My childhood had lonely days.
As a product of two people who participated in an amicable divorce, I spent hours upon hours being shuttled between two houses by either parent. First, I sat in the back seat of the car. Eventually, I graduated to the front passenger seat, until I finally became my own driver.
During these rides, bumping over potholes and tossed by lane changes, is when I first remember thinking deeply and introspectively. In the quiet of the car on a Thursday morning before school, chauffeured by my dad from Chicago’s Wrigleyville to Evanston, I began my quest for truth.
My parents didn’t have the luxury of giving me much autonomy during my weeks, which were built on a rigid schedule. It was important to both of them that I should spend time with the other, and so I was carted back and forth. I spent Wednesday nights, Thursday mornings, and Sundays with my dad. These days were nonnegotiable, because my father worked long hours; he had Thursday and Sunday off. The rest of the time I lived with my mom.
They told me this movement was for my own good, and I cannot disagree. They said that one day I would thank them for both sticking around and investing in me, and they weren’t wrong. Because yes, I know how lucky I am to have two supportive, doting, consistent parents who want to spend time with me. But that fact didn’t make those rides any less isolating.
Because I had no sibling riding along in those cars, all those Wednesdays and Thursdays and Sundays, and holidays. I was all by myself. I had no ally, no buddy, no companion.
Of course I had my parent there with me; but they were the doers, the actors, and I was the passive participant. The one it was happening to. The little girl in the backseat staring out the window, wind whipping her hair, chin slightly raised.
During those rides, I spent a lot of time conversing one-on-one to the driver, whether it be Mom or Dad. And because of this, there are few people on the planet who I feel as comfortable around, as at ease with, as natural in the company of.
Now that I have my own children, I can’t help but ponder, what is it that I value most about a childhood? What do I hope to cultivate for my own kids? What is important to protect, to keep sacred and secure? And how much power over this do I actually possess?
As an adult, I have a rebellious streak. I buck up against authority and embody the anti-passenger. I don’t ever want to ride along, to travel somewhere without a say in the matter. I crave control and autonomy, a reaction to a relic from my past that I still carry. If I don’t get a voice in my day, when too many forces greater than me, like my own children and work and real-world obligations take over, I feel the heat start to rise from my chest to my cheeks. I am flush with panic, overcome with a desire to bolt, as if I am still buckled into the backseat.
I understand that children will often lose their autonomy and voice. It is part of life. You have to go to school; you have to brush your teeth; kids are hardly mature enough to make their own decisions. But I want to give my children the gift of choice whenever I can. I hope there are days that they alone will dictate. I hope the big picture of their life is theirs for the making.
We, as parents, attempt to teach our children about unconditional love through example. We know our actions will have unintended consequences, and we accept those consequences as necessary, chalk them up to unfortunate fallout. This is how we keep going, day after day.
This I know and accept, all parents make their deals.
We feel our way in the dark, doing the best we can for our kids because we love them; we only want what is best. Because we chose to bring them here, into this world, and so we have a responsibility to show them the beauty and potential of this place. We fight, as parents, for what we think is right.
We try and we fail but we never stop going. We travel.
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