As I wrote a comment on someone’s blog today, I stopped to ponder the serious, deep truth of what I had written. The triggering thought was about an experience of family that included spending Sundays at your mom’s. Every Sunday, 1pm. After church, before the ballgame, usually chicken.
We encountered that culture in West Virginia. How I ached to be a part of that. To belong, in such an unquestioned and unquestioning way. That is not my past, nor that of my husband, or children. Neither is it an expectation of mine for my kids, nor theirs for their children.
But I began to think about it, especially as DD20 gets closer to her due date. I do not approve of the direction in which my children have gone. It breaks my heart and deeply disappoints me. I also know that I told my kids from the time that they were little that I would not be a stereotypical grandparent. I mean, I went so far as to tell my daughter that her child (afterwards to be referred to as The Squirt) should plan to call me Aunt Meg (after the woman I wish I were from the movie Twister).
Having poured myself into my kids from conception on, till about 6 months or so ago, I wish to move a thousand miles away. I have completely lost touch with who in essence I truly am. Because I seem incapable of keeping my mouth shut to my kids about the choices they’ve made and are making, I think it will be better for all of us if I love them all from afar. They would not be here on Sundays even if I kept my mouth shut.
Somehow, despite all the nurturing and encouraging, they do not desire attachment parenting for their kids. They want them to have bottles and day care and public school. I remade myself from the inside out to be a LaLeche-homeschooling-make all their clothes-cook everything from scratch kind of mom. I feel ill-used, bamboozled and betrayed.