Abernathy

So yesterday's 30-minute blog was a bust. Sat down to write and IMMEDIATELY got called away to something else. Letting it go, no judgment, self-forgiveness, all that self-love mumbo jumbo. Moving on...

I've noticed that I am most often inspired to write at the most inopportune times. Like when I'm running through an airport or driving on the interstate...or pooping. Seriously - who carries a notebook and pen to the bathroom? Besides, I'm usually inspired to write little notes of wisdom to my kids, which always strikes me as incredibly arrogant and a waste of time. My children aren't the type to listen to the wisdom of elders. Most definitely not any wisdom of mine.

MY mother says it's the Abernathy in us. Now, I'm not sure how the Abernathy's got pulled into the picture nor how they would feel about being an adjective used to describe hard-headed, mulish, cantankerous people. I have no idea how I might be related to any Abernathy's and don't really care. My mother would reply to that with "Exactly." Sigh.

I guess it boils down to this: there's so much I still want to teach them but can't. So many lessons I want to save them from having to learn the hard way. I talk to them and argue with them and love on them and watch them and hold my breath. I have drawn blood biting my own tongue and choked on I-told-you-so's. It is at those moments that I am thankful for living thousands of miles away. I don't want them to see in my face the lie behind my words. My poker face is nonexistent and on the phone, at least I can SAY the right things without fear of them seeing what my face is saying. I can hang up and yell at the emptiness in my house all the things a good mother never says to her children - no matter how old they are. I struggle with my Mom-voice and my ME-voice. These are my own growing pains and ones I'm glad to not share with them.

After I'm gone, I'd like to think they'll reflect fondly on my benevolence and understanding and empathy. In truth, I expect they'll be glad to be rid of me and my obsessive need to plan ahead for every possible outcome, my nagging tendency to answer questions with far more information than the question called for, my critical eye for things which can be improved. I hope they realize that those behaviors weren't aimed at them. They are more and better than I could have ever hoped. No, my heaviness is aimed at me. I plan ahead so I don't let them down, even though I feel like their disappointment in me is inevitable. I overload them with information because I want to give them ALL the tools, all the tools I had to earn. In my attempts to lighten their loads, I end up burdening them with implied expectations. I push for improvement because I will never, ever feel like I'm good enough to be their mom.

I know it's a convoluted way of thinking but it's how I'm wired. My insecurities project themselves on my children and horribly, inevitably manifest themselves in my relationships with the ones I love and treasure the most. If the Abernathy's feel the same way and beat themselves on each other because they love each other so hard, then I guess my mother is right. But please don't ever tell her I said that.