**October 2012 Focus - Focus Magazine

By the time this issue of
Focus is out I’ll be
counting down the last
two weeks of our eldest
daughter’s year-long adventure
in Southeast Asia (The emphasis
is mine: Who knew that time
could be such a trickster, crawling
through the endless hours of a
loved one’s absence while flying
through life’s usual rigours at
the same time?)
Parenting is such a paradox,
an intense, decades-long process
of both holding on and letting
go. From the start you are the
pillar, the clichéd candle in the
window, but also the one subtly
encouraging independence at
every turn. You watch approvingly
for signs of self-reliance
but are nonetheless rattled when
they tell you to back off so they
can do it their own way. It gets
more challenging during the
teen parade, when you find
yourself needed in two places
at once—up front providing
support and guidance, and at the rear with the proverbial dustpan,
sweeping up the inevitable emotional fallout.
In the end most children grow up to become thoughtful, capable
adults who rightly insist on seeing the world through their own eyes.
For my daughter, that meant stepping out of a well-established comfort
zone to experience life in a completely different setting. Fortunately,
she would be going with her boyfriend, and after months of meticulous
planning they left for the Philippines just after Thanksgiving.
“I shall not worry, I shall not dwell on catastrophe,” I vowed to
myself, even though worry has been a long-time companion,
having wormed its way into my bones at an early age when I lost two
young siblings to a rare cancer, and again in my early 20s when a
farming accident claimed my beloved older brother. Anxiety rises
easily in my throat when the emails dry up and I’m faced with a
raw awareness that I wouldn’t know where to begin searching for my
daughter if she really did vanish.
There were other worries too. One morning she phoned us before
sunrise from a remote Filipino island on a borrowed cell phone, in
pain and fearing that a bladder infection had worked its way into her
kidneys. “There’s no clinic here, no power, and the ferry isn’t coming
for another three days,” she said, her voice betraying a rising panic.
Fortunately we were able to rouse a physician friend on another phone
and he, by talking to her through us, confirmed the infection and
The paradox of parenting
TRUDY DUIVENVOORDEN MITIC
Both mother and daughter survived the trip.
finding balance
prescribed exactly the broadbase
antibiotic she happened
to be carrying in her medical
kit. She emailed hours later
to say that she was feeling
much better; by then my own
nerves had pretty much calmed
down as well.
They spent Christmas in
Singapore and in January arrived
in Cambodia where she spotted
a job in her own profession and
landed it, “just for the experience.”
They settled into a
Spartan apartment and plunged
wholeheartedly into total cultural
immersion. They travelled on
the weekends and made many
friends. They also shrugged off
the odd intestinal ailment and
hair-raising experience—what
I know about these is probably
the censored version.
Throughout their travels,
the photos and insightful
writing have reflected their
happiness and heightened
sense of humility and selflessness.
But lately trepidation has also crept in, about coming home and
dreading the anticipated struggle to find a revised niche in an old
landscape. I’m not surprised. I know she’s looking forward to
apple cider, knit sweaters, autumn colours, organic produce, clean
air, clean streets, her piano and her bike. But I also know she’ll
have trouble with the way we carelessly take our largesse for granted,
something that didn’t sit well with her even before she left.
For me it’s very straightforward: I’ve missed her more than I could
have imagined—the whole family has. I’m proud of her and can’t
wait to see her again.
I know the tectonics of my parenting role are about to shift again
to reflect our evolving history and story. Now she’ll be the sage, brimming
with new wisdom, and I’ll be the student, eager to learn every
lesson she offers. Still, my candle of support will remain on the window
sill. I expect she’ll be happy to see it there.
Writer Trudy Duivenvoorden Mitic would like (with
tongue in cheek) to assure all of her daughter's friends
that she’ll eventually get around to sharing her.
46 October 2012 • FOCUS
ILLUSTRATION: APRIL CAVERHILL