My Ceiling, Their Floor

My eldest daughter is a true introvert, someone who comes alive with her chosen people, but otherwise is reasonably content to sit quietly thinking her own thoughts. When she was a toddler, if she got too lost in her thoughts, she would forget to sit up and fall right out of the chair she was in. Even now, if we’re in the middle of a conversation and I make an interesting point, she’ll fall silent, eyes glazed over, as her brain races over the many implications, deciding whether or not she agrees with me.

Many times she doesn’t. And as the two youngest get older, they also have their own opinions. It’s been fun, watching them have their own approaches to life. The other night, we were talking about how some people, when someone tells them they can’t do something, no matter how mundane, they just have to try. I wryly noted that we had a little of that in our family. One of the twins protested, “No, I don’t!” and I responded, “I’m not talking about you.” The other simply smiled and chuckled. She knows herself.

It's not always easy, though. There are moments where I want to say, “Because I told you so.” But these are Forrest’s children, and he’s been training them on using logic and testing arguments since the day they could talk. There is no logical hole that my kids cannot find. My eldest, sweet soul that she is, usually finds the fault in my thinking but doesn’t point it out unless she has to. The younger two, however, delight in getting one over on Mom.

I’m told that they’re respectful at school which is the most important part to me. Still, there are moments where I wish they believed in my wisdom a little bit more. I know it’s the age, and more than that, it’s a necessary part of development. They have to differentiate themselves from Forrest and me, figure out all the little ways where they don’t want to do something the way they’ve been taught. They need to become their own people, not simply little pieces of our family. And I love that for them. I want them to become those people, grown up and mature.

But oh, it’s so hard. Sometimes I still want them to be little babies who look to me for answers. I don’t want them to disappear off on their own to just figure it all out themselves. These days, when they ask for advice, we end up having an hour long discussion about whether or not my advice will work for them. They’re right – I don’t know everything and they are experts on what it’s like to be a tween these days. But it was nice back when they thought I was the be all end all.

It’s only going to get worse from here. I’m lucky that they still try to see my perspective at all. I’m sure there are a few years coming up where I won’t even be able to say good morning without being told it’s actually a terrible morning and why did I ever think otherwise? And then I’m sure at the end of it all, they’ll come back and show me how I should have been doing it differently all along. And they’ll be right.

I both long for and dread that moment where they shine the mirror back on me. I once read a book by Hilary McBride about mothers, daughters and body image. It was fascinating, and she interviewed a lot of mothers who didn’t like their bodies, but had somehow taught their daughters how to accept their physical flaws. The author summed up by saying, “We strive so that our ceiling can be their floor.” I wept over that page. We all work so hard to be better so that our kids can start at the place where we could only just reach. All the parenting books, all the therapy, all the hard work to be more patient, more kind, more thoughtful – it’s for me, yes, but mostly it’s so that they can take what I have only just learned and build on it.

If the price I have to pay for that is that they come back and try to drag me forward? I’d gladly pay it a thousand times over.