needs to take her out on the next few drives as I cannot bear the anxiety. He has always taught her the risky things. When she was little, he used to take her to the parks and let her climb and jump from heights I could not bear to allow, sure she would plummet to injury. But I knew then, as I know now, that she must learn to take risks, that she must jump from heights that scare me, that scare her. I know that she must learn to cry and comfort herself while I sit in the backseat. I won’t always be there and, more than worrying about the fear she feels at the moment, I worry about the pain she will experience if she doesn’t have the tools to soothe herself. I want her to know that life will sometimes make her cry, but she will survive the tears. She can do the scary things. I might not always be able to physically comfort her, but I can offer words of support, be a soft spot to land. My presence, near or far, in front of her, next to her, or behind her, is enough.

I settle back, watching from the backseat as she takes the wheel and drives.

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Excerpt from The Stitched Aviary, an upcoming art book featuring photos of my stitched bird portraits placed beside meditations of my life as a mother as I prepare for my teenage daughter to "leave the nest".

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