Has there ever been a more dangerous concept to the fragile mind of a parent?
Have we done everything we can?
When are we causing more harm than good?
Have we done enough?
Are you really going to do that again?
I have read that book 10 times this week. How many more times do I have to read it?
Have I done enough to make you love reading?
You screamed and came down stairs, screaming in an effort to make sure everyone else was awake.
I carried back up stairs to your room.
Then I did it again 2 minutes later.
Then I did it again a minute later.
47 times up and down the stairs…
Have I carried you enough for you to realize your screaming and hitting changes nothing
Not even my love? I am stubborn.
Have I asked you to guess what enough?
Do you know the answer is always “I love you.”
Have I asked you for how long enough,
to earn the snap reply,
“Forever. Enough already! I know the answer to your questions.”
“Do what you can when you can until you can’t. Then rest easy knowing the haggard look of the man in the mirror has been well earned.”
It’s funny because these are words I tell myself all the time when I look in the mirror and try to accept the parts of me I wish were air brushed away. Most of the time, I think I accept a reasonably accurate view of myself. Still, I do all of this with years growing up knowing who I am. I know my parents, and I recognize them in so many parts of how I live. I know where I got my protestant work ethic, and I recognize the roots of my ever questioning of assumptions. I see the roots of my drive.
For my children, I suspect this will always be harder. While they may come to accept themselves, I have no illusion it will be as easy for them. For example, every few months we have a conversation with O after he says his birth parents are dead. We do not know this and have no way to find out. Still, it is touching when he releases a balloon into the sky for his “dead” parents or grandparents to let them know he is thinking of them.
Every now and then we have one of those humorous moments when we are hit over the head with our kids’ efforts to define their place/group in society. This week’s moment was a dinner conversation between A (oldest daughter) and J (my wife):
“Mom, am I half-African and half-American?”
J: “No”.
A: “Then why do they call me African-American?”
I can only hope A comes to realize she is all American and all African-American over time along with everything else that she uses to define herself. Her definition is hers to make. Maybe with acceptance, she will no longer obsessively pick at her hands. Maybe then, she will find peaceful sleep at the end of her insomnia. Sadly, such a day seems so far away.
If you said this was a picture of a girl at bed time who will take 3 more hours to go to sleep, then you win the prize. At least her new dog has learned her role in the night is to jump in bed and try to teach A how to sleep.
