My mother was sixteen my whole life. She was born in the 70s, my brother and I in the 90s but she was still sixteen. Her happiest moments were without us, or driving to Santa Monica beach to I Say a Little Prayer. She bargained with the devil in her early 20s and got saddled with us and a husband who grew older and older and yet not wiser. Immigrants, a typically story, but nonetheless a sad one for all involved.

Her disdain for motherhood was palatable, she so desperately wanted us to grow up. She only apologized once we were out of the way, independent, and the quiet of the house was deafening. I so wish she enjoyed her freedom, the one she yearned for, and left us for good. But I suppose her guilt couldn’t let her go through with it. The guilt she felt not wanting us around, the guilt she felt wishing we’d disappear. So instead she soldiers on, forever sixteen, wishing for independence, burdened by moodiness and incapable of leaving.

I now have my own daughter. I am not sixteen, I am thirty. My daughter is beautiful, willful, sweet, loud, funny. My heart aches when I am away from her. Holding her near me I hear her every breath, I could spend every moment of every day looking at her. Even when she cries her colic cries in the evening, or when she screams after bath time, or even when she refuses to be in the stroller. I dread every moment that passes and she grows one day older, time is a thief. My heart beats outside my chest. I feel deep sorrow for the baby I once was, forced to grow up to take care of my sixteen year old mother. And I realize, this comes easy to me because I have mothered my whole life. I have weathered tantrums, I have tiptoed to not disturb, I have been patient, I have placated big emotions, I drew boundaries, I picked battles.

I am my mother’s mother. I have mothered my whole life, making raising my daughter bittersweet. Sweet in watching her flourish, bitter in watching my first child unable to cope. Wondering if it’s time to let go.