When I was 12, my thoughts about success were simplistic. If I brushed my teeth and did my homework, I was on the right track. For my parents, this was clear-cut logic, my dad went to work and my mom took care of the house; that was enough in my eyes to deem them successful. My daughter, however, seems to have other thoughts about the topic.
Driving home from a dental appointment my daughter Rebekah and I somehow got talking about this subject of success. I casually asked her what being successful meant to her.
Without hesitation she replied, “Being famous.”
“What?” I blurted out then focused my eyes more intently on the road so I didn’t veer into the oncoming traffic. Famous, I thought. What kind of answer is that? I know she follows lots of, insta-famous people on Instagram; is this where her answer was coming from? I sat quietly for a moment trying to think of something intelligent and witty to say that would support my complete disapproval of her response, without sounding too harsh.
“Do you think I am successful?”
“Nope,” she bluntly replied.
I immediately began examining my life as quickly as the scenery that flew by my window as we drove down the road.
“Why?” I asked trying not to allow her assessment to feel like it was truly my reality, but more importantly deciphering why fame was her answer to my question .
She listed her reasons with confidence as if she had been studying them for a test. “Divorce, having to sell our house, your boyfriends and your boring job.”
Hearing this out loud, my heart sank into my stomach. How could I dispute that? I am supposed to be her role model. Clearly, I have done a good job showing her how to make a mess of one’s life. Just being mommy wasn’t enough like it was when she was five. My simple accomplishments were no longer viewed as heroic; she was now scrutinizing every step I took and seemed to be labeling it too.
We continued down the road in silence. I pulled into McDonalds; this situation called for the hard stuff, vanilla milkshakes and French fries. I needed to lighten the air up a bit before I contested her perception of my failures and shed some light on the reality of falling short, whether we are famous or not.
I swirled the whipped cream on top of my milkshake with my straw in an attempt to clear the negative thoughts out of my head. Oddly, I thought I had been rather successful to some degree. Sure, I took a detour here and there- a little more than I would have liked, but so have the Kardashians. No one makes all the right decisions and creates a perfect life right out of the gate. This was a chance to have one of those mommy moments, to explain what success was really about.
But after my heart to heart, her response was,“But you’re almost 47!” Yikes, this was starting to sound a bit like a Dr. Phil episode. Maybe it was best I stopped trying so hard to make her see it my way.
She stared out the window as if to inform me that the conversation was now over. I think she understood, but I don’t think I made a believer out of her at that very moment. I guess I will just have to hope that the seeds I planted will lend itself to a bountiful harvest.
Oh, the joys of motherhood.
Live Well~
