By Ellen Grzymkowski
@ellengrimmey

It’s a Monday night following a very Monday-ey Monday. I stand by my 6-year-old daughter’s dresser, putting away laundry, and she sits cross-legged on her bed. Only a few feet separate us. I am desperate to rush through bedtime. After a long day of teaching high school students, I just want to collapse on the couch beside my husband, so I can watch mind-numbing television before my tired eyes yield to sleep. 

“Moooom?” Em says. 

Her tone—the drawn out “o’s”— typically indicate a request. My back stiffens. Then I realize that her volume is quieter, sheepish. She’s worked up the nerve to ask for me. It is very unlike Em. 

“Yeah, bud?” I answer, then turn to her with a reassuring smile. I am here. 

She smiles back. “Can I—” she hesitates, then continues, “Can I read you a sentence from my diary?”

“Of course,” I say.

The world—my world, which is often a blur of hurried tasks and to-do’s—suddenly halts. This is a moment that requires pause. It is a Big Moment, one that has been in the works since my teenage years when I developed my love language for others: words of affirmation. Since then, I have been the voice of reason. The giver of sage advice. The neutral friend, able to see things from multiple perspectives and deliver quality, unbiased words of wisdom. In short, I pride myself on being a girl talk expert.

During the early years of motherhood, though, I struggled to share this gift. Most days were clouded with a thick fog of sleep deprivation and anxiety. I could barely support myself, never mind others. I felt like an imposter. The girl talk expert suddenly had her very own girl, but I couldn’t quite figure out how to actually talk to her.

Yet life kept going. Em, my firstborn April Fool’s baby, grew physically, mentally, and emotionally. Her vibrant personality continues to blossom into a concoction of empathy, energy, humor, and curiosity. And now I have the opportunity to reclaim my long lost gift and share it with her.

I can’t mess up this Big Moment.

Em’s olive-green eyes widen as they look up at me, then gradually squint. A smile spreads across her face once more. She raises her shoulders to meet her ears and takes a deep breath. I am reminded of all the times I held her as a baby, mesmerized by those same wide eyes. 

Em interrupts my thoughts. “Are you ready?”

“Always!” I respond with a healthy balance of hesitation and anticipation. 

Em touches the front cover of her diary, first rubbing the orange velvet lining, then tugging the white ears that stick out at the top. Its cover is a corgi, like our own dog. She opens it to the first page. There is a single sentence written, and when she notices me glancing over at it, she pulls the journal to her chest, enveloping it with her arms. She is the keeper of secrets, and thus she must be the one to divulge them.

“Sorry, sorry!” I say, smiling as I throw my hands in the air in surrender.

She takes a deep breath and then begins to read. “I like …”

As she speaks, I work to memorize the little details. The tilt of her head as she gazes down at her diary, unable to make eye contact with me. The manner in which she swipes staticky strands of wavy, golden hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ears. The sound of her quiet yet confident voice as she confesses that she has her first crush.

Em looks up at me. “Am I too young to have a crush?” she asks.

What follows is our very first Girl Talk. I confess that I also developed my first crush at the ripe age of six and ask Em how she knows she has a crush (her heart beats faster whenever she seems him). We gush and giggle over the details, comparing and contrasting (mine was older with darker features, and unaware that I was alive; hers is age-appropriate with lighter features, and is a good friend). She asks how many crushes I’ve had in my lifetime (too many), and wonders if she’ll have as many (it’s likely).

When Em finally lays down so I can tuck her in, she asks me to join her for a few moments. I oblige, pulling the covers over our shoulders. 

“Thanks for talking tonight, Mom. I know you’re tired, but I also really wanted to tell you,” she whispers.

“I will always make time for girl talk. So, why did you tell me?” I ask.

She pauses for a moment. “Because you're my mom.” 

I blink back tears that suddenly pool in the corners of my tired eyes. I also have my own secrets: I have never been a baby person, or a toddler person, or even a kindergarten person. Yet an innate part of me knew I would be a kid person—that I’d find my niche as a kid-mom when I could connect through words. Kids can rationalize (to a degree). They are developing logic. They live in this magical, in-between space—not quite so little yet not quite so independent—where they still happily let us into their lives.

When Em was a baby, this moment felt unattainable. We spent long nights awake together, her wide eyes staring into mine in silence. Eventually, we filled our days with babbles and baby talk, until Em finally said her first word (dada…of course). Since then, we have exchanged infinite words—some kind and loving, others silly and humorous. There have also been honest, reprimanding, and harsh words. Yet these new words mean the most. They start a new chapter in our story as mother and daughter.

Em is no longer physically my baby. That is a bittersweet fact. But she remains the child who made me a mother, the one who redefined my life. I struggled for years to find my footing in the land of motherhood, chalking it up to a resentment born from the realization that my life no longer revolved around just me.

Now I recognize the role I am meant to play. The identity I clung to had to evolve for this moment to arrive. In this new chapter, Em and I share the cyclical gift of womanhood. As young girls, we admire our mothers—emulating their every action and learning how to forge our own relationships—until we are ready to do so on our own.   

“Mom?” Em calls out for me one final time before I close her door for the night.

“Yes, love?”

“Can we have more girl talk tomorrow?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

Guest essay written by Ellen Grzymkowski. Ellen fell in love with the English language as a young girl when she immigrated from Brazil to the US with her family. She is now a high school English teacher (who enjoys “tricking” her students into having fun while learning) and an Instructional and Technology Specialist. She shares life’s adventures with her husband, two daughters, and  corgi in Northern New Jersey. Her favorite things include the unstructured calmness of the summer months; devouring books that captivate through powerful prose; and writing in the margins of life. A believer in extending grace, Ellen aspires to live according to her favorite quote: “And now that you don’t have to be perfect, you can be good” (Steinbeck). Find her on Instagram (she will gladly friend you).

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.