LONGING: THE DEFINITION OF ANGST

LONGING: THE DEFINITION OF ANGST 

 

Valentine's Day.

 

It's so over.

 

Oh wait. It actually is. It was this past Tuesday.

 

My tween girl did not have a good Valentine's Day. Her friends with boyfriends received gifts and grams of some sort, and the only gram she received was from her sweet social studies teacher, a lovely woman.

 

By the time she came home to me, she was a sad little puddle.

 

Her: I don't really want a boyfriend.

Me: Okay.

Her: But today it would have been convenient.

 

When my husband picked her up from school, she told him she wanted to go by the store to pick up the "biggest card possible" for mom and special ingredients to make me a great dinner. He had to rein her in from also buying me flowers and chocolate and everything else possible and then…and then he had to make a comment to the line and the cashier, as men are wont to do, that she was 'projecting her desire for holiday happiness onto mom.'

 

#Mancode #doh #facepalm

 

Oh, men.

 

I'm not big on organized holidays where people are forced to show affection. I even have (get ready to shoot me) the same problem with Christmas. And it's not because I'm a (non-practicing) Jew. Please. I'm married to Santa. (That would be against some kind of Stocking Hung By The Chimney rule or something.)

 

Perhaps it's the rebel in me, but I'd much rather my guy bring flowers on a Tuesday in August for no apparent reason other than he loves me. Or put his hand on my hip as he slide past me in that room where food comes out of. Or whisper in my ear that I look pretty or hot or edible. #ahem

 

Sorry, what?

 

Oh yea. That means more to me than a card or dinner out.

 

Call me crazy.

 

Mostly I avoid getting sucked in because it sets up these ridiculous expectations for our tenderhearted special little people.

 

The six year-old is set. He's in Kindergarten. They have a party. He gets tons of Valentines from girls he thinks are stupid. And enough candy to help him crawl on the ceiling all night.

 

So the one who doesn't want them gets them, and the one who wants them doesn't get them.

 

(Why do I feel I should be talking about straight vs curly hair?)

 

I realize I can't protect her from longing. To be included. To be a part of something.

 

And I don't want to. She needs to feel this.

 

As I hugged my girl, soothing her sleeves full of heart, rocking her gently, whispering sweet nothings to her as mothers are wont to do, I realized okay, maybe  I have to compromise my principles and give into tradition. For the sake of my baby girl's heart.

 

But will it mean the same coming from me? I'm only her mom. It's the swirling mass of awkward hormones and lipgloss school scene where it makes the difference.

 

If nothing else, I'm grateful to be there for my girl. She's a love, a beautiful, caring heart. She'll find her place, I have no doubt. (This is her art accompanying this post.) Art is already her home. It took me years to find my writing sanctuary.

 

My answer for now is that junior high school sucks. I remember it clearly. Age twelve was an extraordinarily difficult year for me (for reasons I'll discuss more in future posts and my next book). She handles it with far more grace than I.

 

So for now, the day of hearts and flowers is over.

 

Which means I have another year to pass my steely resolve on to her marshmallow heart.

 

Maybe it will take. I kinda hope it won't…

 

 

 

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