Crying into a size XS purple bathrobe

My 16-year-old came to my doorway and stood in a robe, dripping from a hot shower. “How is he?” she asked.

My dad is in the hospital again, the third time this year, and that’s three times too many. We are hoping that this infection resolves quickly this time, not like the month he spent in the hospital over the holidays.

(Your semi-regular reminder: Never get run over by a taxi while crossing the street.)

But this post is not about that.

Last night, I waited outside the E.R. forever (i.e. an hour) before I finally gave up, accepting that I wouldn’t be allowed in to see him until he had a bed. 24 hours? 48 hours? Less? More? One never knows. My stepmom has been by his side so he wasn’t alone. I just felt alone and that’s not a good enough reason to try to shake down the security guards for special visiting privileges in an overcrowded E.R.

I made it back to Brooklyn, shook out my umbrella, and poured myself a glass of wine that would turn out to be dinner.

My 16-year-old came to my doorway and stood in a robe, dripping from a hot shower. “How is he?” she asked, so sweetly and earnestly. Not because that’s the thing she thinks she is supposed to ask before going back into her room to scroll TikTok, but because she is the kind of person who cares enough to ask how someone is and wait until she gets an answer.

That’s when the big tears finally came.

“Are you okay?” Sage asked, her voice edging up an octave.

“It’s not him…it’s you,” I said. “I love you so so much.”

She came closer and hugged me hard through her wet purple bathrobe.

“I love you for being you,” I told her.

Parents talk about all the things our kids do that make us proud: The home runs and the science fair ribbons; the student council elections and the glitter rainbow art on the fridge; the roles in the school musicals and the college acceptances. Maybe we don’t talk enough about the things they are that make us proud.

My daughter is a person who, on the edge of 17, lets me, her mom, be me.

I had never thought about it in quite those words before, but I think it’s remarkable and I think it’s worth honoring.

She’s not trying to save me, or fix me, or cheer me up. She’s not taking on my emotional burden. She’s not trying to be the adult in the family. She’s just seeing me for who I am: A mom who, at times, needs a tight hug, an I love you, and a wet patch of terrycloth to wipe my eyes on.

We want to be strong for our kids of course; but if we’re incredibly fortunate, we can be soft for them too. Tears, emotions, vulnerability, imperfections, fallibility, humanity and all.

---