Tenderness
Photo by Catia Climovich on Unsplash
I wrote these notes to myself in 2014 — 11 or so years ago. Funny how some things don’t change.
Heart to heart. This being human. Being a mom. The tenderness of it. I trust my children to come to me with their sad stories, with their angst and fears, self-recrimination, worry, worry, worry, problems. Of course I want to fix it solve it. This is my first instinct and yet I can’t do that.
Tender beings seeking their way. Their way. Tender like peas. I think of the way my son T loves green peas. Like how he never ate them but then M, my friend and the mom of his friend, made them one day when he was at her house. She remarked at the time to T that they are perfect. Perfectly green and round. Tiny frozen green peas. Microwave them for 3 minutes, et voila! Perfect every time.
How reliable is the green pea. The frozen bag of peas. Good for whatever ails you. A vegetable in a jam, a bit of color to throw into a stew, a cold pack to put on a bruised knee. Comfort food with a capital C. Add a scoop of mashed potatoes and you’ve really got something. Add chicken and gravy and they’re even better. In fact, I can’t really enjoy a fresh pea as much as a frozen one. Though I can never forget canned Le Soeur peas, my dad’s favorites from when I was a kid. Those premium cans cost 25 cents more than the regular canned peas. They were “gourmet.” I remember the earthy taste.
It is funny to think about my dad’s tenderness. He was so big and gruff and strong. But I also was privileged to connect with the softness of his being. The parts that were so young or scared or unsure. He showed me that late in his life.
I don’t exactly remember where the metaphor came from but there was a time when, in struggling with my relationship with my ex-husband, I came to think of him as this big can of peaches that I’d been carrying around everywhere. Trying to get to the sweet, delicious peaches on the inside. I’d been carrying that can so long it was all dented and rusty and the label was peeling off, and still I couldn’t find a way to open it. Where’s a can opener when you need it? But now I see there’s a problem with that metaphor to begin with. Brute force, willpower, dissatisfaction with what is. Trying to muscle it. When, in fact, that’s pointless and there’s some different way.
Back to tenderness. Having tenderness and compassion for myself is key. There isn’t much I can do or solve for my children. They will find their way. That’s the painful part for me, standing aside and allowing them to find their way. Without doing or trying to do it for them or even making suggestions about how to do it. I’m so glad they talk to me. I’m so lucky because the connection is like water or food or blood. Sustenance. I’m so grateful to witness and then do what I can for them.
Mainly, I can only love them. And then have compassion for them and for myself. For the mom who can’t fix it all. For the mom who beats herself up about all the lost opportunities to have been right there like a reverse remora making sure they grew into perfect human beings. Or one’s idea of a “perfect” human being. Let’s get rid of that stupid idea of perfect. They are perfect in exactly who they are.
It was and still is a disappointment to me: When I discovered that I am only who I am. I’m nobody else and I’m not perfect. But I’m perfectly me. Better to befriend that imperfect self and that’s what I’ve been striving to do for the last decade or so. I wish for my boys to befriend themselves — hopefully earlier in their lives than I did. I see that they are unique. They are entirely themselves and that’s a wonderful thing. I wish for them to see it and embrace it, but I don’t get a say in the matter. All I can do is give them love, more love, more love, more love.
