The Best Kept Secret Blog - Our Children's Lives

I always feel slightly in the dark when I hear my mid-life friends discuss their mothers.

Having lost my own mother when I was young, I never quite get the nuances of the mature mother-daughter relationship. In fact, to my untrained ear, I could swear that many of my friends dis their mothers from time to time.

Oh they love their moms and would do anything for them. But more than once over coffee with a group, I hear one friend or another offer up a laundry list of what's wrong with her mother. "She always criticizes the way I cook/keep house/care for my kids. She just doesn't get it."

For a long time I felt like I was the one who didn't get it. These women were lucky to have a mom in the first place. And from where I stood, knowing some of these mothers myself, these daughters didn't seem to have it so bad. I just didn't understand where the friction was coming from.

Until baseball day.

I feel like I was given a rare glimpse into the mother-daughter relationship this week as I cheered my daughter and her baseball team on at their final tournament.

Now you should be aware that my daughter is the first person in our family to make it on a team of any sort.

When I was in high school, I hated gym class and dreaded any kind of team sport that I might have to play. When teams were picked for baseball, I was always chosen last, always placed far out in the field where the chances were slim to none of a ball reaching me and, on the rare occasion it did head my way, I'd pray with all my heart that some other, more competitive girl would save the day.

If that white knight failed to appear, I would make an effort to retrieve the ball and throw it to someone - anyone. Usually, it would fall a few feet away from me and, being the closest still, I would run, pick it up, and repeat the process two or three times until someone took pity on me.

So there I was, watching my daughter and reliving every single horrible minute of my own experience.

My daughter played pitcher. Every time she struck someone out, I was elated. Every time someone walked or got a hit, I got worried. Her coach didn't seem worried but I sure was.

I started giving her a little advice. "Focus, honey. Focus."

I began scanning the faces of her teammates. Were they getting mad? Were they going to shun her back at school?

I started suspecting the umpire worked for the other side. This was a conspiracy.

I became so worked up that it was all I could do to keep myself from calling a time out, walking on to the field and trying to give her an impromptu lesson. Given my status as mom/fan, I restrained myself.

As I continued to project my own experiences onto my daughter, I had a revelation. This was her life, not mine. I shouldn't be living it for her. She was actually having a good time. Her coach and teammates were happy. This was her experience and it was different from mine.

And that's when I thought about my friends and their moms. Could it be that some of the hostility comes from their mothers projecting themselves into their daughter's lives? Do all mothers forget that their daughter's experiences are not their own?

I'm not sure if I've struck it or not but just in case, I'm practicing now by letting my daughter play baseball her way so one day I'll be able to let her be a grown on her own terms.