Spaghetti and Meatballs

As Mary Helen stirred a pot of spaghetti the other night (apron neatly tied, a stool pushed up to the stove), I had a silly thought.  Would she, twenty years from now, still be at that stove, with seven or so children at her feet?  While Jack and Frances are backpacking around Europe, discovering themselves and jumping off high places, will Mary Helen have a neat little house next door to Evan and I?  Will she be disappointed in Evan and I when we break the news to her that we're hitting the road in an RV for a few years of late-in-life-soul-searching?  I can see her shaking her head now.

I say this because she's so sensible, so steady, so mild, so good.  Not good in the sense of being without sin, but good in the sense of being good-natured.  She's so much more likely to hold it together than the rest of us (in that way, she reminds me so much of my dad).  As I followed these thoughts down their course, I ran into the reality that some parts of us are gifted to us at birth in the simple fabric of our being.

As a mother, I am often so hyper-vigilant and anxious that I have a hard time seeing the "gifted" parts of my children and relaxing enough to enjoy them. It is difficult to know our kids in a neutral, accepting way without our own lack of self-acceptance getting in the way.

But I believe that one of our most significant (and pleasurable, if we could just slow down for it) jobs as parents is  to celebrate and enjoy what's already there.

I have an image in my mind of one of my more domestically gifted friends sitting by a fire embroidering quietly upon a beautiful piece of fabric.  She sews slowly and confidently, without questioning herself too much.  She is even able to appreciate the mistakes and irregularities of her work. Her work is easy and beautiful.