It’s 8:45 pm, typical bedtime in our home. One of my older girls pauses to fill her water bottle. She is giggly. I look askance and she spills the tea. First loves, crushes, kisses. It all comes pouring forth. I smile along with her and as we walk upstairs remind her that actions have consequences. I sneak in a tiny discourse on keeping up with grades. She takes it well and bounces into her bedroom.
In the weekend prior, I traveled with just my twins for the first time. It was freeing, this ability to let go and know they will be okay. All around me were parents feeding kids, cautioning them from straying too far, taking them to the bathroom. I did not miss any of that.
Over the weekend, my girls and my nieces huddled over phones exchanging tidbits of their lives, sharing photos and confidences. I envied their comradery and remembered my childhood.
If my teenage was all about stifling rules and fear of the outside world, I breathed in relief watching my children wear what they want, be vocal in their feelings and tread in fresh teen waters for the first time. I watched, a tad anxious, knowing broken hearts lie ahead.
When the twins were babies, I often thought about the kind of parent I would be as they grew older. I realize I am chill(er), my fears tamer, my tolerance broader than what I had expected it to be.
Of course it is too early to make a pronouncement but I like what I see in the mirror and that is a good start.