Something I’ve been mulling over: how do I work at something that takes up a lot of my time and mental energy, something I care a lot about, but not put ultimate hope in the results of my work?
You think I’m talking about writing, but I’m talking about raising kids. My oldest is 17, now, and my baby is 14. So much of what I’ve prioritized in the last 17 years is stuff that can’t be measured. The trips to museums, the long talks and I’m sorry’s, the tears over math worksheets, the orchestra concerts and travel, have they made a difference in my kids’ lives?
My kids are almost grown. They’re intellectually curious and kind. They’re beginning to know their place in in the world.
Still. How many of those traits would they have developed without focused effort on my part? Has what I worked for in the last 17 years mattered?
Also, how do I let my kids fail (which is so important) and not feel it as my failure? How do I let go of the results of years of caring?
Maybe this is one reason I write–because the joys and sorrows it brings, my various successes and failures, belong only to me.
*photos 1-3 taken by my oldest son