Tuesday, July 29, 2008

A Second Look

I was re-reading my post about how time seems to "whoosh-crash-trip" at pivotal events of life (well, at least that is how it is for me, call me weird, or at least clumsy...if you see someone trying to navigate down the sidewalk like The Minister of Silly Walks, that would be me). Anyway, I noticed how I placed a negative tag onto every example I used for marking the passage of my eldest daughter's life up to her flying from the nest...with the exception of the band instrument. She played contra bass clarinet, and, yes, it was taller than most of the other band members. But, I'm derailing myself. As usual.

Well, it's taller than her when she's sleeping, erm, I mean sitting...

Anyway, back to subject. Laying in bed last night, waiting for sleep to conk me upside the head, I thought about how unfairly I painted this picture, how I took a broad swoop with the greyest grey paint I could find to color my view of past events.

Maybe, because there was a lot of greys in my daughter's life growing up, looking at it through my perspective. But that I could dip my brush into a brighter color, I could see the events in another hue, I realized that:

Days spent in at school, she learned to be a duck, letting the slings and arrows shot from the other kids roll off her like beads of rain.

Time spent on the bench at soccer matches gave her a feeling of being a part of something that may not always use her skills, but still needed her, for there is no "I" in "team".

Sitting in school meetings taught her that people will advocate for her, even if it was just "mom", and that she could also advocate for herself, and do so articulately and with passion.

Growing up, one has such a tumultuous relationship with the world. I guess I harbor memories of how my life was, growing up, and therefore projected those memories and feelings onto my daughter. But guess what?

My daughter is not me. Not by a long shot.

When she looks at the world, she's holding a paint-laden artist's pallet, full of every color imaginable in one hand, and a brush, heavy and dripping with paint in the other, poised to swoop.

I don't know what color she's using, but it's certainly not grey.

1 comment:

  1. Excellent commentary -- I wondered about that myself. I mean, this is Robyn -- and my favorite picture of her is the one from the Daily Times where she's stealing the ball from that creep who called her a -- I can't even type that word, it's so nasty.

    Yeah, I look back on my childhood -- at this point, I see some of the colors as well as the greys. (I told the story the other day about how I told the neighborhood boys to use ailanthus branches on their "no girls allowed" fort, rendering it unusable!)

    In retrospect, maybe I can have my happy childhood now?