Dear Son,
The other day I read a list of what kind of mother I should
be to my son and I felt extremely overwhelmed by it. Who makes these lists anyway? They have way too much time on their hands,
right, or maybe not. Maybe they just
have enough brain cells left at the end of the day to make lists and maybe they
are just very idealistic. I don’t
usually have a very high brain cell count or ideal at the end of any given day. Making lists makes me jumpy with the pressure
to perform. My heart. Flying by the seat of my heart, now that is
another story. Coming from my heart, my
mothering has been up and down and all around, but well intended, repentant and
filled with new beginnings. Lists or
not, there really isn’t a concrete formula for being a mother, a father, a son,
a sister, a brother, oh, well, to be whatever.
We have to come into our own.
Trial and error, again and again.
You fall, well, now you just get back up again and again. We have ideals, we have premise, we have a
basis from which we’d like to stand on, but so many times the paradigm tucked
away inside of our minds becomes shattered by reality and human frailty. Human frailty. Never stop loving. Never stop trying to care about people who
fail. Never stop doing good, even though
you feel as if it does no earthly good to keep trying. That’s it.
That’s all I have, son. I don’t
have any lists for you, but I do love you, oh, I do.
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