A New Year for My Daughters
“What do you want for Christmas, Elsa?” We had asked her some weeks ago.
“I want a laptop like mommy’s, a case for the laptop like mommy’s, the software to write, just like mommy’s, I would also like a leather bound notebook and a silver pen just like Aunty Jenny gave mommy to write.”
“Well do you want anything else? A new toy? Book?” We pressed on.
“No, I’m going to be a writer like mommy and I need these things. These are the things that help you be a writer.” my six year old was adamant.
While flattered by all of this, a large realization fell upon my consciousness. She was seeing me for the first time. Ever since she could speak, if we asked what she’d like for a job she would love, she’d say “engineer like daddy.” I didn’t mind that at all for her father was the most hardworking, successful engineer I know and it was a great aspiration to have, though we wish bigger things for her.
But now she wants to be me. The me I was timid to show, to try to achieve anything. I did not have the confidence or courage that was needed to achieve anything. I was trying this writing gig to see how far I’d get. I wasn’t yet a professional or anything. I was afraid for her aspirations lying in my failing lap. She had been listening to our conversations and my lamenting over writing and my capabilities.
“Aunty Jenny said you’re going to help a lot of people with your writing mommy. You got this, I got your back.” She said one day over dinner.
“Yeah mommy I got your back too!” Added my four year old Anna mouthful of chicken.
While my heart expanded to explode into a million magical pieces, I gave deep thoughts to the sentiment. My greatest achievements in life thus far sat across me at that dinner table. They are the most amazing humans I could’ve raised. I raised them to be kind, emphatic, generous, sweet, loving, supportive of others and absolute assholes should the occasion call for. I had spent the last seven years mothering them from in my belly to the world they step into and affect every single day now. I am constantly praised for what wonderful children they are, at the grocery store, at their schools, at all the community engagement projects my oldest participates in. They are beautiful successful children. I celebrate this fact every day. My achievements have always been tied to my children and my husband and my family. I am the woman beside that successful man, supporting him and standing in for him and standing up for him in the background. I am successful.
The success however perceived has never been one that was mine, mine alone. Ever since I met Daniel, I’d led an easy life. He’s taken care of everything as I involved myself in voluntary activities within the communities we live in. Yet there had always been a hole in my being, I always wanted more. Not more of what we already had, more for myself. More for my sense of being. I needed a deep gash in my sense of being to be remedied. I wanted an achievement for myself.
I’d look several places, a job that wasn’t satisfying, a business plan I didn’t have the guts to follow through with, even a multilevel marketing gig. I would always end up disappointed and unassured. It had never felt like I would ever achieve something substantial I could call my own.
Writing came about as pillow talk chit chat with Daniel. I decided to give it a go and had several encouraging words of confidence from friends to carry on. I carried on and I carried on, my mind fixated on an outcome that was mine. The motivation and drive found me where I didn’t even know where to look. The words fell onto the pages as they were meant to be and my thoughts bare for all to see.
My daughter watched me carry that leather bound notebook and pen around everywhere with me jotting down ideas and phrases. She watched me with no instruction to meditate to begin my writing. She sat with me and meditated. She brought her computer and supplies into my writing space to be close to me. She was watching. I thought nothing of this at first, until one day she showed me what she had done on her computer. She had written a beautiful short story and wanted to get my critique as I would get from my friends. She was being a writer.
Upon completing my first draft, there were big phone celebrations and celebrations with my husband and daughters. I had completed my first draft despite a meltdown I had the month before. She saw me succumb to mental illness and bounce back to finish what I started. She made me a celebratory card, it was a large piece of 24” X 48” cardboard she cut out of a furniture box with a drawing of a woman with curly hair and a book next to her and the word motherfucker written under the woman. She was proud of me, that phrase came from Kesha’s song ‘Woman’ that she loves.
“Am I the motherfucker?” I asked her.
“Yes, you did a difficult thing mommy. You completed your draft. You’re a motherfucking woman!” Elsa exclaimed.
She was proud of me for accomplishing something, and at Christmas she wanted everything so she could be like me. I had achieved something. I am plowing through something I began and I’m not stopping.
It has just become even more important to me now. My daughters see a woman, a strong woman, a woman overcoming invisible obstacles to achieve something. She was inspired by me, in turn I am inspired by her belief in me, her confidence in me and her conviction in my abilities. My doubts melting away or hiding out for a bit with the fury of my daughter’s love and support for me takes priority in this life. I want to be the mother she sees me to be. There aren’t many reasons to be my highest self if not for the spirits of my daughters. Wherever this goes, I must see it through. I must continue to fight the demons I sometimes concede to. I am not one for new year resolutions, but I am one for changing course or charging forth when there is wind of inspiration and support from those I live for.
This year will be my year because I’m charging full steam ahead for my daughters. This year I will be the motherfucker.