It’s Okay Not to Rush Your Children’s Independence

Relax; they’ll grow up soon enough

“I don’t want to do it by myself,” says my daughter, brow furrowed, as we stand in the drizzle at Chicago’s Navy Pier a few days before her sixth birthday.

It’s a simple thing — just a little amusement park ride. She is by far tall enough and old enough to ride alone. I tell her as much.

Also, I don’t like rides that spin around because they make my stomach swirl for hours afterward. I tell her this as well.

“But I want you to go with me,” she says, looking up at me. Brilliant blue eyes shine through long eyelashes.

I sigh. You should be able to do this stuff on your own.

It’s a thought I often have, and sometimes say aloud, when one of my children asks me to help her get dressed, or to give her a bath, or to snuggle her to sleep.

You’re old enough, I think. You shouldn’t need me to help you with these things anymore.

It’s a battle I’ve fought endlessly since becoming a mother.

I had unrealistic expectations from the beginning.

From the day I had my first daughter, the demands of parenting surprised me. As a baby, my daughter couldn’t ever be put down. Even as she grew bigger, she constantly wanted to be held, nursed, rocked. She needed to be close to me every minute of every day.

I fought it, hard.

It was exhausting — she was exhausting. The idea of sleeping when she slept, or of getting any time to myself while she played independently, proved laughable quite early on. I was entirely caught off-guard by the level of attention she required from me, even when she was unconscious.

Then I had another baby, and I found my plans further frustrated. I now knew not to expect much in the way of independence from my new child, but I continued wishing the older one would hurry it along.

“Just play quietly in your room while I get the baby down for a nap,” I’d say to her, as numerous parents more experienced than I had advised. She would not. “Just color for a bit while I make dinner,” I’d say. She would not. “Here, read some books on the couch so I can go to the bathroom,” I’d say. She would not. “Goodnight,” I’d say as I kissed her forehead. “Stay in bed and go to sleep.”

Still, she would not.

As I look back, I see I was trying to live in a world that didn’t yet exist. Despite what friends, family members and strangers would have me believe, my daughter wasn’t ready to do any of these things. And my need for her to be ready, as desperate as it felt at times, couldn’t make it so.

Independence doesn’t have an on/off switch.

Children are a curious species. They want to do all the things independently that they’re not quite mature or big enough to do, yet the most mundane and straightforward tasks require adult assistance. My six-year-old wants me to let her walk our energetic 45-lb dog, but half the time she refuses to use the toilet alone. My eight-year-old with zero sense of direction wants to walk over a mile to school, but half the time she won’t tie her own shoes.

Half the time, I find myself muttering protestations under my breath as I get snacks, or read greeting cards, or pick out clothes, or put away laundry, or do any number of things my children can do very capably on their own.

But then something dawns on me.

If my children are only asking for my help half the time — then the other half, they are doing these things for themselves.

It checks out: sometimes I will hear the toilet flush from the other room, or my girls will show up in the kitchen at 7:00 in the morning, fully clothed and wearing shoes that are (if crudely) tied. At times, they surprise me by getting themselves ready for bed, or by setting out what they need for a sports game the night before.

It would seem that, even as I fear they’ll never be independent, they’re well on their way to becoming just that.

Development is unpredictable.

I don’t know what I’m so afraid of. Perhaps the voices I’ve heard so often over the years have gotten to my head:

“She’ll never learn to walk if you carry her everywhere.”

“I can’t believe you’re still [nursing her; snuggling her to sleep; helping her get dressed]!”

“You’re spoiling her. She should be able to do that by herself.”

I’ve been doing this parenting thing for awhile, though, and I have learned, over and over again, that kids have their own timelines. Each kid develops at her own pace, with zero regard to our shoulds.

Independence, like any growth milestone, is not a binary process. Just because a child has done something once doesn’t mean that, starting now, she’ll be able to do it on her own forever. Thousands of factors play into whether or not a kid needs support, including how much sleep she got the night before, how much she likes the breakfast you chose for her this morning, and how lonely she was feeling when she woke up.

This last one is important. When my kid asks for my help, it’s usually not because she actually needs help with the thing. Instead, the request comes from a need to feel close to me. My daughter compels me to come to her because, while I’m busy doing a thousand other things, she’s forgotten for a moment that I’ll also be there for her, one-on-one, when she needs me.

I can fight it, citing the lunches that need to be packed, or the dinner that needs to be made, and listen to the whines and the wails, the cries and the complaints, and end up angry at both of us.

Or, I can submit. I can spend a moment with my child, face-to-face, tying shoes or pulling a dress over a head. I can finish with a smile, a hug, and a tousle of the hair before we both return to the tasks that await us, smiling and energized as only connecting with a loved one can leave us.

More often than not, now, I choose the latter.

One day, my children won’t need my help anymore.

But, honestly, I’m in no rush.

Ten years from now, or five, or — sob! — one, my kids won’t need (or want) me to pick out their clothes for them. They won’t want me to rub their backs as they go to sleep, or to hang out in the bathroom while they shower. It will happen on its own, just like walking and talking and learning to read happened — not when I was ready for them, but when my children were.

Until then, I’ll just relish in these small moments — moments that remind me that, as a mom, my primary job is to let my babies know they’re safe.

My not-quite-six-year-old lifts her hand and grasps mine. I squeeze her little fingers and smile down at her as we line up for the ride.

My stomach swirls for hours afterward, but I don’t mind it one bit.

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