Everything I tell my child, I wish I had been told when I
was younger. So I consider it my duty to hand these “life lessons” out to her
every now and then. And when I explain something, I try to explain it ‘well’. Sigh… in my opinion at least. The other day, I
felt as though my eight-year-old’s eyes were glazing a bit as I spoke. Alright,
they were glazing quite a bit as I spoke.
So I finally asked her. “Are these talks useful or are they
frightfully boring?” With as much diplomacy as she could muster, she replied,
“I like them Mom. But sometimes you go on and on for like half an hour,” she
said with a tired sigh and a gleam in her eyes. We laughed it off, but I was a
little disappointed.
Later I realized that my attempt to grapple with life was my
struggle and my choice. These slivers of clarity I seem to be having were part
of my own discovery. They may not resonate with someone else. And they may
simply be “too long and boring” for my eight-year-old.
The other thread running simultaneously here is one of guilt
and motherhood, I suspect. I feel guilty for being so caught up in my own
illness that I have not been able to be quite the mother I would have liked to
be. I feel guilty for not having had enough energy for her. I feel guilty that
she has not been able to count on me.
And I imagine this may be my effort to make up for lost time.
But I wonder how much good it can do to serve life’s wisdom thus. For this may be
something she may need to work out on her own. And if we’re lucky, she’ll ask
for help in figuring it out or else she may choose to figure it out on her own.
Yes it is going to be hard to watch her struggle. But all we can do is let her
know we’re there without telling her exactly how to lead her life.
I doubt I’m ready to desist from flight on this one.
Remember, how hard it is for me to let go? But I’ll take the cue when I see an
eye roll and hear a “here we go again”, from a certain eight-year-old.
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