By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

I was ten, and the weather was cold. I know it was cold because the lie I told my mom had to do with a pair of gloves.

A girl from my class, Jacklyn, had come to my house for the afternoon. Jacklyn and I were friends but not close friends mostly because I was a little bit terrified of her. Fiercely independent and sure of herself, she took charge of our playdates (of which I think there were only two), and I pretty much just let her lead the way.

On this particular day, she somehow managed to get a boy from our class—the very boy I had a crush on—to ride his bike to my house.

Except he wouldn’t ride all the way to my yard. Instead, he parked his bike at the top of a hill—a block north of my house—and because I wouldn’t run up the hill with her to talk to him, Jacklyn kept going back and forth, relaying messages between us. At some point in all this, my mom stuck her head out our back door and asked what was going on.

The thought of my mom knowing there was a boy at the top of the hill or, worse, knowing I liked the boy at the top of the hill horrified me. I didn’t want the attention; I didn’t want to deal with the follow-up questions. To put it plainly: I was embarrassed. So, I lied. I told my mom Jacklyn dropped a glove at the top of the hill and had gone back to grab it.

After another back-and-forth, my mom poked her head outside again and asked why Jacklyn was still going up the hill.

“Oh, she dropped her glove again,” I said with an air of what I’m sure came off as panic.

My mom remembers this story with amusement. What I didn’t realize at the time was that she had seen the boy—of course she had. When she saw Jacklyn run up the hill, she went upstairs to look out her bedroom window and saw the whole scene play out as clearly as I did from the side yard. For her, though, it’s a funny blip on a timeline full of memories. The afternoon itself is easily forgettable.

I, on the other hand, have thought about this afternoon many times since it happened. For some reason, it stands out in my mind—innocuous as the whole scene was. And the way I think about it mostly is from my mom’s perspective. I wonder if that small lie stung her in the moment. I ask myself how I would respond in a similar situation. I consider how I might handle the fact that, someday, my own kids might feel weird talking to me about certain things.

My oldest daughter is now the same age I was when this story took place. She has an exterior life that is separate from me. She has conversations with friends and teachers of which I will never hear or know about. She is cultivating memories that are outside of my reach. Someday, I imagine, she’ll stand at the base of a hill and look up toward something she isn’t quite sure how to talk to me about, and I wonder: What’s my move here? I want to know about and talk to her about everything, but this fragmented memory from my childhood—a quick peek inside my own psyche—tells me that I just can’t know all the things.

Another memory rises to the surface: I was seventeen this time, and it was New Year’s Eve. I was spending the holiday with a big, co-ed group of friends, and the mom of the house hung with a smaller group of us girls for a bit, talking to us and asking us questions. At one point, she turned her attention to me and asked me pointed questions about my boyfriend at the time. I answered her honestly—easily. It occurred to me later that my mom might have put her up to this—that she was a kindhearted spy on my mom’s behalf.

It occurs to me now that maybe my mom understood something that I am only now beginning to understand: It isn’t just up to me. As a mom, I was never meant to be the only person for my kids.

That New Year’s Eve stands out in my memory, but there are also lunches with women from my church and sports practices with coaches I loved and respected. There are more conversations with my friends’ moms and also their older sisters and, even on some occasions, their grandmas. Growing up, I had so many women in my corner. I never doubted how loved and supported I was.

The other day, my sister-in-law—who happens to be younger and cooler and more fun than me—texted to see if my daughter wanted to come hang out with her for the afternoon at a park and a coffee shop.

It was an easy yes.

There was also the time my mother-in-law asked if my girls wanted to come spend the night at her house, so they could bake together and watch a movie. Or the time a wonderful mom from school asked if I wanted to set up a weekly basketball practice carpool with their family. Or the repeated times my girls ask to FaceTime my mom on our new house phone.

All small touchpoints. All easy yeses.

There’s no secret to perfect communication. Of course there isn’t. There is gentleness and humility and honesty, sure—the kind of qualities which cultivate meaningful conversations.

And there’s also something to be said for just showing up every day, like my mom did in so many other stories I don’t have time to write about here.

But also? What a relief to know that it isn’t just up to me. What a relief to know that all the other people in my kids’ lives who love them fiercely and deeply will be there for them too. My eyes aren’t the only eyes on them. We have kindhearted spies on our behalf too.

I can’t predict what kinds of hills my kids will face throughout their lives. I know there will be many, but I know something else too: they’ll never be alone on any of them.

Molly Flinkman is a freelance writer from central Iowa where she lives with her husband, Jake, and their four kids. A lover of houseplants, good books, and (in a surprising turn of events) bright colors, she loves to write about how her faith intersects the very ordinary aspects of her life and hopes her words will encourage and support other women along the way. You can connect with Molly on Instagram, through her monthly newsletter, Twenty Somethings, or on her Substack, Common Stories.

Photo by Jennifer Floyd.