They don’t mean it. It’s not intentional. They have their lives to live. It’s what we’ve raised them for. We wanted strong men. Women.
Adults to go out into the world and leave their mark. To begin families of their own. Careers.
Dreams. We wanted them to be able
to stand on their own two feet. To do
more than survive. To thrive. We wanted them to have lives of their own.
They don’t mean it. To leave us behind. To experience those moments in life that
we’ve dreamed of them experiencing without us.
They just got caught up in the moment.
Lost in the excitement, the rush of achieving. They don’t mean to live their lives without
us.
They don’t mean it. It’s not on purpose. It’s not meant to hurt, even though it’s a dagger
in the heart. Twisting.
They’re grown. Adults.
They don’t need us, because we did our job right.
They don’t mean it, but it does
hurt. It hurts more than we want them to
know. Our lives have been based around
them for two decades and more and now that they are on their own, they don’t
need us anymore and that pain ages us faster than the years ever could.
They don’t mean it. To leave us out. Forget us.
To think that we wouldn’t want to be a part. Share the experience. To just be there.
For years we’ve been at baseball
games and soccer games, school plays and fund raisers, attending everything
they were a part of merely because they were
a part of it. We took them to rock
concerts and stood by speakers that rattled our internal organs because they
wanted to stand close. We’ve sewed
costumes and worked bake sales. We drove
to other cities for competitions and chaperoned the same field trip year after
year. Our lives were their lives.
They don’t mean it. It’s just that they don’t understand. We were there for the first step, the first
tooth and the first day of school. We
snapped pictures at the first performance and screamed until we were hoarse at
the first baseball game. We hugged them and
dried their eyes after the first break up and put up with the first emotional
bout when the hormones hit.
And there was more. The first car followed by the first
accident. The first haircut and piercing
of ears. The first day of school followed
years later by graduation and then the first day of college. We were there for it all, the good and the
bad.
Then, before we know it, we
aren’t there anymore.
Not by our choosing. Oh no, we want to be there. We want to help decorate that first dorm or
apartment. We want to watch as they
order their first drink at twenty-one and be a part of the silly pictures
before they walk down the aisle. We’re
not done being a part of their lives, even though they want us to be mere
spectators as opposed to participants.
So we sit and we watch and we’re ready for those brief moments that they
do need our help. We would never refuse
them, because it allows us to be a part once again.
They don’t mean it just like we
didn’t meant it at their age when we were just as eager to do it all on our
own. They don’t mean it just as their
kids won’t mean it when their time comes.
They don’t mean it, which is why grudges are never held and bitterness
never reigns. They don’t mean it, but it
still hurts; at least, for awhile.
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