Writings on the Wall    

When I flick open my blue-bound cookbook, what do I see? A letter written by you at age 14, to your future adult self. You write, “Dearest Me. This letter is for you when you grow up. I hope we’ll be good friends then. PS Did you make the soup in the end?”

As a young mother I wondered when you, my expert procrastinator, would get things done. I pushed and prodded until you said no, and I learned to let go. Now you’re my chef on call when a new daughter-in-law comes. The scent of five-course dinners wafts from your kitchen. Why hadn’t I waited? Given you space?

When I seek a read for the grandkids, what do I see? Your paper book, Shooey the Shoe Looks for a Match. You had quite a sense of humor, and I needed you to be more mature, needed you to grow up, so you’d be accepted by all. Until I saw friends enjoy your giggles when you were you, not when you were me. So I asked you to share your jokes, laughed at your antics. Now you’re a mother yourself, and you liven me with your laughs as you scoop mud cakes from the drain. Why hadn’t I connected then to who you are as you are, like I do today?

When I need another notebook for lists, what do I see? Your boyish scrawl about the throw-the-ball-across-the-street game. You never dared tell. I was so focused on you not scaring the wits out of me, I left you little freedom to explore your boys-will-be-boys self. Until I listened more and spoke less. Guided you instead of using reprimands. Now you strap your little ones in, except for that 33-second ride down the driveway I pretend not to see. Are these the consequences of not balancing the flexibility/rigidity conundrum during your youth?