The efforts going into writing "The Book" have me digging into a lot of my past writings, published and private. I've found an overwhelming amount of "meat on the bone" to chew through. Some cuts are still too raw, and some have spoiled over time, while others have aged well into complex, tender sections.
Sifting through all of this personal history, I recognize a consistent theme of curmudgeonly observations, frustrations, and irritations, alongside self-reflections, aspirations, and an abundance of self-doubt surrounding my faults and failures as a parent.
My daughter Lauren has been doing a lot of work on herself recently, reflecting on her own life experiences at the ripe old age of 22. She has repeatedly expressed gratitude and recognized my efforts and engagement throughout her life. It has been gratifying, even though I feel like there is so much more I would do differently, as is the universal malady of hindsight.
My son has a different perspective. His demeanor from birth was insistent, which we unfortunately accommodated to a fault. It has given him a level of confidence that will likely serve him well. Yet the level of entitlement that was created, along with the recognizable, valid trauma that comes with being a 10-year-old living with a mother who fails to navigate her separation with grace and composure, has us incapable of holding space for respect or tolerance for extended periods of time.
It was a no-win situation, no matter how I played it, for all three of us. Yet, as challenging as this has all been and continues to be, the "win" of them both having ideals and an example of what to strive for in their own lives means more than independent recognition. I have it from myself.