In the house of tomorrow

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
—Kahlil Gibran

The other day, Phil jokingly said to me, "What's it like to look at someone and see yourself?" Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.

Because Eli looks like me, get it? We have the same cheeky cheeks and the same "face-cracking smile," as someone once put it.

But later that same day Eli and I were walking to school. It was one of the first days where it was warm enough for him to actually walk, rather than sit wrapped up in his fleece BundleMe and hermetically sealed inside the stroller's weather shield. After a few blocks where he took advantage of his newfound freedom by zigzagging all over the sidewalk and I thought I would have to duct-tape him into his stroller, he calmed down and strolled companionably next to me, even deigning to hold my hand while crossing the street.

At one corner there was a construction worker wearing a hard hat and Eli struck up a conversation. "Hi!" he said, waving. When he didn't get a response, undaunted, he tried again. "Hi!" The construction worker smiled and nodded a greeting. "Hi! I'm going to school!" Eli called congenially.

I felt this weird spurt of pride flare up inside me. So friendly and social! Then I thought: Where'd he get that from?

I was notably shy as a little kid, hiding behind my mom and crying when we separated. Phil was known to announce "I'm not talking today" and was such a silent toddler that his grandmother secretly spirited him away to a speech therapist. (Diagnosis: He didn't feel like talking today.) 

But Eli has always perked up in the company of others. All those days I spent when he was an infant willing him to nap in his dark, quiet bedroom, all he wanted was to be out in the world where he could be the noisiest baby in any room he was in. The first time we brought Eli to Tot Shabbat, before he could walk, he crawled right into the middle of a large group of older kids and plopped himself down. He has always wanted to be part of the action — if not the whole dang center of attention. (Eli's teacher once told me that when some musicians came to perform at school, Eli effectively abandoned his role as "audience member" and launched directly into "performer" by getting up and dancing when he was supposed to be listening.) 

For some reason I feel occasionally jarred by this realization: My kid looks like me, but his personality isn't my personality. I am embarrassed when I have to talk to strangers and avoid it at all costs; Eli practically follows them down the street, calling, "Guy! Hey guy!" I'm a little cautious in new environments; Eli dives into them like an unleashed beast, hungry to explore every corner. At a Purim carnival, Phil and I lost him in the crowd at least five times, and every time we found him in a different spot — coloring crafts with a new family, trying to jump the line at the skee-ball game, attempting to sneak a Dum-Dum from the lollipop stand. (Why did we not panic when we lost him so many damn times? That's for another post on being the Worst Parents Ever.) 

Suddenly I think I know how my parents felt when they came up to visit me in my senior year of college and chatted with some of my friends about how I was running my first marathon. "She didn't get that from us at all!" I remember them saying, as if they felt baffled and maybe even a tiny bit betrayed by my newfound athleticism.

I think as parents, it's a natural instinct to look for the ways our kids are like us. Recently Phil took Eli out for a treat at the bakery and when Eli chose a chocolate mousse, Phil said, "That's Papa Dan coming through!" (My grandfather was a noted connoisseur of chocolate mousse.) That's why Phil keeps trying to get Eli to watch Star Wars with him and why we keep taking him to Mets games; we want him to like the same things we like. That's why when Eli grabbed my running hat and my keys and announced, "I'm going for a run" it was one of the prouder moments I've had as a mom. 

But I've been surprised at how much I enjoy those other moments, the ones that make me wonder, How can we be related? When Eli walks into a doctor's office and boldly tells the nurse, "I want a lollipop." Or when he monopolizes the attention of the mascot at a Brooklyn Cyclones game, jabbering away with the enormous seagull costume while all the other kids wait patiently for autographs.

It's a beautiful and terrifying thing when you realize the child you've created is a wild and mysterious creature, one with desires and dreams that are totally separate from your own. The first time Eli tasted a gummi bear, made a face and handed the bag back to me, I was shocked. But you grew inside of me, I thought. How can you not like gummi bears? 

It's boggling to me that, even though he's only 2, we can already have such a complex relationship. Can I really feel proud of the personality traits that are so different from mine — is that like taking credit for work that's clearly been plagiarized from a more outgoing parent? On the other hand, if I can be embarrassed by his tantrums (which believe me I am) why can't I be emboldened by his successes?

There are so many schools of thought on how to talk to your children about who they are and who you want them to be. Don't tell your child he's smart; tell him he tried hard so that you praise his effort, not his intelligence. Don't tell your child she did a good job helping; tell her she's helpful so you create an innate sense of being a helpful person.

Every day I find myself thinking, "Eli is so smart! So creative! So funny!" and then second-guessing whether I'm supposed to say that out loud. So instead I try to say this: "I love being your mommy." Because whether he's an extrovert or an introvert, whether he likes the Mets or...OK, there is no viable alternative there — that, at least, is always true.

On Children
Kahlil Gibran

Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.