When my babies made their respective magical exits from the womb to this side and I saw their sweet, albeit smooshed faces, I was pretty much certain they were both the next best thing to sliced bread. Really, doesn’t every mother feel this way? At less than a week old, I’d filled in all the blanks in their coming lives.
Both would be geniuses (note that I’m not a genius–I’m reasonably smart but definitely not a genius). Both would learn to read by age two, never mind that I didn’t. Both would be incredibly athletic and remarkably coordinated, again never mind that I’m not incredibly athletic or remarkably coordinated. Both would also be stunning physical specimens: my daughter, a paragon of female perfection (whatever the heck that is!); my son, a manly man with a fine, square jaw (this might actually happen since his father has a jaw that could slice cheese), a wide, warm smile and muscles.
Before you roll your eyes, please know that I’m being mostly facetious and poking fun at myself. But as a mom, I invest so much into my children–I mean, my body grew them–that it can be hard to step back from “mom fantasyland” and see who my children are and what they need, all my fantastical notions aside.
Early childhood experts contend that most personality traits, preferences, motivations, etc. are in place by age five. This stat makes me freak out a little. I guess I can’t pretend either one of my children is a literary or mathematical genius anymore; I can’t lay claim to passing along my prodigious athletic ability. In a nutshell: I guess it means coming to grips with the reality that my kids aren’t all that remarkable, if I use a traditional yardstick. It stings, just a tiny little bit. It’d be kind of cool to have produced a “genius.”
I know you’re thinking, “But, Rachel! All kids are remarkable and special!” I agree with you. Completely. I do think my kids are beautiful, smart, kind, and funny. Other folks corroborate this opinion, too. But parenting also means learning to accept my kids for who they are–loving them where they are–not where I think they should be, and exiting “mom fantasyland.” It’s learning to allow for their unique struggles, understanding what makes them tick or makes them sad.
My husband’s genetic material complicates this detective work. Laughably (poor things, really!), each kid inherited unique traits, mannerisms, modes of being that I can trace back to myself or him. Some qualities I totally understand and find completely superior (mine, duh!), and some are utterly foreign to me. Additionally, while each kid is some variation of my husband and I, each child is herself or himself. It’s a reality that’s both frustrating and magical.
Both my kids LOVE, LOVE, LOVE birds. See posts on rescuing Puffin Rainbow from the our muddy pond or hand-raising a baby robin who’d been abandoned by its mother and you’ll see what I mean. Birds are fine, but I don’t love birds in the same way they do. But we have two parakeets, Puffin Rainbow and her boyfriend, aptly named Handsome Warren, who reside in our house. Why? Because I want to foster their bird-whispering genius. My kids may not be conventional geniuses, but they have talents and interests that set them apart from everyone else in the world, and that’s pretty special.
