It was a chance to revisit our beginnings. I read an article about high ideals in marriage, and raising children. Forty years ago, an aspiration for innocence was the helium in our balloon, and it kept us afloat. I truly believed that we could shield our precious progeny from all harm, buffered against the barbed world.
There was a
flaw in my plan.
Some of the pitfalls, lived under our roof. I recall yelling enough to make myself hoarse. Or I would change it up and give them the silent treatment.
It's not that I was terrible. We loved them fiercely, and staggered to their rooms at midnight when they were sick. I made a conveyor belt of sandwiches and pasta, took them to art festivals and the beach. I sewed dresses for our daughters and vests for our sons. We
had year long passes to Disneyland when we lived an hour from Mickey, and read a library of books. In case those are the metrics for a happy childhood.
They knew the stories of the bible, from our songs as well as Sunday School, and I screened their movies based on the opinion of on our Mormon neighbor who did her homework.
Yet, reading the article composed by a parent whose children are still young enough to go to bed by eight,
niggled me. What happened to those ideals? Did they deflate, or come down to earth?
The concessions entailed in raising nine kids went a long way toward accepting that they are not entirely the product of John's and my molding. They have their own paths, and while I was admittedly invited to hold their hands for the first leg, it became clear that I needed to let go.
