Months ago, a friend sincerely said to me, “I’m so sick of reading about your perfect kids!”
I tried not to react. I tried harder not to breathe. Breathing would allow me to cry. I needed to feign professionalism; a tough skin. Bloggers can’t expect the world to love everything they write about except if I’m writing about my children…
Unconsciously, I stopped sharing matters of my daughter’s hearts. I couldn’t bear the idea that my children were being criticized because of the way I write about them. That my love for them could irritate anyone was stunning.
I’ve spent months rehearing, “your perfect kids”. Perfect, perfect, perfect…
Time alone at the farm offered the opportunity for profound clarity. Free from the world’s noise, my thoughts realigned and I’ve sorted it out.
My daughter’s childhoods were glorious to me. Glorious sounds like such a grand word. Not a word that could be used to describe the terror of childbirth, the exhaustion of nursing twin infants, the heartache of a marriage dissolving, the confusion of blending families, the challenges of being a stepmother, the competitive dynamic of three girls the same age or the devastation that settles in when they leave home.
Glorious does describe the joy of safely delivering two healthy baby girls into the world, the comfort of truly raising your children, the magic of falling in love, the success of creating a healthy family, the wonder of loving a child you didn’t birth, the luxury of providing guidance to three remarkable human beings and the understanding that all things change.
I write about my children the same way I live my life. I take care of what needs to be cared for and celebrate the rest. My friend’s comment made me pause and look at the way I see my daughters.
My daughters are not perfect but they are the celebration of my life.
Thanks for reading.
