looking back, seeing far, landing right where we are

I'm sitting in the kitchen on a perfect gray San Francisco morning. I knit while my daughter draws. We both sing along to the new Fiona Apple record. It suddenly strikes me that I relate to these morose lyrics detailing the paradox of loving someone in whose shadow you feel lost.

 I'm resigned to sail on through, in the wake of tales of you

 I root for you, I love you, you you you you... 

Shit. Am I in a codependent relationship with my children?

I'm not sure what it says about me that I resent my own children for stealing the spotlight, for sucking up all the air in the room and leaving none for me, but I am sure that it's how I sometimes feel.

A few years ago I went to see a friend after the birth of her son. We sat in her living room, cooing over the baby with her mother, who was visiting. At some point I revealed my shameful fear that I might one day envy my child's perfect skin, gravity defying body and limitless future, rife with possibility. My friend's mother immediately insisted she had never (not once!) felt this way, then proceeded to regard me with distaste. Needless to say, this did little to convince me my apprehension was unique. I believe even the most virtuous of parents sometimes experience the secret desire for a freaky Friday. I wish I could say those fears never materialized, but if I'm being honest, not one bouncy booty escapes a wistfully nostalgic glance now and then.

 
I've made my peace I'm dead I'm done
I watched you live to have my fun

I am less susceptible to the bitterness Fiona describes when I develop my own talents in addition to helping my kids develop theirs. Whenever I lament some missed opportunity to pursue interests ranging from music to med school, Matt interrupts my self-pity with the observation: well, you're not dead yet. Suddenly my own path seems longer and more promising. Besides, youth didn't seem to do Fiona much good in Texas.

I am most powerfully immune to resentment when I remember that I'm looking back at fourth grade through the lens of hard won perspective. At the time, I had none and it was no day at the beach. If I somehow managed a do-over, I would be no less confused as the boy down the street hurls dog food at me riding my bike past his driveway on the way home from school, no less oblivious to the fact that 9 year old boys have no idea how to say "I like you" to 9 year old girls.  I'd still run to my room heartsick and wonder why he hated me. Turning thirty, I was grateful to have survived my twenties. In my forties I know who I am, and my skin fits like my favorite Pilcro stet slims. Would I go back and do it again without knowing what I now do? Not a chance, man. Not a chance.

I've found that insight doesn't come without its own collection of scars. While ripping hair from my bikini line, a waxing lady once recommended that I laser off a few stretch marks, birthday gifts from my four children who possess the immaculate skin of youth. My reaction was immediate and intense. As much as I complain about the physical effects of growing older, it turns out I don't really want to erase the record left by time. At least not all of it. Nobody is more surprised than I am by this appreciation of my scars. They tell my story, make me unique, provide the road map that sometimes helps me avoid revisiting painful paths. In their own way, they are beautiful.

Acceptance is unfortunately not my permanent address, but my children's experiences often motivate my satisfaction with the current state of my body, my story. I find reminders while comforting them after a particularly tough day at school, talking them down off the ledge of frustration with challenging homework, or helping to dispel angst over burgeoning feelings for some kid at school. Every once in a while, a well placed lyric does the trick (even if I have to re-write it a little.)

I root for me, I love me, me me me me...