I should tell you the stories of how proud you make me. How you make others smile, of your deft Instagram touch. Of the way you chronicle ‘car dancing’ – and your grace in not posting it on Snap Chat. Like you – and everyone in your generation – post every other aspect of your life. All too often I see the glass only half-filled by my expectations of you. Of my dreams for you deferred by the different awesomeness that you present. I tell these stories to the page. I should tell them to you. You are a beautiful mélange of magnificence. And this messed up world of ours needs your brand of effervescent smarts. You’re not who I expected – and in so being, you’ve made me a better person. Now, go conquer the world….
I tell you the story of yet. ‘No, you don’t get it – at least not yet’ I repeat as you wrap yourself in the anxiety of self-defeat.
“Yet? I’m never going to get it.”
You will get it – and whatever future its present themselves.
Trust me. You should listen to that story. No, really. Listen. Listen to the whispers of the doors opening before you. I see you. Always. I see your rainbow of awesomeness. Your quick wit, unexpected essay answers. Your off-kilter take on the usual questions asked of students. Your awesomeness is not necessarily what I wanted for you. As a mother, as a sentient being I know that a straight path is an easier one to navigate, an easier one for me to guide you on. But that’s not you. And I am grateful. Your brand of stellar more than I dared dream I could deserve.
“Have you ever published a book?”
“No, at least not yet.”
Through you I see me – my faults, which you don’t have to point out quite so often – and the dreams I still have left to manifest.
As I walk you to bed, your arm comforting my shoulder, I dare think of the locked away manuscript and the glasses we have yet to fill. Together.