Tipped into an inversion
in the cadence of
generations, while the brutal
careless flip
generalizations
about the structures of a life;
coarse welded coils of time,
forced to be held
in the creases of small
soft hands of a mind
that can carry
only so much.
What is the essence of childhood for you?
How do you perceive children’s experience?
What would you say to yourself as a child?
Feeling highly cognizant of how deeply this world fails its children (and yes, utter shame as a citizen of a land that purports to be about freedom, about dreams). Today I’m feeling the weight less as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse, and more as an adult and parent myself.
I question. Always. As the horrors play out around us and the headlines I can’t tear myself away from grow more vicious by the day. As the faces of monsters peer from screens and papers, smug even in disgrace, even in death. As inhumane conditions and unspeakable violations continue to kill.
And as the daily interactions and decisions of parenthood make me wonder: What made me think I was qualified to create and raise another human, just because I felt a primal need I’d never expected to feel? What crisis of ego told me I was equipped to parent three humans created by others, just because I loved their father and then I loved them too, with the same inevitability? What right did I ever have, even if getting it right was all I ever wanted?
True empathy. Meeting them where they are, and asking their permission to join them there. Living by the platinum rule. Showing up, exactly when and where and how they need me to. Sharing difficult feelings so they’ll see that their own are OK. Making it my responsibility to understand their lived experience, so I can best guide them through it. Being a safe place, always.
These are the only ways I know to try to make it right. For them, and for me too.
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