On Letting Those We Love Be Perfectly Themselves
Sep 27 2013
I took the last 2 kids to school this morning and everyone was dressed including, I think, wearing socks and underwear.
I was still in my nightie but decided that throwing a t-shirt over it and leggings under it and finding mismatched flip flops and not brushing my hair or putting on make-up counted as “dressed” since I would be well-hidden inside my van.
Of course, the children never actually close the van door when they get out at school, racing as they are to make it inside the building in the final 11 seconds before they’re late (which counts as on time, in case anyone’s wondering), and so, despite hollering CLOSE THE DOOR out the window at them, I always face this choice:
a) Hop out of the van in my fashion-forward ensemble in front of the school and all the other frantic, rushed, last-minute parents who are in a hurry and want me to move my car already since they have only 6 seconds now ’til their kiddos are late late late… and close the door, and dash back around the car to hop in the driver’s seat, and promise myself I’ll get up earlier tomorrow (earlier than 22½ minutes before school starts, anyway), and be more organized overall, and for once make more for breakfast than Just Find Something in the Cupboard, Kids,
b) Try to shimmy out from underneath the steering wheel and vault into the back seat over the center console while not kicking over the cup of melted ice cream from 2 days ago, or stepping on the first grader’s precious and irreplaceable favorite stick which is almost completely hidden under protein bar wrappers and discarded coats and school papers and goldfish crackers so I can grab the door and shut it without stepping foot outside. And then, you know, reverse my course to fit myself like a 3-D puzzle piece back into the driver’s seat underneath the steering wheel while all the other frantic, rushed, last-minute parents want me to move my car already and … well, you get the idea.
This morning, I picked option b and executed it flawlessly.
Then I drove home, walked in the house, breathed a sigh of relief, opened a new bag of coffee beans, and set them carefully on the counter where they spilled anyway with a terrific, cascading crash as the beans skittered all over the floor. The sound was actually quite beautiful. The next sound was aw, sshhhit.
I had an anxiety attack last night. Not the kind where I feel anxious. The kind where my body pays no attention to the fact that I feel fine and decides to respond like I feel anxious anyway.
It’s like my body goes, “You’ve been feeling good lately, right? Pretty much totally functional? Nothing setting you off? Meds working well? Yeah; that’s weird and CANNOT BE. So, here, Beth; here’s a racing heart, for old time’s sake, and extremely sensitive skin, and – just for fun, fun, FUN – the general suspicion that you’re doomed and the world is doomed and, specifically, your children are doomed, and, also, you’ll never be well. P.S. Greg is blowing his nose that way on purpose. At you.”
And then my body cackles like the evil step mother in every Disney film, all high-pitched staccato and gleeful mockery.
Gosh, I love that.
In other words, it’s been a completely normal couple of days, and the only real downer is I have to keep dealing with me. It’s as though I’m always here, never fully put together and perpetually needing something or spilling something or feeling something. Blerg. And, well, I just wish sometimes that I’d give me a break and shush for a while, you know? Let me rest.
Thomas Merton wrote:
“The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves.”
This is one of the great keys to parenting; letting these little and big people we love be fully themselves, which is perfect. And imperfect. And perfect.
If there’s one thing my twins have taught me, in fact – twins who are very, very different despite being raised in the same chaotic environment – it’s that kids are who they are who they are. We parents can challenge them and champion them and channel them, hopefully for good, but we cannot – and I’d go as far as to say we must not – change them. Not at their core. Because they are, like every last one of us, divine. Made in Love’s own image. And also deeply flawed. Perfect. And imperfect. Which is perfect.
The beginning of loving our weird, wonky, wild, wonderful families is to let them be themselves.
But if that’s true – if people are who they are who they are – if we’re all flawed perfection, then I have to face the inescapable truth that I am, too. And so are you. At our core, we’re divine. And worthy of being loved exactly as we already are.
The beginning of love is to let those we love be perfectly themselves.
And so the beginning of loving myself is to let me be myself.
The bad news is we’re always at the beginning. Always at the start of the race. Always learning to love people – including ourselves – for who they really are, and never perfect at the already loving of them.
But the good news is new beginnings are allowed every minute. Every second. And the beginning we can do. It’s our only job. To begin. And begin again. And begin again. And then to let those we love be. Perfectly themselves.