Walking Lessons

My favorite day this year with Hadley went like this:

She had an evening swim practice at the same time Harper had her last baseball game. I went to the swim practice, and Jesse went to the baseball game. We would meet up later at Dairy Queen to celebrate Harper’s teams’ season with ice-cream cones and Blizzards.

Hadley ran ahead to the pool, while I helped Harper get her gear on. When I arrived, I saw that Hadley had thrown her towel and swim bag on the lawn chair I’d been using since summer began. She knew I liked to write while she and Harper swam, and that summer, this chair is where I got a lot of it done (I know, rough life writing poolside).

I sat down and pulled out my notebook, and noticed a group of ladies sitting at a picnic table nearby. I’d spent the last several weeks getting to know them. They were friendly and funny, and I enjoyed their company. I should go over there and say hi, I thought, and immediately the thought sunk to my stomach. I was afraid. This making friends business is so hard. I’d say it’s because I’m in my 40s, but I don’t know if I ever really learned how to do it.

Plus, this year has been a bear of a year. A move, a job that’s scarred me more than I can articulate, a new church, another job, worrying about my kids fitting in and making friends – I was trying so hard. I was exhausted.

But I went over there. I had shaky legs, but I did it. I sat in the sun with what I hoped where new friends, and we chatted and laughed and it felt great.

When practice was over, I watched Hadley walk over to where she’d put her towel, and I smiled at her confusion that it wasn’t there. She looked around and found me, and seeing me, I saw her grin. I’d surprised her. There are few things better than breaking from the identity of who your kid thinks you are. There are few things better than showing them, “I can still learn. I can still change.”

So we walked home, and it was a nice night, and Hadley said, “We should ride bikes to Dairy Queen.”

I inhaled sharply enough that Hadley said, “Or, maybe not. I mean, only if you want to.”

I did want to, it’s just that this wasn’t in the plan for the evening. I don’t like when plans change. It’s hard on me. I’m probably an anxious person. I probably see the world in darker blues and greens than I care to admit. I don’t want to be this way, and I have a daughter who is not at all this way, and on that summer day when the sky was clear, and daylight lasted until well past 9 o’clock, she wanted to go on a bike ride to get ice-cream, and she wanted to go with me.

“I want to go,” I told Hadley as we walked. “A bike ride sounds perfect. Let me just drop this stuff off and we can head over there.”

Hadley grinned again. Surprise, sweet girl. Don’t give up on me. Don’t ever decide you think you know who I am, or who I can become. I’m not done defining myself. I’m not done changing.

On the bike ride, Hadley told me about an episode of a podcast she was listening to about the way we walk. “We all walk the wrong way,” she said as we pedaled down Eisenhower towards Packard. She explained how we are supposed to walk, where our weight is supposed to shift and how we are to push off from foot to foot. “The same thing is true when we bike,” she told me.

I tried it while I pedaled. “This is really hard,” I complained. “I can’t do it.”

Hadley stopped, put her foot on the ground and turned toward me, one arm raised and a finger in the air like the Statue of Liberty.

“Mama, it’s not hard,” she said. “It’s just different.” And with that, she was off. I could hear her whistling as she rode down the street.

Dear Hadley, you are eleven years old today. Eleven years since we first looked at each other, and I swear you thought, “So what are you going to do with me now that I’m here?” Eleven years since your daddy first said, “It’s OK, Hadley Grace, I am here,” and at the sound of your name, you stopped crying. Eleven years of teaching me that walking around in the world isn’t hard. It’s just different. May you always surprise yourself. May you always find surprises in others. May you never give up on yourself. May you never give up on others. Remember we are all in one way or another, learning to walk anew.

I love you, sweet girl. Happy Birthday.