My teenage daughter has her own bubble. I am not sure when this happened, I am not sure how it happened, but her bubble is clear, delicate and yet strong, and not mine anymore. I first became aware of her bubble on her fifteenth birthday, of course, it could have happened earlier but I first noticed it then.

 

Peculiar as this may sound, I have loved and enjoyed having my children’s birthday parties at our home. We did do the farm out job once, when my second child was born and I couldn’t have planned making a cup of tea let alone a party for four-year-olds, but it didn’t feel right. We have a great format—invite only a few children, definitely no parents, and the normal party run down: food, games, and rituals.

 

As my daughters have grown older, we have easily switched from the younger child’s party mode to a music and film quiz night kind of thing. However, for my eldest’s fifteenth  birthday, none of these were going to work and she suggested a sleepover for a few friends. Great, I thought, I can cope with four extra teenage girls for the night. We decided that for dinner they would make pizzas from scratch and then watch DVDs in the lounge room that we would set-up with mattresses on the floor, like a huge bed.

 

On the night, the pizza making went well and my younger daughter and I made sure they had everything they needed before we went into my bedroom to give them some space. When you live in a small house, and you give over the kitchen and lounge room to your teenager, your bedroom is the only place to retreat to. We took my laptop into my room to watch a DVD in bed. All set up with snacks, the dog, and a kid’s film, I went to shut my bedroom door and looked down the corridor towards the dinner table in the kitchen and there it was—my daughter’s bubble. Maybe it was the distance, maybe it was the time, but as I watched these five teenage girls chatting, laughing, and squealing as they told their stories, plans and dreams to each other, I could feel something that wasn’t visible to the eye.

 

What is this bubble? It is definitely a space that I cannot enter. This used to be a place that I shared with my daughter but now she has her very own bubble. She can come into mine, but I cannot enter hers, I am not privy to this anymore. I stood in the doorway and felt privileged to be able to see these girls, who are not yet women, hold their space. As a parent the line between giving space, and letting go too early, is a thin one because sometimes the bubble is difficult to see. Should I suggest; should I let her work it out; where is the edge? It’s always changing as the bubble moves depending on the day, situation, and mood.

 

My youngest daughter still shares my bubble and she is able to enter her sister’s, but not me.I have to wait for her to come into my space. I know that this is the way it is meant to be, but sometimes, just sometimes, I want to see the view from inside that bubble. What will happen when my youngest daughter moulds her own—maybe this is the gentle push for me to get ready for my own bubble again?

 

Taken from Autumn 2010 issue