I called my Mom this morning. It’s her birthday today. She’s 81. She gave me an order a few days ago to NOT send her a birthday present and I always do what she tells me (that was my first lie). Instead, Paco, my awesome and incredibly rich dog, sent her a gift. It’s her fault.
She only had a few minutes to talk, as she was off to go on a 3-mile hike/walk before going to the public library for a conversational Spanish class. She had already made sure my Dad got off to his day at the Adult Center. He has Alzheimer’s Disease. She is his primary caregiver. Just your typical 81-year old…I know.
After we hung up, I sat for my morning meditation, where all of the things I blame my parents for came up. That’s what we do, right? We can be in our 30s, 40s, 50s, and even our 60s, and still blaming our parents for our problems. But do we ever blame them for the good stuff? Rarely. Today I get to. After all, I’m entitled…it’s my Mom’s birthday.
It’s my job to parent myself these days. It’s my job to take ownership of my wins and my losses and to feel them, and either celebrate or grieve them. They don’t have to parent me anymore like I’m a child, even though sometimes I want them to. They already did that and now they do what amazing parents do…they love and support me, no matter what. What more could a little girl ask for?
I’d like to end this blaming them one last time. I blame them for my life…one that I love and that I wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for them.