Having raised five children (admittedly not all biologically mine – if that makes a difference) I never cease to be amazed at how different they all are. You would think five people with similar nurturing and life experiences would have at least one thing you could pin a “how alike they are” on. But no. Not in our gang.
Barry and I as parents, alongside their other respective parent and their new spouses, have worked together to produce independent, confident, happy, respectful and compassionate individuals. I think we have done a fabulous job (but I accept some bias there.)
Even as a parent, it is easy to put them in a ‘personality’ box. The book loving girl must be a quiet nerd, the opera singer must be a gregarious attention seeker, the rugby player must be a typical jock. You have to constantly remind yourself that they run more deeply than that and cannot be pigeon-holed.
This week, one of the five threw us a curve ball that blew any stereotyping out of the water and literally reduced his Dad to tears. It makes you wonder, how much more do they have to grow? How much untapped potential is still within these people we made and will I as their Step/Mother ever really know them?
I know that the ‘growing’ never ends (heck I’m still doing it myself) but this kind of curve ball does not come along every day. In truth, I don’t think he is yet mature enough to realise what he has produced and the analogies he has drawn with the trials of daily life so with his permission, I share it with you…
Battle at Sea
Gazing. A lone figure ambled towards the roaring shore.
The waves crashing against the flacking scree. Ferocious.
Anxiously the self-determined surfer stepped into the harsh waters much like the gladiatorial combats illuminated by the lighthouse to the side of the sand dunes.
Paddling. Against the fast flowing current, the surfer struggled. Relentless.
The enigma like sea pulling, pushing, poking fun, tempting, teasing he battled on.
A moments breath, a hiatus.
For once the unpredictable current calms.
The rejuvenated surfer spots an imbalance in the seas armour. The opportunity awaits.
The noise of the board rips through the breaking wave.
As he returns to the surface, salty, streaky eyes, he propels forward. I feel myself tense. The perfect wave.
Year 12 English – write a poem in the style of Carol Ann Duffy