What I think about at two in the morning…
Sometimes I feel like a disappointment to my children. Last week we were playing a game in which I pulled a conversation card out of the box during dinner which asked what quality of other families makes you jealous.
Justin said, “They have other people.” He is ready for a new set of siblings.
Jonah said, “I’m jealous of families who give their teenagers cell phones.”
Basil said, “I want a family who allows unlimited internet access.”
Those desires didn’t bother me. I’m comfortable with my overprotective boundaries for my teenagers. I’m not worried about Justin because I know that he loves his siblings.
Then Xenia said, “I wish I had a family whose mother made me lunches in the morning.”
That broke my heart. I determined to start doing that for her. I don’t have the time and energy to give all my children the attention they want. That has always been a problem and I don’t think I will ever find the life-work-family balance that I desire.
Reading over my latest Syra’s Scribbles book manuscript, I am shocked by my high expectations of myself and my children. I accept that I’m an overachiever and don’t mind that for myself, but I wish I had let my children be children more. I can’t believe that I thought it was normal for a six-year-old to change their siblings’ diapers. I can’t imagine Justin doing that now, and he’s nine.
My adult children want me to enter into their joys and struggles. I find that they have gone to places that are hard for me to follow. It’s hard for me to let go of my expectations. I’m proud of my daughters and know that they are wonderful people. They do not disappoint me in their character and their aspirations. It’s just that life doesn’t look at all like I had imagined it when they were younger. I really am trying hard to get over myself but it’s very difficult for me to do.
I keep thinking about 1 Corinthians 13 “4 Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; 5 it is not arrogant or rude. Love does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; 6 it does not rejoice at wrong but rejoices in the right. 7 Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.” I have a ways to go.
I wrote the following prose at two in the morning when I was dwelling on the accusations my children have thrown at me and feeling parallel frustration.
I am my own person. I dedicated my life to you, burdened with responsibilities. I don’t like it that our values are different. I don’t like the choices you made. I don’t know who you are. I know you love me, but… You don’t understand me. You don’t respect me. You don’t accept me for who I am. You don’t appreciate how I’ve tried to please you. I want to be free of my responsibility, but I’ll always love you.
“I am my own person.”
I remember being a young adult determined to not make the same mistakes that Mom made. I’ve worked so hard to create a healthy family. While I haven’t reached the goals that I set out for myself, I have felt proud of myself. I want my children to do better than me, but as they go off to do just that, there is a feeling of rejection. It’s hard to see them leaving the ways they grew up with behind. I am not enough, and that is very humbling.
“I dedicated my life to you, burdened with responsibilities.”
We all feel burdened with responsibilities. I felt bad knowing how much Mom struggled as a single mother, seeing how much she had to sacrifice. Now that I’m a mother, I know what a joy it is to live for my children. Especially now that the stages are over, I look back with fondness on dirty diapers and toy messes. Staying home with my children has always seemed good to me. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. It may be more years before my children appreciate the life, I’ve done my best to give them. They have had their share of responsibilities, caring for each other and themselves. I wish I could have done more to ease their lives, but life has a way of bringing sorrows and suffering that I have always been powerless to prevent.
“I don’t like it that our values are different.”
Whatever happened to my giving birth to a mini-me? At various times all my children wanted to grow up to be like me. I used to think that I was so much better than Mom. Now I look back on her time with me and wish that I was more like her. What we thought about this or that doesn’t feel so important now that she’s gone. What remains is her love for me, and I wish with all my heart that my children would feel a love like that from me. Mike says I get more and more like Mom every year. I think that’s a good thing.
“I don’t like the choices you made.”
I was very critical of Mom’s choices. She really did choose the worst sort of men to be with. I didn’t make her mistakes. Instead, I made a lot of my own. It’s funny to me that I was so worried about when to start solids or how long to nurse as if they were the most important decisions of motherhood. My children are hurt and angry over things that I never considered to be issues at the time. I was critical and still struggle with that. They are bitter about my child-rearing techniques, and I watch them make choices that make me worry. I want so much for them that is all in their hands. I see them making choices that make no sense to me. It’s hard to go from taking care of their every need to standing by, figuring out how to feel, what to say, what to not say.
“I don’t know who you are.”
I often kept things from Mom about myself. We had a sort of formality, living together that wasn’t the intimacy of my sisters who were able to unburden their hearts to her. Still, she was my biggest cheerleader, and she loved to hear my stories. She knew my history as I knew hers. Our life’s stories were in each other’s memory. I remember my kids’ lives as well and tell them many of my childhood stories, the ones I want to last through the generations. There is much left unsaid between my children and me, but we have been a part of each other’s stories for many years and have many shared experiences. Inside these adult women are the little girls I raised. Sophia recently shaved her head. She used to look like me at that age. It’s harder to recognize my countenance in her face, but it’s there.
“I know you love me, but…”
The but is that we always want more. We want an answer to our prayers. We want dreams to come true.
“You don’t understand me.”
Does anyone really understand anyone else? Long-time married couples tell me that they are still finding things out about each other. Mom sent me to therapy for many years and it was a shocking revelation to me to find out how much I expected people to read my mind. I expected people to look at me and know how I felt, what I wanted, and what I was going through. I had my doubts about Mom’s understanding in general, but I still longed for her to know what I was going through without having to tell her. I see so much of what my children are experiencing but sometimes I miss things. Sometimes I misunderstand. Sometimes I see something but am at a loss as to know what to do or say. I long for the days when they needed to be nursed, held, or have a diaper change. I remember when they were safe in my womb and all their needs were met for a short time.
“You don’t respect me.”
Now that I consider these words, I’m not sure what they mean. When I think that my kids don’t respect me, I usually feel like they aren’t listening to me. I feel like they aren’t taking my advice. It’s not about respect per say. I think when my children tell me that I don’t respect them they want my approval for something that I don’t approve of. There is much that they do that it wouldn’t hurt me to cheer them on. It’s hard to let my children be themselves when I think that their choices aren’t what’s best for them. It’s easier for me to support my friends than my children because I don’t have my identity and dreams wrapped up in their lives.
“You don’t accept me for who I am.”
A couple of my children fought me when I insisted on speech therapy. They both said that I didn’t love them for who they were. Most people would see the value in enunciation. I wasn’t a monster to insist that they improve themselves. I’m not sure how I came across as unaccepting instead of caring. Was it the way I approached the subject? Did I fail to let them know that I love them either way? I don’t think my children accept me for who I am either. They still expect me to be more than the mere mortal that I am. They have higher expectations for me than anyone else, but they are in a position to see me at my worst. They are witnesses of my selfishness and anger and indolence. They see it all.
“You don’t appreciate how I’ve tried to please you.”
It often feels like we should reach the place of being done. How many times much I take out the trash? How many times must I make dinner? These things do end but only with life or leaving. As long as we are together there is going to always be one more thing. Words like “please” and “thank-you” are important. I have practiced gratitude, intentionally saying what I am grateful for each day. I hope to get back to it. If my kids see me at a grateful person maybe that will help them see how thankful I am for them.
“I want to be free of my responsibility, but I’ll always love you.”
As my adult children leave our home, there is a mutual desire to be free of responsibility. They are free from babysitting their siblings or cleaning their room. I am free of laundry and cleaning up messes. There remains a desire to please though. They still want me to be proud of them. I still want them to check in with me and tell me how they are doing. I want them to think that I am a good mother.
I have been reading Xenia’s birth story in Syra’s Scribbles IV. The feelings I have launching these adults into the world are so similar. Their leaving is another birth, a new separation. I was terrified of my baby leaving my womb, but it was too small to hold them as they grew, and my body ached to be released from the burden of carrying them. In so many ways I am ready for the children to leave home and be free of the responsibility, but again I fear for them. I gave birth and brought the baby home and had no clue what to do next. I feel that same helplessness now.
I met a new friend last night. She has six children too. She told me that it gets easier. Xenia and Justin should have a much better time of it, and I won’t be so stressed out seeing them leave the house in nine more years. As always Esther and Sophia are paving the way for their siblings.
After reflecting on my bitter prose, I rewrote it with my feelings for Mom.
I am your daughter.
I am so thankful that I dedicated my life to you.
I don’t care that our values were different.
I understand the choices you made.
I love you, warts and all.
I know you have always loved me.
You understood me better than I realized because you knew my life story.
You were proud of me.
You always wanted the best for me.
You appreciated me even though I could have done so much more.
I would do anything to have one more day with you.
I will always love you.
Lord willing, that is what my children will be able to say to me someday. It took me forty years to get to that place. I’ll give them time.
By the grace of God, someday I will be able to say that to my children.
I am your mother.
I am so thankful that I dedicated my life to you.
I don’t care that our values were different.
I understand the choices you made.
I love you, warts and all.
I know you have always loved me.
You understood me better than I realized because you knew my life story.
You were proud of me.
You always wanted the best for me.
You appreciated me even though I could have done so much more.
I would do anything to have one more day with you.
I will always love you.
Syra's Scribbles 