I had an epiphany the other day. I really ought to write it down and tape it to my bathroom mirror, or perhaps have it tattooed on the inside of my wrist.
It’s not all about me.
That was it. Yeah, I know, I’ve had that same revelation at least once a week since my kids were born, but somehow I keep forgetting.
It’s not all about me.
Here’s the latest instance in which I had to discover, once more, that what happens in the world isn’t all about me. In fact, it’s largely not about me.
We spent a lot of time this summer with friends and relatives from out of town. Aunts and uncles and other adults genuinely want to get to know my kids better, so they ask questions to draw them out. This being the new millennium, when organized activities for kids are the norm and we are all defined by what we do, adults ask “so, what sports do you play?”
Well, that’s a conversation stopper right there. As I’ve mentioned before, my son’s favorite sport is hitting things with sticks in the backyard. My daughter, though fairly active with walking and biking and swimming, is pretty much allergic to athletic competition.
“Oh, you don’t play sports,” the adults try hard to keep the conversation going. “So, what do you like to do?”
My kids don’t know how to answer. Perhaps I should coach them, do some role-playing so they have some rehearsed lines to mete out. “I like to play, and read, and just do kid stuff,” they could say.
But here’s the part that’s not about me. While I shrink a little inside and feel my own self-esteem go down a substantial notch every time someone asks my kids what they like to do, my kids could care less.
They don’t care that they’re not playing Classic soccer or swimming on the swim team or playing lacrosse. They don’t want to play the piano or take voice lessons or compete on the chess team. They’re not concerned with defining their personalities by their activities.
They like being home reading, cooking, taking care of the chickens and playing. The kinds of activities that no one is giving medals for. The kind that you don’t perform in a recital for the public. And they are perfectly content.
Now if only I could be happy that they’re happy.
I think I’ll see about that tattoo.
Submitted by Anne

September 15th, 2009 | Category: Metro Parent