May 19, 2013 |
I wish Dot was young enough for me to do things for her. To wrap my arms around her and protect her from the world. To care for her and take care of things for her.
But she’s a young adult, now. And I can’t live her life. I have to let her go into the world, in little tiny, dangerous baby steps.
I want to save her from certain memories. To be the kind of parent that pushes back when their child is bullied or looked down upon. I want to take her heartache as my own, and keep her from ever wanting to cry these tears.
I want to be successful enough to give her a job so she never feels rejection in the workforce. I want to give her training and life skills without fear of failure or condemnation. But I can’t. She has to search and search until someone takes a chance and hires her.
I want to choose her friends, her loves, her hobbies, her responsibilities. I want her to grow into the woman I know she will be, without getting hurt in the process.
I want to shelter her.
But I can’t.
And my heart still breaks for her.
I love that she’s old enough to have grown-up conversations with. I adore being in the kitchen with her as we experiment with new flavors. She has a sense of humor that she saves mostly for her friends, but now and then I’m allowed a glimpse.
My child makes me proud. And I want to scream at the world because the world doesn’t get her yet. Stop breaking her heart! Give her a job! Let her be!
But life is full of hard knocks and whatnot, and she’s only to grow if I let her experience them for herself.
I want her to be the successful young woman I know she is. I want the world to recognize what I already see in her. I want her to feel comfortable spreading her wings to fly.
I wish I was a helicopter mom and could do the flying for her. But since I can’t, I can only nudge her in the right direction and hope she understands. I can only be an example that I hope she chooses to follow. And I can only hope, in some ways, she’s smarter than me and will find her own way, a better way for herself.
As long she still calls me “Momma”.
And Frankly, My Dear… that’s all she wrote!
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Nov 27, 2011 |
Like some of you, I’m still recovering from Thanksgiving. I’ve still got leftovers in the fridge and a few decorations needing to be put away.
I’m usually quite on top of these things by now. I usually have my Christmas tree up, the stockings hung, the decor set. Usually.
For that last five years or more, it’s been tradition that on Thursday we eat at Mom’s house; and on Friday she comes to our house to help decorate. Then we relax with some cheese and sausage and whatever new Christmas DVD I’ve purchased. On Saturday, we get in some much needed R&R, and by Sunday our routine is fairly back to normal.
While I try not to be a control freak, I am admittedly an admirer of stability and scheduling. So when one of my brothers decided to surprise us by driving down from his new home for Thanksgiving weekend, he and the rest of the family who knew in advance were slightly concerned with my reaction.
Well, I am here to say, first and foremost, that I’m here. So there’s that! I must admit, it was really fun for me to say, “Schedule scmedule” and just hang out with the family. We ate, played cards, ate, watched some football, ate, chatted a lot, ate, went out on Black Friday… oh, and I think we ate a little.
I kept up with the important things: daily blogging, writing, cleaning the house, things like that.
But I really enjoyed noticing that I was okay with the impromptu activities. Actually, to be honest, I was more than okay. It was fun. Completely spontaneous, and even more so. Because once we were out and about, we just kept going. It was just really fun.
Even after my brother left this morning, I embraced the whole spontaneity thing and we did something never done before: we watched this year’s Christmas DVD before putting the Tree up. How wild am I?
We still haven’t put the Tree up; we’ll prob’ly do that tomorrow. But if we don’t, I’m okay with it. Really okay with it. Because that’s not what matters. Keeping a schedule isn’t always what matters.
It’s the memories of all the surprises of this weekend. It’s the togetherness we don’t often have. The making plans for next year (which, by the way, is not the same as making a schedule… who knew?!).
If my Tree doesn’t go up for another week, I’m okay with it. Because I know what happened in its place.
And whether my brother coming home for Thanksgiving becomes a new tradition or not, at least for this year, he did.
That’s worth more than my Schedule Shmedule. Don’t you think?
