That Kind of Mommy

Dear Child of Mine:

You run to me, begging me to push you on the swings. But you are five, and I am not that kind of Mommy. You can very easily pump your still-pudgy legs to help you reach for the sky, I know. You dance over later, asking me to go to the bathroom with you. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and I know you can take care of your own business at the local pool restroom. You wonder why the other kids have GPS chips under their forearm skin, their Mommies following them to wipe off any errant water droplets at any given moment. But I am not that kind of Mommy. You are perfectly capable of jumping in the two foot and doing your ice cream scoop strokes with yourself. Later, you come whimpering inside during afternoon playtime, crying for me to make you a fort. But I am not that kind of Mommy. I will be your biggest cheerleader and proudly take a picture of it when it is done, but I know your five-year old self contains the creativity to assemble your (lounge chair, soccer goal net, beach towel, stick) fort in style.

You beg me, pretty please with sugar on top, that you want to watch television ALL DAY LONG. But I am not that kind of Mommy and thirty minutes is plenty before your brain turns rotten. Your sister cries because EVERY OTHER girl in her class has an American Girl doll and twelve Webkinz, but I am not that kind of Mommy either. She is perfectly content playing with hand-me-down dolls, and her little brothers. You want to own every store-bought costume of your super-heroes, but I like you in Daddy’s too-big belt and your Great-Grandpa’s fedora, carrying the measuring tape greedily in your clutches as you bring your little brother to justice. You fall on the ground screaming when the ice cream truck rolls by. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and the twelve freezer pops waiting for your dessert cost less than one frozen treat in the truck.

I AM the kind of Mommy that will let you live and breathe and dance. You may walk down the whole street to school by yourself, even though I get weird looks from your teachers and the neighbors, and the crossing guard glares at me later. You may get your own drink refill at the Mexican restaurant; the look of pride on your face says it all. You may dress yourself each morning, even though you insist on long sleeves and pants on an 85-degree day, and your sister has a striped skort flanked with a polka dotted shirt, in lovely clashing colors. You may play outside in the back yard all by yourself, even if you are playing Indians with giant sticks or using the swingset as an obstacle course. You can frolic in a flooded sandbox, covering yourself from toes to head, even if the ground-in sand never quite comes out of your clothes. You may kiss worms and touch slugs and play for hours in the dirt, provided that you put the worms back in the garden that you planted all by yourself, carrots and cukes in little clusters like church choirs reaching to the heavens. I AM that kind of Mommy.

I AM the kind of Mommy that will be the supporting actress for your leading-man role. I will read you books to stretch your mind. Take you to church to build your faith. Make you write and draw in a journal even when every day you want to draw a sailboat and name it “Burger”. I will show you the beauty of nature and the peace found watching a sunset or sitting by the lake. Teach you to help your Grandma and say prayers for your Grandpa in heaven. I will remind you to shake hands and look people in the eye and always have a kind word for a stranger.

Child of mine, this world is not such a scary place. Many people will try to tell you that there are bad guys on every corner and tainted food and toys in every house. But you are fine. You really are. You are old enough to think for yourself, to trust your instincts, to stay out of treacherous situations. And that is what your Mommy expects of you. But its also true that we learn the most from our mistakes. I bet you will never use permanent markers to create your Indian war paint again, right? Life is for the living; it is a grand adventure. And how will you ever learn to make the big decisions if I never allow you to work on the small ones?

So, my son: laugh, write, ride, play, sing. Ride your bike around the corner and back. Build a rocket ship fort in the back yard. Talk to strangers at the park. Get close to the duck warming eggs in Grandma’s back yard. And always know that I am right behind you to cheer, to teach, to apply band-aids and sun screen, to kiss your broken heart back together. Yes, I AM that kind of Mommy.