Okay. So, you say you hate me. I know. I can hear it in your muttered breaths. The secret whispers to your friends. The dramatic outbursts to your sibling.
And that is okay.
Yes, of course it hurts. Thankfully, you have yet to say it to my face. Because then I would be forced to punish you. Please, keep that in mind. I do not want to have to do that. Because…
I know you are going to hate me.
However, I still need you to respect me.
I have hated my mother. And so on… It is a tradition older than the moon.
It is an act of growing up. The frustration of thinking you have grown into your full being, only to find that you still cannot make all of your own decisions.
I get it.
I make decisions on your behalf that you do not agree with. I am not backing down. My job is to steer you in the right direction. To watch you stumble. To watch you fall. To lend you a hand up.
Sometimes the wheel of your life is steered away from a choice you would have made.
And you hate me for it.
My only hope for us, will be, you will love me more than you hate me. That one day, you will realize that while you were hating me, I was busy loving you.
Because I do.
I will never hate you.
But it is okay for you to hate me.
In a few short years, the wheel will be all yours. You will look back in the rearview mirror. You will see the lane behind you. The tracks sharply winding around the rubble of bad choices and maybe even missed opportunities.
And you will see me.
Blisters on my hands. The callouses a reminder of the years spent maneuvering through obstacles. You will grip the wheel. It might be grooved with the imprint of my hands. You begin to veer away. The road will be vast. There will be many turns and forks in the horizon. The possibilities of each path will be of your own choosing.
“Be careful.” You see my mouth move in the mirror. “The wheel can be tricky.”
You realize this is true as you make your first turn on your own.
I hope then you will understand.
I love you.
* I have recently learned my children are googling my blog. Which is sweet. Very sweet. But I also want to know that they are learning something from me besides simple recipes and pretty clothing. These letters are real letters to my children. From their mother. You might not agree with my message, but please respect my sentiment.