I sent my daughter away because I wanted to get to know her.

I’m not the kind of mother who will sit still long enough to brush and style her daughters’ hair.  I’ve never been a big fan of personal grooming.  And my girls have never been keen on sitting still long enough to receive it.  But on Sunday morning, I’ve taken a kitchen stool outside to our patio.  Saoirse perches up high, her skin still moist from the shower, her hair dripping in tangles down her back.  The cherry tree behind us, for the first time in years, is laden with fruit.  The raspberries are ripe and in need of picking.  The blueberries need to be liberated from weeds.  I block these things from my mind and put all my attention on this one quiet moment.

Saoirse’s eyes are closed.  I assume it is partly the glare of the sun that causes her to close them; but then, as I comb through her knots and work with my scissors, I see that she is simply taking in every touch from my hands.  It is the last time for a week that our bodies will connect.

There is a point in the life of every lamb on the farm when the mother begins to wean it, kicking it away every time it tries to suckle.  The lamb is persistent, rushing back at the ewe as she grazes, sneaking up behind her, and diving in toward her udder.  The ewe sometimes surrenders and allows the nursing.  But eventually, she is firm and butts it away once more.

On this morning, I feel like a mother ewe, preparing to kick away my lamb.  Later that afternoon, we are sending Saoirse away to a week of summer camp.

She never pointedly asked to go.  This was all my idea.  She is nearly twelve, and for the past year, I’ve observed that, with the dearth of peers high on this mountain, I play the part of her confidant, her teacher, her mother, and increasingly, her best friend.  And the more roles I have had to fill with my child, the more smothered I have felt, longing for some distance, longing to offer my husband a fraction of the attention that my children command, longing to lavish some of that attention on myself in solitude.  And that builds resentment.  And the more the resentment grows inside of me, the more Saoirse clings to me, desperate for my affection.  It has become, in my mind, a version of the Stockholm syndrome for homeschoolers.  I have chosen a life that is more isolating than typical families.  I am with my children nearly 24 hours each day.  But rather than longing for space away from me, Saoirse has become increasingly dependent on my presence.

What frightens me most about this phenomenon is that she has become a mini-me (although not truly, since she is now my height).  She pursues my hobbies, dreams my dreams, and most disturbingly, espouses my opinions.  Instead of knowing my child intimately, I have begun to wonder if I’ve failed to let both of us get to know her.

I’ve talked to her about the importance of taking risks in life.  I’ve talked to her about the joy of being with kids her age.  Bob and I scrounged around and pulled together the money for the only camp that seemed to grab her imagination and put a spark in her eyes – Hawk Circle, a wilderness camp less than an hour away.  While she did say she wanted this adventure, it is probably my valuing the experience that has driven her, more than her own choice.  And on this morning, she does not want to leave.

After combing out and trimming her hair, I part it evenly, then slowly begin to twist it into two French braids.  As I do, I am taking in her scent, as well as creating a tactile memory of her fine strands of blonde as they catch around my fingers.  I want this to be perfect for her.  I pull the braids out several times and start over.  She doesn’t complain.

I have sausages smoking on the grill, crispy potatoes in the oven, a giant bowl of cucumber salad in the fridge.  I finish her hair, and we move as though in a dream to the table where all four of us join for one last meal together.

Then Grammie and Pop Pop pull in, and we caravan over to the camp.  I carry forward with my characteristic bold facade, modeling for Saoirse assertive behavior for asking questions, finding what we need, introducing her to counselors and kids.  She stands by the group of children, holding my hand, horror in her eyes as she works up the courage to join a game of soccer.  “I need you for a few more minutes,” she tells me, her grip strong.  Rather than succombing, I pull away and walk up to a counselor.  “Excuse me,” I say loudly.  “I’d like to introduce you to my daughter, because maybe you could help her meet a few of these kids.”  He comes over to talk to Saoirse, and I put a quick kiss on her cheek, then we all disappear before Saoirse realizes we’re gone.

And then, as we’re rolling down the dirt road, pulling away from my daughter, I finally feel it.  A piece of my soul has been ripped from my body.  I begin to shake.  The tears stream down my face.  It takes every bit of my strength to keep rolling forward, and not turn back and reclaim her in my arms.  We stop to pick up some groceries, and Bob wrests the keys from my hands, most likely fearful that I’m in no condition to drive.  I try to sleep in the car on the way home, but every slip into slumber dredges up nightmares of all the things that could happen to my child while I am away from her.

But that’s not the worst part.  That happens when we return home.  I walk in the door, and her absence slams into my body like an oncoming truck.  I hate myself for doing this to her.  Ignoring Ula and Bob, I throw myself into doing paperwork, then stacking firewood, anything to distract myself from the pain.

As I carry logs into the woodshed, I remind myself that I’ve chosen this path because I think this is best for her.  I want her to have a chance to find herself away from my domineering shadow.  I don’t want to see only myself in my child.  I want to start to learn who she is.  I’ve taught her my morals, my values, my cooking, my thinking.  But there is more to her.  And I want to know it.  But if I don’t play the part of the ewe and kick her away, I fear I’ll never meet the person who fills my days so fully.  Keeping this in mind, I begin counting the hours until I can bring her back home.

Later that evening, Mom calls.  She wants to know what time we can all drive over to pick Saoirse up on Sunday.  “No,” I tell her.  “We’re not all going.  I’m going alone.”  Bob will cover the market.  Ula will stay at the farm.  Mom is offended, but I refuse to budge.  But when I drive over to pick Saoirse up on Saturday, I want to be alone with my daughter.  I want to take her out to lunch, to sit beside her, and hear the first hatchings of her thoughts, her opinions, her stories, without the interruptions of family chaos, without the imposition of my opinions.  I want just a few quiet moments to finally, after 12 years of constant companionship, meet my daughter for the first time.