I have always known two things about how my mother felt about me: first, that she loved me; and second, that she was disappointed in me. I think the first has been a constant and there have been breaks in the second, but I feel it as deeply as I feel the love.
My smart friend, the Particle Accelerator, says that most parents would be shocked if they knew what their kids thought of their relationship. If they could see the stress, the deep ruts of dread, the weary process of girding your heart for the constructive criticism and helpful advice. The strategy session you have with yourself.
Because my mother loves me, I think she would say that she just wants to see me be my best. It’s a laudable goal, and I should be grateful that she’s willing to invest that kind of emotional capital in a process that meets with much more failure than success. But I wish she could be satisfied with who I am, to put away the hopes of who I could become and enjoy who I have become.
But she can’t. She has always taken her job seriously, and is as tenacious as she is tiny. So I need to rid myself of my desire for her to be who she’s not. How’s that for irony?
The other thing I need to do: hear myself when I talk to my kids, and love who they are. I always read that when you give someone a gift, it’s theirs to do with what they want. No one ever includes a caveat for life.