One of the things we all do when we become parents is dream about what the future holds for our children. We think about who they are going to be. Or more accurately – who we want them to be.
Every night when I was pregnant with my first baby, I thought about all of the qualities that I wished for him. I wished for kindness and generosity. For self confidence and intelligence. For humor and charisma. For talent and creativity. And happiness.
Then he was born and I just wanted him to sleep.
But in my heart, all of those wishes lived on – and still do. And I tried to do the same for my other children. I had the same hopes for my twins, though a bit less focused.
By the time I was pregnant again, my first child was still a stinky sleeper, and I tended to pass out the minute my head hit the pillow. So there were no thoughtful lists chanted nightly for the twins and their own triumphs of character.
It was then that I gave myself license to tuck those dreams in a pocket where I knew they would be kept warm and alive. Even if I couldn’t recite them by rote. Maybe if I wanted them enough, they would be imprinted in all of my intentions, and it none would go astray. It would be a string of pearls that would never break.
And I think it has been. They’re all still there, permanently knotted on the strongest of fibers – gleaming in the shadows of my pocket. I don’t need to memorize what is in my heart.
It’s been over three years since the last of my babies were born, and I’m now starting to see glimpses of my dreams in their eyes. I smell them in the soft scent that no longer whispers baby. And I feel them in the squeeze of small fingers around my own.
They are becoming people.
And as much as I frequently cup my precious wishes in my palm, I know that it’s out of my hands. I can’t keep my children in a pocket. They have to decide who they are going to be, and it seems that starts as early as…well, now.
It would be so easy to label them. He’s the sweet one. She’s the feisty one. He’s the gentle one. But they change daily – sometimes to my liking and sometimes not.
But you always loved to paint. Where is my little artist?
What do you mean you won’t wear the pretty dress? Dresses are your favorite.
Since when did you stop liking Barney? Nevermind – that’s fine, thanks.
In these small ways, they assert their growing personalities. They try them on like scraps from a dress up box. Cherished one moment – then dismissively discarded. Thoughtless. Artless. Fickle. And free.
But we have our favorites and sometimes we interfere. Put on the pink one – it’s your best color. For all of our good intentions and pride, we so often try to box our children into neatly labeled cubby holes…the nice one…the pretty one…the smart one… And we even do it to each other as adults. Maybe that’s where we learn it – from our own parents. The circle of life. The beat goes on.
And maybe that’s fine. Perhaps it’s necessary to be guided to our strengths. But that’s some power we parents have. And Power is never far from its evil twin, Responsibility.
I honestly do think that as I provide that necessary guidance to my children, I’m just as responsible for following their lead. And protecting their right to choose.
It used to drive me crazy when people would label my twins. She’s the sweet one and he’s the character. Or to assume that my oldest was supposed to suddenly be a mini man at 18 months just for the fact that he’s an older brother.
My daughter has proven everyone wrong. She was the sweet one. She was the quiet one who was often ignored while her twin brother writhed and screamed with reflux pain. I like to imagine that placid little baby getting miffed. The squeaky wheel indeed!
She didn’t stay angelic for long. She is the larger than life child. She sings and dances through the day. She demands her due with a jazz hands finish. But just like that little girl with the little curl, when she is good she is very, very good, but when she is bad… She stomps her feet, hands planted firmly on hips. Her “YES I can!” is less self affirming call to action than blood thirsty battle cry. She is fierce.
But I envy her.
And don’t we all? Don’t we all look at our children and envy their potential. Their bright, shiny newness. Their quicksilver ability to morph into anything they want to be.
I want to foster that. Sure I have to say no sometimes. I have to be firm. But I don’t want to take that ferocity away from her. Especially when I so often wish that I had it myself.
My cousin was apparently much like my daughter at that age, and my mother remembers some good advice that was given to my aunt and uncle. The grandfather who was well known for his “spare the rod, spoil the child” attitude about discipline shocked everyone by warning, “just don’t break her.“
Pretty wise if you ask me. And I would say that same advice transcends its original subject. I don’t want to break any of my children of their ferocity or their quirks. As inconvenient as these traits may be for me – it’s my responsibility to protect their individuality.
I was reminded of my string of wishes recently when my grandmother passed away. She left Eleanor a pearl necklace that had once belonged to her own daughter. It was old and fragile and in need of some refurbishing. And when Eleanor is old enough I will have it restrung for her. Like a mother’s dreams for her children, the necklace will be passed on with love.
Everyday, I wrap my own dreams and wishes around my children. But in the end, it’s their choice how to wear them.