By Jennifer Savage.
I want my daughter to be who she is but I can’t help but want to fold her into soft, downy wings and keep her from a world that might not be kind to a child who moves between genders or a teenager who does.
My apathy and naiveté are shocking even to me. Almost as shocking as the fact that Donald Trump is going to be our president. Almost.
I’m in love with Montana. For other states I have admiration, respect, recognition, even some affection. But with Montana it is love. And it’s difficult to analyze love when you’re in it.
When I was thirteen I changed my brother’s diapers and at nineteen I rocked my sister to sleep on our front porch swing. I remember the weight of her small, curled hand in my lap as she slept. This is what I want, I thought, not now, but some day.
I feel stretched, worn thin and the thing that bothers me most is that I seem to get to this place a lot, head in hands wondering what is wrong with me.
Well, I’m sitting here feeling like a pretty crappy mama. We missed Eliza’s class holiday performance tonight. We didn’t miss it because we chose not to go. We missed it because we were late and her class performed without her.
I only have a glimpse of it now but I think I’m starting to understand that we are parents forever.
Be gentle. Be kind. Be tender. Be vulnerable. I breathe these in. And it’s working.
I couldn’t see it through her fury but she’d wanted me to reassure her and I had, in many acts of stubbornness, drawn lines in the sand.