One of the greatest gifts we give to ourselves is an understanding of self. With understanding comes perseverance and strength. It keeps a dedicated focus on goals with an authentic desire to meet them. And then also, with an understanding of self, comes patience, kindness and forgiveness - softer than the drive but just as necessary for balance. Parents, as “watchers” and “protectors,” naturally find themselves in unique positions to offer perspective to help mold their children -- although the word “mold” is perhaps too strong. The reality is that we, as parents, have little control when it comes to our kids. But this illusion of power defines parenthood. We hover over our children and form the structure of their world. As a parent, I constantly project the future. I am a girl-scout ready for any trouble that may come my child’s way. I read books, I talk to others, I ready my future words into inspiring speeches and then alter those words of advice to make them better. I observe, offer suggestions, pick my tone, (believe my tone actually matters!), enforce rules, decide what is important... and I make notes in an online journal that may be of interest in the years to come. It was this last act, these "Letters to Patrick," that had me most interested lately.
I spent a solid six and a half year writing notes to Patrick about Patrick. Little things of interest that add up to a sense of hope and optimism; perhaps a sort of greediness for control or to be of value. I understand that the sense of self most likely comes from within, but my own parents remain such stable, guiding influences to me that I believe somehow these notes for Patrick could serve as memories, guides, lessons, history and perhaps even glimpses of the future. We are all gathering data. We are all sorting out what motivates and inspires - and we never stop. A bullet point here or there was both entertaining and a clue; something to write down in order to keep and hold it as the days flew by like wind gushes, invisible and strong. But then I stopped writing without a lot of fanfare or fuss. As I think back on it now, it wasn’t because Patrick had lost my interest - he is my son; he is the most interesting thing in the world. Patrick occupies most of my daily thoughts and wishes and fears. He is fascinating - especially as he gets older. It also wasn’t because I suddenly didn’t have time - I had as little as I always did. So, there was nothing of significance to point to the reason exactly. I just stopped. And although I knew I had formally stopped writing, I never really stopped noticing or capturing the details. I verbally told others his stories. Mitch and I exchanged thoughts and reflections and gameplans. I made mental notes of the way his eyes twinkle when he talks or the sound of his voice, and in that time, I believe, the focus started to change. The thought jumped up one lazy, rainy Sunday afternoon at 3:00pm and I scrambled to my laptop to write it down: maybe to obtain an understanding of self, one should also understand the context. Mainly me. Maybe Patrick should know me (the lens) first before he could ever appreciate the pictures (of himself) that I was taking.
And so I decided that I would continue to formally write letters to Patrick, the focus shifting ever so slightly. This dedication, in truth, wasn’t much of an epiphany. I’m sure it’s obvious to others, but to a mother the change is worth a note all of its own. My letters to Patrick will make room for letters to myself. It’s a natural shift in both words and head-space. Patrick is seven. He needs me less than when he was an infant. We are both growing and changing. Perhaps this sense of self pulls and defines each of us together. I liked this thought. I liked the space I felt, which was less "distance" and more room to "be." It was inspiring enough to make me write it down and feel excited for experiences to come.
