Never doubt that a small group of committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has. – Margaret Mead
This entry, Sprint Mothering, by one of my very favorite bloggers, has me bawling at my desk.
Oh. Wow. The yelling. The waves of excellence followed by the benign neglect. The intense love and the intense aggravation. The sprinting. This is very familiar to me, and my heart aches with the familiarity of what she describes, the way I recognize both the limits (mostly) and brilliance (occasional) of this style of parenting (and, frankly, of living).
How resonant are these drawbacks: “I lack the grace. I lack the stamina. I lack the serenity, the even keel.” Ah. Yes. That’s me. I am awkward, I am graceless, I trip a lot, I fail frequently and boldly, and I am so, so rarely serene.
And the passage that really reached in and grabbed me is here. These are the kind of words I could never write, the kind of words that describe so articulately and elegantly the murky and ambiguous feelings of my heart. The kind of words that make me grateful that their writer lives, and writes.
I know my job description cold. My job is to use the “my” pronoun gently. “My” daughters. “My” girls. I use “my” for the sake of convenience, and as a reflection of my stunned pride that such beautiful bright creatures passed through me on the way to this lifetime. But you belong to you, in the end. And I want to teach you to belong to you.
So I try to make my great mother-sprints count. When I talk to you, I talk to you strong and bold and hard and real. I talk to you about Death and Religion and Puberty and Bullies and Vaginas and Childbirth and Periods and Kidnappers and Murder and Friendship and Divorce and Anger and Joy and Vocation.
But I also believe in a good helping of benign neglect, for my present sanity, and for your future sanity.
I do not dote on you. I am not, have never been, a doting mom. I think right now you would like it very much—no, I KNOW you would like this very much—if I doted on you, if I constructed a life that revolved around you, a whirling carousel of mirrors and endless brass rings for you to grab and carelessly discard.
I refuse. I love you, and this is why I refuse you so much of what you think you must have.
I want you to grow up central only to yourself. I want you to find your center, to be your own pivot, your own point of balance, your own anchor. I don’t ever want you thinking you are the center of the universe, and be shocked to find that it is not at your beck and call. You are each completely unique, but you are no more special than any other person walking this planet. That’s not tough love. That’s love that will serve you well and teach you to keep your eyes open to the uniqueness and beauty in others.
~ Philo