Sometimes (okay, oftentimes) I wonder what the hell I was thinking when I decided to have kids. I don’t seem to really have the guts for it.
In fact, I don’t guess that I really decided; it was just something that had to happen, in the normal course of events, after love & marriage. You know, kids in a baby carriage and all.
We are headed out to a party tonight. The girls are excited. It is the 40th birthday of an old friend of Gee’s, who happens also to be our dentist, who happens also to live in an amazing house, who happens to have some pretty awesome kids and a whole lotta everything.
This woman throws an annual Christmas kick-off party that has long been a tradition for our family. The kids look forward to it every year; it marks the beginning of the season of excess and abandoned schedules and happy parents and plenty. And yet, for the last couple of years, my two, uber-sensitive, gentle girls have been hurt at this party; left out of the play, tossed aside by older girls who see each other more often, have more things in common, and I am left to mend the little hearts and put the pieces back together.
It is not a role I play well. I have a hard time locating the balance between self-confidence & accomodation of others for myself, let alone for my children. I want them to stand up for themselves and at the same time learn to get along, but I’m not really sure where the line is or how to draw it.
So tonight, I’m nervous. I want to have a good time; I want my girls to have a good time too. I don’t want to be the helicopter parent: I don’t want to encourage my kids to find a niche for themselves when others don’t want to make a place for them. They have grown up in the center of our attention; they have never known anyone to not love them wholly for exactly who they are, so when they find themselves in a situation where that is not the case, it is a foreign country for all of us.
I suppose there are worse things…