On Parenting ~ The Long Game

When a person chooses to become a parent or if the choice was a messy game of chance, being a parent changes the way a heart carries itself through a crowded street. Emotionally mature parents diligently strive to raise emotionally secure children. There are numerous pitfalls to watch for, the list longer than a new parent could ever dream up. Pitfalls, those missteps the parent and child alike make, not to mention other people who enter into the child's life can lead everyone askew. Some pitfalls you see coming and others are left-fielders. Positive healthy times as well as unhappy days layer like sedimentary rock upon the human heart.

Parenting is a long game. The investment of time, tears, and heart seem endless. The results vary, sometimes the wait is 30 years before the whistle blows and the outcome firm.

Over time assessing progress can be difficult, those yearly cards your child delivers on Mother’s and Father’s Day can serve as a kind of performance review. The marigolds growing in a paper cup brought home from school, the crayon masterpieces of family holding hands, each one a treasure. The child's glowing face beams with the joy of giving offers proof that the human heart wishes to gift, to share happiness. The engaged parent who is aware that self-esteem is on the plate receives these gifts wholeheartedly.

When the child grows into their adult shoes the handmade cards give way to phone calls or text messages. Once in a while a small thoughtful gift arrives in the mail, let's face it, for a lot of us our adult kids live elsewhere around the state or states or abroad. And why shouldn't they be living their best life, making their own choices, even if it means they live farther than 35 minutes away. They absolutely should, with the caveat that they are where they want to be and continue to foster an emotionally mature healthy life.

Becoming a parent is a life game changer stretching beyond the midnight sun. When the performance review parents have long awaited arrives in the glow of your adult 'kids' welcoming hug, you know the energy output and heartache is time well spent.

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Kite Day

Photo by Julia DJune

The Campfire summer group is having a July kite making and flying contest and Miranda is confident she'll build the best kite on the planet! 'On the planet I tell you! It's gonna soar miles high,' she grins up into her dad's listening face. 'Higher than anyone ever thought possible!' For a home-built second grader's kite. 'So high it will be a speck, a dot in the sky. Airplanes will have to divert around my amazing high flyer.'

'It will be the newest prototype for kite flight technology.' Her dad joins in on the enthusiasm. Sure it could happen. Anything is possible, or so Miranda's been told.

Hand sketched plans lay out on the kitchen table over the strewn about supplies, Miranda prattles in her excitement to her mother, who stands near the sink, distracted and distant. Her mom gives every appearance that Miranda is the focus of her attention but Miranda knows better, her moms glazed stare seldom has anything to do her. She is practically invisible to her mom. Her dad sees it too, and steadfast as he is able, tries his darndest to help Miranda feel seen and encouraged.

The side door swings open with a flourish letting in some much needed fresh air, 'here you go kiddo!' Her dad hands her a newly fashioned wooden crank reel and spool. Just the ticket, the icing on first prize Miranda needs.

Her dad has an assortment of fancy tools in the garage and stacks of wood for just such an occasion. The kite reel is all wood, no screws just pegs and post style carpentry, with diamond cutout shapes on the palm sized handle for extra grip. 'I'll put a coat of stain on it after tomorrow's kite day.' The pride of sharing twinkles between them.

Her dad's Mercury Comet flies down the road towards Camp Ripley parade grounds just north of town, her dad lightly humming along to the radio. He's a quiet man, says a lot without words, expression mostly, the way he holds his hand always a tell for what's on his mind. The one ring finger tap, deep in though about something that's got his goat. Three fingers drumming on the arm of the chair, all is well in the world from his outlook.

Miranda gleefully signs the welcome roster, brimming over with excitement, and they take their designated place on the field. Her dad is there mostly as a presence for encouragement, the kite operations is all up to Miranda. There's only a slight breeze which means there is a bit of running around happening by the participants to coax their kites to take flight. Back and forth. Arms stretched high, tug down low. 'Fly! Come on. UP!'

There are a few kites getting aloft, then a few more. But Miranda's kite refuses, utterly refuses to leave the ground. The tail's too heavy, she thinks. Adjustments made. Run faster, she thinks. That's the trick. But nothing. Swirl. Swish. Inches off the ground then nose down. Her kite refusing to claim its first place title.

Heavy and unbalanced her pride gives up quicker than her dad would have liked. He wants to see her succeed. First prize is great and all, but any amount of flight is praiseworthy, he could work with that. He wishes for that. There were too many disappointments as of late and a small win would be nice. But this is not that win.

Miranda slunks off the field, shoulders askew, defeated, kite dragging behind her cartwheeling over the ground and marring its artwork with bright green streaks on the long trek to the car. She crawls in the front seat sinking onto the floorboard, her bitter tasting tears of disappointment soak the seat.

Her dad closes the passenger door with a ginger touch, picks up the kite and all its entrails for storage in the trunk. Settling in behind the wheel he pats Miranda's shoulder hoping to ease her tears and drives home.

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The Luncheon

We had an afternoon luncheon down at the Episcopal church. It was Sunday afternoon. Of course it was because who would want to disrupt a weekday sullen faced afternoon sit on the porch swing resenting the evening breeze late arrival. You know, those days when you are bored out of your ever lov'in mind. Nope, had to be Sunday. When there was the morning service fuss to put on your best, Sunday supper to prepare, and evening service begrudgingly dragging your sorry ass.

We all had to wear hats, gardening straw hats something flashing a purple ribbon for maximum comment. We're 80 years old for God's sakes. We have to wear hats! A stipulation like we're in eighth grade. We have to wear bangled friendship bracelets and wear our hair in the latest ponytail arrangement to belong. Aren't we beyond this? Didn't we outgrow this type of behavior? And yet, here we sit, eating charcuterie cucumber sandwiches and tiny desserts dipped in gelatinous marshmallow coating.

This is the highlight? This is what I've been waiting for?

Where is our authenticity? The depth of who we are, what we've done with 80 years of our life. Okay granted the first 20 might not count. Aren't we an eclectic combination of all our adventures? The different things we've done, the places, pictures we've taken, words we've written? And, yet, we get together at 80 for luncheon to wear purple laced gardening ornaments. Throw our lives aside to talk about frivolous hats and the balmy clingy you can't breathe weather?

"Oh, how delightful you look, isn’t this just lovely!"

"So nice to see you."

Overflowing gullets and empty hearts, we go home.

"Can't wait to do this again."

"Soon!"

Hollow words peal in my ears like poison oozing from djinns bottle of eternal misery. My tossed hat lands in the trash can as I pass into the house.

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