Daughters

As I rose at my regular 4 a.m. hour (it was actually more like 3:40 🙄), in the bathroom mirror I caught a glimpse of myself. My hair has gotten longer—like my adult daughter’s hair. Last night, before bed, in front of this same mirror, I was able to put my hair up high in a messy bun, the way she’s done with her hair forever.

Her beautiful blonde hair, with natural lowlights, has not been short since the fifth or sixth grade (which was also just as beautiful on her). So she knows all too well how to manage nighttime hair.

I was so glad to be able to put all of mine up in a messy bun, too, so it’s not all over the place while sleeping.

I thought about my Mary—how she is more like her father. But then I take that back, remembering that doesn’t quite land right. What’s right is that she is more like her father’s mother, her grandmother.

We sadly have no photos of her. And she died before Mary could really get to know her.

Her grandmother’s name was Mary, too. My Mary was named after both of her grandmothers. The second half to her name, Clare, was painstakingly decided. The first part was easy. Clare is just so pretty to me. Since I am mostly Irish, I wanted her to have the Irish spelling. Supposedly, my ancestors are from County Clare, Ireland.

Her middle name was after my father’s mother’s maiden name—Farren.

I know, right? Beautiful name.

Mary Clare Farren.

From the moment she was born, the reality of the rest of her life landed. The nurse writing down her name in her records said, “Mary Clare… is that with an I?”

“No.”

“Is it with a hyphen?”

“No.”

“Is this her middle name?”

“No.”

“Oh lord,” I thought. “What have we done to this poor child?”

And I thought her name was so simple.

Uncomplicated, without hyphens and extra letters. Growing up Catholic, I heard plenty of Katherines Mary’s and Mary Margarets. Why should Mary Clare be so difficult?

When she entered a new school in first grade, one of the little boys in her class thought Clare was her last name. He would call her Mary Clara. It was so cute, I never corrected him.

Not long after, Mary quietly withdrew the Clare half of her name and has been Mary ever since.

Much like her grandmother, who was also quiet in nature.

Quiet in a way that was not like me.

They were/are both avid readers—more than I will ever be.

Tall. Pretty.

Even though I liked my mother-in-law, we never really clicked. I think we both wanted to. But we just weren’t cut from the same cloth in a way that clashed.

She had one brother. I have four, and a sister—and we were all a bit loud. I got the sense her family life was more refined. Quieter.

I admired that about her. I tried to be more quiet and thoughtful in her presence, instead of letting my hair down and just being myself.

Having children helped our relationship. We finally had something to stand on that wasn’t just the space between us.

I never knew if her awkwardness around me came from feeling a kind of inferiority—as I felt with her—or if she simply didn’t care for my presence, even softened as it was. I always had the sense she wished her son had married the girlfriend before me—the one she got along with. The one closer to his age. I was twelve years younger, and I felt it every time I was around her—young, and not quite enough.

But when I became a mother, something shifted. We met there, on more even ground.

I was a natural at motherhood. In that, if I didn’t know something, I didn’t feel inadequate like I may have in other roles—as a student, a daughter, a younger sibling who should know more than I did.

I was born to be a mother. I always wanted six children, just like in the family I grew up in. I always had many stuffed animals growing up, who were my babies.

One snapshot of my mother-in-law sitting on our couch, holding brand-new baby Mary—named after her—I could see our difference right there.

Her awkwardness. My ease.

For once, I could see where I was at home being a mom, and she was, for whatever reason, looking out of place holding her. Not natural.

My daughter, Mary, would not agree with me that I was a natural mother. We butted heads from the time she could make her feelings known. I remember holding her on my hip while multitasking—serving dinner and helping her older brother scoot in his chair at the table. She wailed out a rebellious whine that clearly said, to my mother-superior attitude, “I’m not Alex!”

Alex, to me, was the easiest baby. I don’t remember him ever whining (I hear my siblings laughing under their breath) or rebelling. Our days were soft and sweet and bathed in golden light. He was the golden boy who could do no wrong.

That moment is sealed into my memory—Mary teaching me to wake up and see her as her own person.

She wanted what she wanted and would not take my word for most anything.

Looking back, I think what she rebelled against the most was the hectic life I led, managing two children mostly alone.

While I thought my lifestyle offered fun, I can see how that kind of life might have felt to her—fast, full, and not always leaving room to be heard.

Maybe that is what daughters do.

They arrive carrying names, faces, temperaments—histories we only partly understand.

And then, little by little, they hand themselves back to us—not as extensions, not as echoes, but as their own whole selves.

Daughters teach us, again and again, that they were never ours to define.

Only ours to love.