Finding A Thing

 

“This is my ballerina, this is my ball player, and this is my swimmer,” another mom introduced her kids to me one Spring day. 

We were meeting for the first time as she had just moved into the neighborhood. I admit they were an impressive bunch. I looked over at my four, with jelly smudges, mismatched clothes, and bare feet- okay, it wasn’t our best day- and thought how I would label them if I could: this is my daydreamer, my yogurt-eater, my struggling pianist, and uh, well, we don’t know what he is yet. Of course, I didn’t introduce my kids this way, and in reality my kids have done the typical kid activities, but I’m not sure we have excelled at any insofar as it makes their identity.  I think I mumbled something about their ages and where they went to school, but the rest of the evening, I kept thinking about my interaction with this new neighbor. More so, I began to ponder and, to be honest, doubt if I was the reason my kids did not have a “thing.” Were they missing out?

Then I looked the generations before mine- my mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother, and their siblings and husbands and children, and they have all been many things. Then I looked at myself and the different activities and phases I have gone through. When I dated that guy who was a marathon runner? I spent an obscene amount of money on running shoes and race tickets. Or my roommate who was super outdoorsy? Even in my twenties, a close friend built five garden beds in her backyard to grow vegetables. Her crops grew consistently and perfectly. I decided to build a bed, could only grow okra, immediately acquired an ant infestation, read how to naturally repel the ants with coffee grinds and hot water, and basically made coffee in my garden bed. Next, she got chickens. I raised my white flag, remained the best of friends and enjoyed her robin egg blue first fruits. I’m not a gardener, but I tried it. I’m not a marathon runner, or outdoorsy, or a mother of chickens. I will find new things to try but I’m not just one thing. Once I looked back, I could ease again because there was time. Time to grow and learn and make mistakes, and try new things, fail, succeed, try again, start over, start for the first time. Some people are born with talent, others work to the bone to develop a skill. Every person, every child, is different, and my bunch will be ok. My struggling pianist is an incredible doodle-er (if that is even a word) and won an art award at school. My daydreamer is a STEAM enthusiast, a big cuddler, and loves to shoot basketball in our driveway. My yogurt eater is the world’s best helper, can make a bed like a military lieutenant, and loves drinking tea with her daddy. And the last one, the baby, loves my chili, Star Wars, and riding his bike. They aren’t one thing, and I wouldn’t want it any other way .

I heard former First Lady Michelle Obama say the question she cringes to hear asked of children is “what do you want to be when you grow up?” because, as she knows first-hand, you can be many many things.