Age: what's it good for?
It happened again today: the question. Am I Blossom's mother or her grandmother?
Eeek.
Despite my not-now-prematurely silver hair, and two bouts of nine months of doctor visits where my chart bore the icky designation "AMA," I am always surprised. And a little worried: as the third adopted child of a fiftysomething (true story) mom, I remember too well the squirmy embarrassment when people asked me whether she was my mother or grandmother. Life repeats? I don't want this for Sprout or Blossom, that squeaking hot paralyzing sense that something. is. wrong. with. your. family.
Got me thinking: what are the plusses of life-seasoned parenting? (Don't need to catalog the drawbacks: I'm reminded every time I climb the stairs with my 17-lb baby and lament my wonky hip.) Well, let's get it out of the way: resources. We fortysomethings have usually toiled away at careers and can more easily provide the requisite Robeez, right? (At least until #2 arrives and the monthly daycare bill rivals the mortgage payment.)
Wisdom? I'd say so, but life's tipping point--the one my therapist assures me comes to everyone at some point, where you question the whole foundation you've built your world upon and nearly every single one of your life choices--has spectred its way into my world of late. But maybe that's wisdom of the first order, knowing that you will face confidence-shaking moments, that life can infinitely surprise you, that you must be open to the awakening, that being cautious and denying life is the greatest risk of all. It sure has made me realize what I want for my kids is safety, freedom, the unshakable knowledge that they are cherished (not in a fussy protective way but the grounded-to-go-and-meet-the-world-my-young-one way).
Patience? Yes, most days. Not when facing the Aristotelian essence of dawdling that is a three-year-old boy brushing his own teeth. Especially after a hard day toiling away at that Robeez-providing career.
Here's what it must be: presence. I lived long enough without these little creatures, and then made a decision to bring them here. I know now what I would have missed without them. It makes me savor their every word, thought, emotion, developmental milestone. I want so much more for them than I got, even though what I got was okay. I want to be better for them, to be all that they deserve. I want to, as my Friend A says, parent from the inside out. And maybe, at fortysomething--if you've been paying attention--you know that inside better than you did at 20. Despite huge missteps and bumping my head on the same mistakes over and over again, I do.
Eeek.
Despite my not-now-prematurely silver hair, and two bouts of nine months of doctor visits where my chart bore the icky designation "AMA," I am always surprised. And a little worried: as the third adopted child of a fiftysomething (true story) mom, I remember too well the squirmy embarrassment when people asked me whether she was my mother or grandmother. Life repeats? I don't want this for Sprout or Blossom, that squeaking hot paralyzing sense that something. is. wrong. with. your. family.
Got me thinking: what are the plusses of life-seasoned parenting? (Don't need to catalog the drawbacks: I'm reminded every time I climb the stairs with my 17-lb baby and lament my wonky hip.) Well, let's get it out of the way: resources. We fortysomethings have usually toiled away at careers and can more easily provide the requisite Robeez, right? (At least until #2 arrives and the monthly daycare bill rivals the mortgage payment.)
Wisdom? I'd say so, but life's tipping point--the one my therapist assures me comes to everyone at some point, where you question the whole foundation you've built your world upon and nearly every single one of your life choices--has spectred its way into my world of late. But maybe that's wisdom of the first order, knowing that you will face confidence-shaking moments, that life can infinitely surprise you, that you must be open to the awakening, that being cautious and denying life is the greatest risk of all. It sure has made me realize what I want for my kids is safety, freedom, the unshakable knowledge that they are cherished (not in a fussy protective way but the grounded-to-go-and-meet-the-world-my-young-one way).
Patience? Yes, most days. Not when facing the Aristotelian essence of dawdling that is a three-year-old boy brushing his own teeth. Especially after a hard day toiling away at that Robeez-providing career.
Here's what it must be: presence. I lived long enough without these little creatures, and then made a decision to bring them here. I know now what I would have missed without them. It makes me savor their every word, thought, emotion, developmental milestone. I want so much more for them than I got, even though what I got was okay. I want to be better for them, to be all that they deserve. I want to, as my Friend A says, parent from the inside out. And maybe, at fortysomething--if you've been paying attention--you know that inside better than you did at 20. Despite huge missteps and bumping my head on the same mistakes over and over again, I do.
posted by nann at 12:58 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home