We push our kids into the world. Literally. As if to make up for all that pressing, they push back fairly quickly - and it lasts for years, I'm told. At first, it is through their infant cries at all hours. Later it's through their incessant requests such as candy for breakfast.
Later still, as they enter the delicious tween years of Hannah Montana and "Yo, Ma, I said 'Hel-looooo!" you begin to see where all this pushing leads. It can actually be great fun as you dance the dance of motherhood to the beat of your children's hearts.
Storytelling is one technique I've employed since the pushing began. It first came in the form of a lyllaby and one-way bedtime stories. Soon the kids could speak, and it took on a new quality of storytelling with a question and answer session before bed. As the children struggled with issues of sharing and compassion, I developed story characters who struggled with the same things ~ Mr. Heart and Mr. Head whose battle of wills taught them the heart is always right; Bubbly Bobbly, a southern boy from the Louisiana Bayou who'd rather fish than study and whose peach cobbler-baking Big Mama frets and wails at his indiscretions; Miss Kitty, the prim fluffy white Persian who resides in the penthouse of the Luxury Hotel and whose only desire is to be the Center of the Universe for all to admire (okay, who doesn't really have that desire, but as parents we realize you can't always get what you want, but you get what you need).
The tween years have presented their own set of pushing qualities - who am I and why does my mom act so weird? I have suddenly become an embarassment to humanity, especially to my ten-year-old daughter, who likes to hear stories about boyfriends and womanhood.
No sooner have I gotten used to all the pushing when a certain pulling away has begun. It was barely visible in the beginning ~ an odd look cast in my direction as I cracked the same joke that seemed hilarious just the week before; a petulant need for quietude in her room; a virulent "Mah-mmmm" uttered with a tinge of virtriol.
Inspired by life, sustained by my children, I have not run out of stories just yet.
