There’s five inches of snow on the ground. Me and the kid could barely contain ourselves as we walked to school. We both wanted to bounce through the snow and step in the places where no one had walked yet so we could make footprints and hear the crunch of the snow under our boots. We were late to school.
I told the kid we had to hurry up, and she asked me is it her fault that she’s late? And that question made me feel sad and pitiful for her. Had I said something earlier to make her feel guilty? Had I been saying things to her this week that make her feel like she was to blame? I thought I had been doing good job of not transferring the Catholic Guilt I grew up with to her. But the way that she asked me that question, is it her fault, made me think that I hadn’t accomplished my goal.
I had promised myself that I would raise a confidant and self-assured kid. I didn’t want her growing up like I did; afraid, worrying, low self-esteem, and neurotic. I feel like I have talked myself out of so many things that I wanted because of my lack of confidence. I still have trouble believing in me.
Last night, I woke up at 3am, and I couldn’t get back to sleep. As I lay in bed, mind racing, that nagging voice in the back of my head kept poking at me – “You don’t have a career, you’re too old to start a new one, you aren’t that creative, you don’t know the right people, you don’t have any real friends, what create is boring and pedestrian.” I’m 45 years old, and sometimes I still feel like that 12-year-old on the first day of junior high; scared that they will all laugh at me and beat me up.
I don’t want my daughter to think of herself that way. I want her to like who she is, and be confidant in who she is, and not be afraid. I’m doing what all parents do – I want me kid to be better than me. And most days I don’t know how to do that. But I keep trying, because we’re going sledding after school, and that’s going to be a lot of fun.
