An empty playground brings to mind memories of raising my children. Married at age eighteen and a mother at nineteen, I was not prepared for all that life would demand. The little wisdom I thought I had in my feisty strong-willed youth was minuscule compared to the fathomless wealth of good sense I would need to trek the journey ahead of me.
Does every mother look back and discover her shortcomings? Must I call those failures? I’d rather call them missteps or mistakes. I gave my children love, respect, and discipline while they were growing up. I wasn’t perfect.
My daughter is raising my grandchildren now as a single mom. Once in a while I’ll see her acting in some manner that she learned from watching me. I recognize myself in her and gently suggest that not everything her mother did should be emulated. What? She seems not to know that some of her ways were in me first. I know I act like my mother even in some ways I didn’t want to imitate. But her ways are in me. The good, the bad, and … nah, my mom didn’t have ugly ways.