Momma, What Do You Want To Be?

One morning at breakfast, the girls were engaged in a very deep conversation about what they wanted to be when they grew up. The oldest decided fashion designer was the job for her, or a fairy princess; the middle child piped up that she wanted to be a singer and one of the horses on “My Little Pony;” the youngest was far more decisive, saying plain and simple that she wanted to be a cowgirl –just a cowgirl. After each one spoke of the benefits of their perspective career choices, they asked me, their sainted mother the same question, “Momma, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

Now I can take this question one of two ways; I can say “Aww how sweet, they really want to know about their ma’s dreams and desires.” Or, “Hey, what gives, you don’t think I’m a grown up already?” I didn’t ask that question because I really didn’t want to know the answer. But their topic got me thinking; they should know that their parents have dreams and desires, so that they are encouraged to have dreams of their own.

I think about myself when I was their age, I don’t recall ever having a deep desire to be anything when I grew up. I liked to sing, so sure singer would’ve been nice. I liked to read, but how could I make a living just sitting and reading? Nothing brought about any passion in me, not like the excitement and passion I see in my own children. This was never cultivated in us when I was a kid; my folks were practical to a fault. They had an immense amount of pride in our actual accomplishments, but never told us we could be anything we wanted to be, because in their minds we were still limited; by either society or by our lack of wealth. This was how they were raised, I’m not complaining, it was just how things were.

In the junior high I had to write a paper describing what I thought I was good at, and in turn write about what I wanted to do once I was out of school. Everyone around me began jabbering to each other about one thing or another, and I remember just sitting there staring at the blank page. When I finally did write something, it was all about how I was this “Jack of All Trades,” versed in many things, expert at none. Seemed right, and for most of my life the title fit. I went to college, left my sophomore year; did various jobs after that at video stores, grocery stores, book stores, coffee shops, spent time as an office clerk, you name it I did it. I joined a band, went back to college, got my degree and proceeded to get a job in my field, but I left for more pressing matters -marriage and children. Each job was okay, none made me tingle, but I did most of them adequately; living up to that moniker of Jack of All Trades. Passion was missing however, and I just assumed I wasn’t one of those people who found something I felt I was destined to do; that is, until I became a mom.

I was meant to do this, meant to be a stay-at-home wife and mom and I love it. But I’ve seen too many women put all of their identity into that, and when the kids are grown, they don’t exist anymore because everything they felt they were was wrapped up in being so-and-so’s mom. They’re left empty, wondering what to do next. Some of these women find things to keep themselves busy, but they still feel like only half a woman now that their mothering days are over. Nothing could be further from the truth. My kids are still at home, but I need to start figuring out who I want to be now so that when they’re grown with their own lives, I don’t put the burden of my life on them.

I’ve always loved to write, but that voice -the evil one that keeps beating me down continually says, “You can’t be a writer, things like that just don’t happen to people like you.” And I believe it. I believe it even though I know how much I love to do it; how eager I am to sit at my laptop each day and write a movie review, or this blog, or the beginning of my novel. In my free time (what little there is with three little monsters), instead of putting on a movie like I used to, I write. Just before bed, the last thing I do is write. When I read a book, it gives me ideas on how to improve my own writing. After I finish each movie review, I can’t wait to get to the next one. I’ve even created a little office space in my bedroom, in case I’m inspired in the middle of the night; I can get that idea down on paper so I won’t forget it come morning. I’d say that kind of seems like passion, don’t you think? 

It’s funny how your kids can make you take a closer look at yourself, whether you have the inclination to do so or not. It was a simple question at breakfast, but it caused me to think on it long and hard. Finally, after all of these years I can let go of the Jack of All Trades label that I had created for myself, that safe place where I didn’t have to stake a claim in my dream. This way I would never fail at achieving it, and therefore never be disappointed; oh how screwy that kind of thinking is. Finally, I think I can say that I am a writer. Now the goal is to be able to say it without cringing and without the evil little voice telling me I can’t; then I know I am truly on my way. 

So what was my answer to my girls’ question regarding what I wanted to be when I grew up? “Well”, I said to them hesitantly, “I want to be a writer.”

Their response, “Mom you’re already a writer, what else do you want to do?” 

Out of the mouths of babes…

Alice from The Block