Sunday, May 4, 2014

My Hands Were Clenched in Fists of Rage

In fact, it's rather hard to type when your hands are clenched in fists of rage. That means I must be speaking metaphorically. "Speaking" also being metaphoric, so to speak.

We celebrate our children's triumphs and we share our children's disappointments. We try not to pat ourselves on the back (too much) when they succeed. But we seem incapable of not heaping loads of blame on ourselves when they tumble and fall. Or maybe that's just me. And when your child seems Zen-like in accepting the disappointment, the more it seems to eat at you. Or maybe that's just me.

It really is for the best that the child of mine experienced this disappointment. If it had turned out the other way, that child of mine, in the long run, would have felt the continual pain of being excluded while part of a group. Better to be excluded from the group to begin with than feel the sting of rejection time and again.

While we all know that to be true, that knowledge has nary an effect on those fists of mine.

That is all. It is mighty hard to type.

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