Samuel:
At six, you're a planner. You like to know, as soon as you awake, where we're going, what time, with whom, and what's next. That's your usual question - "What's next, mom?" And you ask many times before we even begin transitioning from one activity to another.
So, since it's summertime, I'm your live-in travel agency. Our mornings (I'm sure you won't remember), look a bit like this:
"Sam, come eat your oatmeal."
And you run for this breakfast, every time, because by 6:00 in the morning, you're starving again. You hop up onto the barstool and stir your peanut butter, honey, and oats yourself (you like to make sure I've put in the correct amount, lest we have an unacceptable peanut butter and honey to oat ratio).
First spoonful still in your mouth, you ask, "What are we doing today?"
"Well," I sigh (because I'm not even through my first cup of coffee yet), "I thought we'd go to the park, then turn those library books back in, and head back home to start our chores."
You mull over the day's agenda in your brain and ask, "Why not go to the library first?"
"I just figured we'd do the park first so we can hang out there a little before it gets too hot."
"But then what?"
"Well, after our chores and your sister's rest (and she, now next to you, reminds me that she no longer, in fact, requires "rests") we'll go to the dog house and walk some dogs."
"Then what?"
"Then, we'll go get dad and we'll come home."
"Then what?"
"Then we'll hop on our dinosaurs, ride them down the highway and feed them bananas." And I smile because you smirk in that "you're an idiot/you know what I mean" way.
"Mom, I love you. You're ridiculous."
And Anna Claire calls me "reedikleeus" and you both finish your breakfast.
Sam, you're a planner. You are. You want to know - need to know what will happen. Planning gives you great comfort; outlining lends you stability. You're constantly aware of time, speed limits, street signs. These directions are safe for you.
So, when you ask me really rigid questions and I don't have the answers for you, you struggle. Once, you asked me, "Is it okay if I'm not an astronomer when I grow up?" And I answered, "Is it okay with you if you're not an astronomer when you grow up?" And you said "yes," and I said "yes," and we moved on.
But here's a truth with which I've been struggling: I don't have plans for your life.
Why? Because you are six. You are not twenty-five. I don't know you at twenty-five, so I can't make plans for that person, because that person doesn't exist. Only you exist. You're just six-year-old you, just as you are, just right now.
Twenty-five year old you is an illusion. And to focus on or plan for an illusion is madness. It robs us of this present moment, and it's just another subversive means of control.
Many parents would disagree. They'd say it's natural and healthy and even prudent to jump at any sign of giftedness or interest, fuel into it, and speed off in one direction. And I don't have any problem joining a swim team or taking some painting classes, if that's what six-year-old you wants. But I won't talk about how swimming early means one day you can get a college scholarship or how if you keep up this painting, you can get into a special high school program for artists.
And maybe I should. Maybe being "future-minded" is helpful. But I can't do it. Because I'm afraid what that really does is tell you we do what we love now so we can benefit from it later. That following our passions really matter a whole lot less than making investments for a future we can't see because that will keep us safe. And really, it serves only to make me feel better. See, because if I can put a piano under your fingers, an instructor by your side, and push push push push push, maybe I can convince the artist in you to commit to the life I choose for you. And, as you know, mommy knows best.
But you know me and you know I really don't know best. I'm just feeling this life thing out for myself. I can't possibly do that well and make future plans for you. I just won't do it. Because if, at twelve, you realize you actually hate all those years you spent sighing through piano lessons, and you decide to just give it up, you'll certainly worry about what mom thinks. And you'll begin to navigate your life either out of a fear you're a disappointment to your mother or with a sense of guilt for crafting your own life.
Here's the truth: you can't disappoint me because I haven't appointed you to anything. Fear of disappointing me should never be your motivator, at six or thirty-six.
So you do what you love at six. Instead of wondering if it'll come to something someday, honor what it is today. And look around: because we're all honoring this present moment with you. We're not looking forward to what happiness it might one day bring. We're simply loving you in this moment. Nothing more, nothing less.
Here's my piece of advice (and I didn't make it up): in all you do, in all the choices you make, act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. Start from love. Move with love. The ends and the means should look like mercy, justice, and love. Begin there, and you won't go wrong.
One day, you may be grown up. And you'll have a chance to make some really beautiful choices. Right now, I honor the future you that may be by loving you right now, just as you are, without worrying about any plans I could make for you.
When you were in my belly, I did my best to picture your little face. I I tried to envision your frame, your little body sitting in my lap, arms around mine. I wondered at your little mind: what you might think or say or love.
And even in my very best attempts to craft you out of my own imagination, I fell so short of the miracle you've been.
So I won't lay plans for you. I won't choose for you or push you in one direction or the other. And if there is a you who reads this at 25, all I'll desire is that you still call your old mother once in a while and let her marvel at your current adventure.
