You are growing wiser yet seem to need me more

these days. You are growing shyer–which puzzles me.

Is there something I am missing?

Sometimes I just want to say enough:

Enough with the questions and repetitions of

the same questions, enough with the need for constant–

constant reassurances, enough with the questioning,

enough with the relentless talking, enough with the

need to know it all rightnowthisveryminute.

“Just go with the flow.”

You measure my every reaction–

right down to my facial expressions.

But it is my inactions that disgust you.

Sometimes I think you are nothing like me.

Sometimes I think that you are so much like me that I cringe.

Your perception and intuition are keen and strong–

you notice everything.

Your sensitivity is deep–you feel every single

edge that you hear in my voice, even when

you are not the reason my voice is sharp. My

edges are so pointy, and, Lord help me,

I don’t always know how to soften myself.

I don’t always notice when you are hurting.

I don’t always have the right words within me,

or the right thoughts in my head.

I don’t always know.

I think I owe you an apology because for so long

I have regarded you more as my child instead of

just your beautiful, brilliant self.

I am getting better at that, but it is hard

because you reflect me back to myself and

sometimes I can’t help but react to that

reflection instead of just responding to you.

You who are creative and independent in thought

but insecure in word and deed.

You who are in one moment somber

but in the next singing.

You who are both somehow fickle

yet easy to please.

You who are both a puzzle and mystery

yet so very familiar to me.

I am watching, I am learning, I am growing with you.



One thought on “Firstborn.

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