Because She Doesn’t Know Me…and Sometimes I Don’t Either

***I started writing this in April 2014 and never finished it! I'm recommitted to blogging in 2015!!***

It’s an amazing thing to see yourself through your child’s eyes. It can sometimes be less than pleasant, (Do I really sound like that?), it can be quite comical (when your toddler constantly praises you for doing a good job at everyday tasks, like opening the milk.), and it provides an endless supply of “teachable moments” that you have to balance between your own wants, what’s best for your child, and how it all fits into the world we live in.

Larkin had a fun run at her school. It was basically a 1K race (I know, hilarious distance right?) complete with fancy tutus. We were dressed up and having a great time. I thought the parents were going to run with the kids, but then we were told that we could follow along, but they were on their own. I ran at a distance, encouraging her the whole way, and she did amazing. Ran the whole way, never walked, and came in around 7^th place, the 2^nd girl, and again, all the kids in front of her had walked at least once. I thought she did awesome. But they only gave medals to the first 3 places, and I could see that she was disappointed. Come to find out, the parents were actually going to run separately at the end of the kids’ races. I was not prepared to run that morning, I was just going to jog around with her. But when we went to line up, I heard my own words pep-talking me from the mouth of my newly-6-year old. “OK, Mama, remember, no walking, just try your hardest and run your fastest. I know you can do it.”

Oh crap, so now I have to run because she’s watching me with all of her friends, she’s expecting me to be fast, and I want to make her proud. Super role reversal there. Let me just say that 1K is a rough distance, it was basically a cross-country sprint around the school. I fell in behind two dads, and then managed to pass one of them on the home stretch, winning 2^nd place. She was so excited. But then when I got my medal, I saw a little bit of sadness creep into that smile.

We walked home, and I tried to get her talking. She really was disappointed that she didn’t win. I quickly showed her the picture of her coming to the finish line, and what I pointed out to her were the people BEHIND her not the people in front of her and again told her how proud I was. But my random medal was making her feel like she’d let me down…and that’s when I realized it.

She doesn’t know me. I mean of course she knows me, but she doesn’t know 6-year old me. She knows a mama that balances all sorts of things every single day, that spends her work day as a scientist, her evenings and weekends doing the best she can as a mom, being that mom that makes matching tutus, and bows, and homemade cookies, and finds a way to get to the school parties, and pack lunches with a little love note or surprise. She knows the mom that runs marathons, that does push-ups in the living room, that is “athletic”.

So then I sat her down and told her who I was. That at her age, if I had run that race, I would have been dead last. That at her age, I wouldn’t even have had the courage and confidence to even start the race. That at her age I was picked LAST every single time in PE (but first in the math flashcard relays…LOL). That I never played soccer like her, never danced like her, never ran a race like her.

She was completely and utterly shocked. We both learned a lot that day, and by sharing who I was, I saw that confidence bloom in her even more. But at the same time, it was an unexpected opportunity for self-reflection.

I’m not the person I thought I was going to be. For so many reasons.

I was going to have 2-3 kids. I was going to have a nanny, and the kids would only go to private school. I was going to have a ridiculously huge house and a very expensive car. We were going to go on lavish vacations every summer. The kids would wear only Ralph Lauren. My career would come first, and the kids would have to fit into our schedule, to our lifestyle. They would be in the best camps, the best sports clubs, and have private lessons. I would expect them to be the best, I would put them on a pedestal and accept nothing short of perfection. I would have felt entitled, I would have felt superior, I would have felt empty…

That same month, it became even more clear that I was not the person I was going to be. Larkin had her first science fair. Long story short, she got second place (she was robbed though, first place went to a group project, and they had their results and conclusions swapped…geesh! Lol). When I saw the red ribbon instead of the blue, I heard my grandmother in my head. I heard the tone of disappointment, I felt failure, and then I looked at Larkin and saw joy “Oh my gosh Mama, a red ribbon! I got 2^nd place!”. Every kid had gotten a green participation ribbon, unless you were 1^st-3^rd. She saw red and saw success. It slapped me in the face in the best way.

I am not the person I was going to be. The changes started the day that I walked in a door and met eyes with Patrick for the first time. You would think that the changes were further solidified when we had kids…but it was the opposite. I was changed forever when we DIDN’T have kids.

When month after month, year after year, we still didn’t have children. When loss after loss happened. Those years shaped me in a way that I can’t explain. Because of those losses, because of those trials, because of the fight to get to them, I am a very different mother. Believe it or not, I am thankful for those years. They’ve made me more patient, more grateful, more loving. They’ve made me see my children with wonder and excitement, eager to see what they’ll do in this world…rather than simply expecting them to follow the path I set out for them. I’m along for the ride to help guide…but it’s their road.   

I am not the person I was going to be, and thank God for that.