My Christmas trees have never been fancy, with perfectly matching ornaments and set color schemes. Instead they are decorated head to toe with ornaments that carry special meaning. Mini photo ornaments of loved ones no longer with us. Ornaments specially ordered and engraved with phrases such as “baby’s first Christmas” or “daughters are special.” The same angel sits atop the tree that has been there since my childhood.

Other than putting up a tree, I never bother putting up too many other decorations. But there is one that holds a special place in my heart.

When I was a child, my mother was part of a neighborhood sewing circle. She and the other women made advent calendars with individually stitched ornaments that you put on each day of December. On Dec. 25, you put on the final ornament, which of course, is Santa.

Growing up, my brother and I took turns every day in December putting on the ornaments. We would switch the order every year so that we could take turns putting on Santa. That advent calendar came out every Christmas without fail. And other than a few sewing touch ups here and there, it stayed in perfect condition, because my mother would pack it away so carefully every year.

Time marched on and I eventually moved out on my own. But my mother kept the tradition alive, first with her and my brother taking turns putting on the ornaments, and then her alone after my brother passed away after a long illness.

When I had my own little girl, my mother offered me the advent calendar, but I wanted to wait until she was old enough to appreciate it (and also not destroy it during her terrible twos).

Then just a few short years later my mother unexpectedly passed away when my daughter was 7. As I was cleaning out her apartment, I came across her overflowing boxes of Christmas ornaments – and our beloved advent calendar, still packed away in the same box it always had been.

Now every December, my daughter continues my childhood ritual of putting on the advent calendar ornaments. And this special connection from my childhood to hers brings me more joy than any fancy ornaments and perfect decorations ever could.

My daughter and I went swimming today. A hobby that has always bonded the two of us, our shared love of water has been a constant since she was a toddler. But not so much lately.

My daughter just started middle school, and although she seems to like it, she comes home every day completely worn out. All she wants to do after hours is watch videos on her phone and play on her backyard trampoline. Swimming with me? Not so much.

And it’s not just swimming. Lately, our mother/daughter shopping trips and Dairy Queen visits have turned into solo runs. She is too tired, she says. “Can you go by yourself, Mom?” I always have to stifle a giggle, because how on earth can an 11-year-old be so tired? Wait until you’re my age, I say to myself silently. Then you will understand what real fatigue is. 

Sometimes she asks me or my husband to leave the room because she wants some “alone time.” Other times, she says she only wants Daddy to watch her on the trampoline, not me.

But then she will surprise me by asking for a mother/daughter “sleepover,” which baffles me because she was never the kid who asked to sleep in our bed. Or she will get a bit jealous if I make plans with a friend that don’t include her. 

Alas, the pre-teen years have begun. This wondrous game of push/pull she plays with us now. Tiptoeing around her, never quite knowing if she needs us close by, or wants more space.

It is new and puzzling, and her wants and needs seem to change daily. I am constantly on standby, never quite knowing if I will be needed or not at any given moment. 

So I sit. And wait. And watch for signs. And I tell myself not to take any of it personally, because it is not about me. It is NEVER about me. It is about patiently guiding my daughter through this confusing time in her life, but also stepping aside when she needs me to. 

I miss the little girl who always wanted to hold my hand crossing the street. But I am happy that she is confident enough now to cross that street on her own. 

But I still can’t stop myself from reminding her to look both ways before crossing. I am still her mother after all. It is what we do. 

Motherhood has healed me in ways I never thought possible. It wasn’t until I lost my own mother that I realized how profound an effect it has had on my life.

When my daughter reached the pre-teen era and started pushing me away, craving independence, I gave her space, without question.

When she sometimes hurt my feelings unintentionally, just because she needed to express her true feelings, I let her speak.

When she wanted to spend less time with me in favour of other hobbies or friends, I encouraged and supported her.

Yet after my Mum passed away, all I could feel was guilt. Guilt for all the times I was short with her. Guilt for the times I chose to spend doing other things rather than spending time with her. Guilt for basically every single thing I ever did that hurt her feelings.

But then the magic that is motherhood came to save me. One day as my daughter was pushing me away trying to assert her independence, I stopped and smiled. In that instant I felt myself slipping into my Mum’s shoes and looking at me, her daughter, with pride, not hurt. Pride that she had raised her girl to feel free to express herself and do what was in her own best interest.

Any of the guilt I ever felt about my Mum vanished in that moment. Because I finally understood the magic of motherhood – by becoming a mother yourself, you will inevitably get to replay your own childhood all over again and in essence become your own mother.

And now when my daughter has one of her moments, I just think of my Mum. And I smile.