Evidently, I haven't shared enough of my past with my children. They don't feel as if they really know me. You can imagine my surprise when Bennett says to me, "So, Mom, we know alot about Daddy's life, but we don't know much about your life." This comes on the heels of his soccer game. Was he really contemplating his mommy's childhood as he was repeatedly running the lengths of the field? Did God whisper in his ear ask your mommy about her life? How long has this curiosity had a hold of him? Am I that much of an enigma in his life that he feels as if he doesn't even know me? Do I typically evade most of his questions regarding my past? Has he never seen one baby picture of me?
This bodes well with my constant second guessing of my parenting abilities. Great, I'm thinking, my poor son doesn't even know his own mother. What else have I failed at? Do I not already talk enough? Do they want my childhood history in chronological order or just as the memories come to me? I decide to stop asking myself questions in my head and ask Bennett one instead, "Well, Honey, what is it you'd like to know?" He felt like starting at the the beginning - a very good place to start. I dove into where I was born and how I moved throughout my childhood. I thought I saw him yawn, so I asked, "Is this helpful? Do you feel you know me better now?"
"Yep" was all I got. I went through all that mental anguish for nothing. I guess my rendition of my life spawned earlier memories of spending time at Grandma and Grandpa's house (my childhood home) and hearing story after story and seeing picture after picture of mommy as a little girl.
Why he asks these types of panic invoking questions is beyond me. Maybe the rest of the family just finds humor in the look of sudden panic evoked on my face. One thing I'm sure of...this won't be the last time.
