Girl Among Women

I can't say I've been terribly surprised these past few months at the way my daughter has started to cling to me, tears rolling down her cheeks, when it's time for me to go.

She's never been the clingy type. She didn't cling to me when she was a baby or a toddler, or even during those first tentative days of preschool. When it came time to ride the school bus, she was downright stoic - unlike me, the blubbering bystander with the twitchy lips and wet eyes. For years my daughter has negotiated daily bus stop farewells and weekends with grandparents with grace and aplomb. She's gone to play dates and sleepover parties, and not batted an eyelash at all of my comings and goings...until now.

The tears don't start when I think they will, at times when I'm feeling most conflicted about leaving - like when I'm heading off to work, knowing I won't be home until around dinner time. What's interesting and just a little bit curious is the way my daughter crumbles at the very moment I slip into my tennis skirt - not for a casual game but when she knows I'll be with my tennis team, the fierce and fantastic group of women I see each week.

And you know what? I can't blame her one bit. I'd be crying too if I were denied the privilege of being amongst these women.

I know, and I'm fairly certain my daughter knows too, that I am better in every way from being around them. And when she's around me in the company of these women, as silent witness to an incredible dynamic fueled by competition, friendship, and mutual respect, she becomes better too.

It's a magical thing.

That's why I acquiesce to her tears and gently pry her arms from my waist, telling her it's OK. She can come. Come watch us play. Come celebrate our victories and mourn our losses. Come be a part of this team. This experience.

Without fail, she jumps at the opportunity. She watches us battle ourselves and our opponents, and she absorbs all of our on and off court antics - especially her mother's - without comment, but for the occasional hint of a smile.

I tell her that although she's not a registered USTA player, there's no doubt she's a member of this team. My team.

And although she doesn't reply, I know she gets it. And we're both better for it.