I Walk the Lines(and carry them proudly)

I grew up, as many children do, completely oblivious to the world around me. I played happily, ate heartily, slept sweetly, and sang, well singilly (yeah, I know that's a stretch). I went about my days knowing that whenever I needed something it would be provided, having no idea how hard my parents worked to provide it. When I had a nightmare, I would creep softly into bed next to my Mother and would fall immediately into a deep slumber. If I had a scrape or a bruise, the pain would be magically kissed away. If I happened to be at my Father's house, Betadine would not only be used to clean the wound, but also to paint funny faces or sweet "I love yous" on my leg. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world, and while it may have contributed slightly to my hypochondria, it is a fond memory of my childhood. My sweet Step-Mother would say, if it met certain criteria, that it would be added to the "Bruise Book", a book which I never have seen, but would feel a sense of pride for accomplishing an entry and surviving. If said boo-boo occurred while my Mother and Step-Father were on duty, it would be bandaged snugly by Mom while Jimmy, a strong man from the mountains of West Virginia, would give his own home remedy suggestions, such as putting turpentine on it. Mom would chuckle and deny his requests, and while I would never suggest that this might be a good idea, he lived a good long life still using those same home remedies.
As I grew up, and became more aware of this world, there were times that I would take notice of something that I would not understand until I, myself, became a Mother. I would come home disappointed, or sad, and as I would tell one of them of the unjust offense, I would notice a new and unknown expression wash over their face. It was a look that I did not understand. When I tried out for cheer leading in the 6th grade and didn't win a spot on the squad, my mother's tears mixed with my own as we drove home. I could not understand why it was that she was crying along with me.
Now I am grown and very much aware of the world around me. It took my becoming a parent to understand my own parents. Their hearts were breaking for me, just as mine does for my children. My own life now mirroring theirs. I know now that where there are wrinkles, there used to be none, and that while some can be attributed to the Florida sun, many are the scars they chose to carry for me so that I could grow and leave behind the pains of childhood.
I now understand what it means to watch as a daughter journeys from childhood into the life of a teenager. I walk the line between holding on too tightly and letting her spread her own wings. She looks ahead to college. For her it can't come quickly enough, and she runs ahead, her eyes on the horizon which holds all of her dreams. I kneel and pray, as I watch, because I can see the cracks in the sidewalk that could cause her to stumble. This girl who, just yesterday it seems, stood dressed as a mermaid and sang ,"Part of Your World" in her elementary school talent show, and never missed a beat. She has known since she was in the fifth grade, just what she wanted to be when she grew up, and has not deviated from it since. This amazing creature who can at one moment be so sure of herself and yet, when given an assignment to list her top ten best features, could only come up with three. I felt my own face this time, take the same shape my parents had so many times. I watched her looking back quizzically, her eyes asking mine what this new expression was. My heart was aching for the fact that she cannot see what I see. I could make a never ending list of her good qualities, and I tell her often of them, at the same time knowing that she will not understand until she becomes a mother herself.
It is the same for my sweet son, who, upon arriving home just yesterday was not himself. I asked how his day was and he replied that it was fine. My mothers heart knew different. An hour or so passed until tears filled his eyes and began trickling down his precious face. This boy who's imagination carries him to lands where he will protect his home and the inhabitants with a light saber, and where houses are made of Lego's, had a broken heart. While he and his newest crush sat next to each other on the bus ride home, he was taunted by the other boys. They do not see what he sees in this girl. Again I walk the line, and search for the words to explain how important it is for us all to follow our own hearts and not what is defined as important by others. This will be revisited many times through his life, and while next time he may not fit on my lap as he does now, I will take him once again into my arms, with the same expression on my face and do my utmost to comfort and explain. He will once again look into my own eyes questioning why they are filled with tears.
I find comfort in the time with my youngest, still at an age where the worst of boo-boos can be soothed away with a kiss. I carry his pain long after he has forgotten the tears.
I pray that one day my children will become parents,not because it is what is expected, but because I know that only then will they feel their own expression change, tears filling their eyes, and will finally understand what it is to love something so deeply that you would carry their scars and proudly wear them as a badge of honor. My children will once again look into my eyes and find the same expression I see now when I look at my parents in the presence of their own children and grandchildren. It is no longer a look of the need to carry a burden for me, although I am sure that still comes at times, but instead a look of pride, and of knowing that I finally understand what it means to walk the line and proudly carry the scars.