As I sit here pondering my good fortune, I sneak side glances at the son beside me. It's nearly noon and we sit quietly in matching lawn chairs thinking of the stories whirling in our linked minds. He is one that often seems averse to my suggestions evident as he inquires about what we are going to do today for the tenth time. All my children require cajoling to some extent, particularly my three boys. My daughter most naturally embraces new plans and experiences unfamiliar. Like many small girls, the world is her oyster and she relishes a full schedule often to the detriment of her mother. My oldest son though...
Today I suggested we write together in response to his aimless wandering in and out of his grandparent's house. Always aware of his need for glory, I made the casual plea to the part of him that longs for notoriety. In me also and perhaps in all of us to some extent and difficult to expound on as it feels so odd to admit such a shallow thing. Truth is not easy. No, and now we both are sitting and writing, artists in our own right as he does have a story to tell and as I told him, his more unique and desired because so unusual. His youngest brother dangling his toes over an enticing pool, our thoughts of him entwined often.
The musings of a ten year old boy. Though I have captured his questions and worried glances in my stories, they are his stories and the ones that are the best are told by the author first hand. His transformation from a little boy, who cried more than I care to remember, into a thoughtful and insightful young man, still made me incredulous with wonder of a fast forward glimpse of ten years. A boy who has been watching his mother deep in thought the last few months and perhaps has decided there is something to it after all, a recognition of joy and even more, an acknowledgement of his pride for me. That is the treasure perhaps I have been seeking.
Even more though, I want the worries that find themselves turning into fears to be abated in his young mind. I have sat for twenty years thinking and never acting, seeking and despising, hoping with limits. For so long I chose silence and the words that pour out of me now have been locked away and I think to what could have been, who I may be if I had unleashed the feelings that I had harbored. Ones of regret, tangible shame, lasting resent, deep sorrow, and below the surface bitterness. How had these trapped musings affected the person I have become, certainly some good but also the always present bad? I can't delve too deeply into that arena as I am one to move forward but also a mother who wants her children to learn from mistakes and embrace the clique that tomorrow is indeed another day. And so, I will plow through this thing called mothering and hopefully my children will learn from the way I am becoming as we share our stories.