Becoming Myself

Becoming myself. Becoming who I was meant to be. Becoming what is expected.
My dear, I just don't find that becoming... Becoming hair. Becoming clothes. Becoming behavior. Becoming appearances.

I look at my children every day, and they amaze me. One of them seems exceptionally musical. Begs me to play specific songs in the car over and over. As she mouths words that are not yet part of her vocabulary, she bobs her head to the beat. When I turn around to watch, she shyly acknowledges me, and then with firmness tells me, "Don't peek, mommy. Don't peek." She dances in a class with girls twice her age. People are drawn to her everywhere we go. Isn't she cute? Isn't she smart? She's so articulate. How old is she? I find her comforting in my darkest moments as I hear words I have said to her out of love and concern come back to me. She understands them. She knows how to use them just as I do. Her big blue eyes light up every room with a combination of sweetness and a knowingness that only the oldest of souls might achieve, leaving you to wonder if she is eight or eighty-three. She is two.

My son is an emotional ride. Sheer joy and wonderment at the newness of every experience. Bright eyed and enthusiastic. High, High, High... until the devastation. Huge tears and frustration mixed with passion and anger. Defeated in the sheer futility of it all. Light and dark. Yin and Yang. Sandwiched around the tendency to whine. The light I love, the dark I contain as we wait for the next dawn. The whining I gently redirect into conversation about his favorite topic, how things work. Ceiling fans, cars, key fobs and clocks. The sun and the moon... one appearing as the other dims. He points out light bulbs that need to be changed and follows the repairman, the gardener, the plumber as they fix the world's problems one at a time. He remembers events, colors and details long after a child might forget and has taken to reading manuals. Pouring over the diagrams and instructions, becoming discouraged only when we see one begin to disintegrate and remove it. Surely, we might need to know how our used Honda works one day too. While watching him on the floor, turning pages of my grown up books he has pulled off the shelves, he looks up from a sea of type face with a thoughtful glance of bafflement and concern and confides in me that he isn't yet able to read. He is three.

And I think I might be raising two prodigies. Really I do. I think that it is possible. No, definitely probable that they are unique and exceptional in ways that it is only a matter of time will be revealed to the world. They are perfect. They were conceived and then born perfectly. Perfect just as they are. Perfect even in their imperfection. But then I stop myself. I certainly don't share my suspicions. For one, what if I am wrong? How embarrassing. Or better yet, who am I to presume such a thing?

I am reminded of myself. "Who do you think you are?" Who do I think I am? Who am I? Who am I becoming? Becoming a friend. Becoming a wife. Becoming a mother. Becoming myself. But, is it becoming? I mean, God forbid I walk out of step, sing the wrong note, write the wrong word. Straight hair. Thin. Well mannered. Well spoken... Maybe even well bred.
Now, that's becoming.

Wow, bullet dodged. I finally fit back into my wedding dress, my prom dress, my first day of first grade dress. Tight... tighter... tightest.
And then I look at their little faces: their beautiful, perfect faces, and I think maybe, just maybe, I will give them a gift.

Amy_Kate_Gowland