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June 2017

Letter to my kids. Today.


My hearts, my loves,

We check in with each other every day, but how much do we really know? How are you really?  How am I really? Sometimes the days fly by so fast that our inquiries about each other seem so monotonous and unfeeling.  We start to just tell each other we're fine before we even know we've said it. It forces me to ask again...are you ok? And then I worry when you give the same "I'm fine" answer.  You notice my brows curl inward a little and add a "..really" to the end to give me reassurance.  But I'm never reassured.

What am I looking for?  I don't know because I don't really WANT there to be more.  More in this case could actually mean worse.  I want to be content with you being content.  I want your answer to sit well with me every day and not lead me to get trapped in my own unsettled thoughts.  I want you to be exactly what you say you are...FINE.

Maybe I put too much stock in my own childhood and the person I was then.  I shouldn't do that, I know.  I should know that you are both also a product of your daddy who is calm and rational and loving and transparent and everything everything. And you are your own, too. You are not me.  

But that small part that IS like me is what causes my head to spin with every fine answer. What makes my parental spidey senses go into overdrive.  Maybe there's some essential oil or something I could diffuse to mute that a bit. 

But until then, I'll keep asking.  Probably to the point of annoyance. Probably until you're old and grey. 

How are you?

I love you.