I was I for the longest time. Me and my interests and my career and my world filled with writing, books, assignments, clients, sports, cinema, music, theatre, picnics, bike rides...
Suddenly I find my world expanding. As my children grow up, I move with them into their worlds. New worlds filled with fun, new people, anticipation, of course mixed, as always with anxiety. I once again pass through the familiar paths of anger, frustration, achievement, ecstacy. As they dream, I dream. For them, and with them. The fun and frolic of a 12-year old and the inhibited expectations of a 17-year old. I laugh when they laugh; I cry when they cry, and many a time, when they don't.
When they give importance to seemingly insignificant things in their lives, I can see exactly what it means to them. I see their faces with understanding, I know what's in their minds. Well, most of the time.
Many a time I do not understand being the mother of an older child...it is incomprehensible. I think of myself at that age, and how my mother was, when I was my older daughter's age, and still I do not comprehend. I hold her hand tight, but I know I must let go. And then I can go back to being me, with my many interests.
In the meantime, I really must stop crying each time my children sing on stage...what's with me, really?