Déjà Who

I swear I’m having 18 years of déjà vu. So much of what I experience as a parent reminds me of my own growing up that it’s like reliving my own life through my kids.

• I hurt for my son when I see him not excel at sports. I wasn't so good at them either.

• I delight for my son as he soaks up books, reading well ahead of his grade level. I loved books too.

• I hurt for my son when he’s frustrated by his own perfectionism. I cried over my paint-by-numbers.

• I delight for my son when he uses a big word in conversation. I loved language.

• I hurt for my son when his shyness keeps him from enjoying life. I was such a recluse.

• I delight for my son when I see him lost in his own imagination. I was a daydreamer and a doodler.

• I hurt for my son as he longs for affection, but doesn’t know how to get it. I remember feeling that way.

• I delight for my son when he excitedly shares a story about his day. I treasured the undivided attention of my parents.

So much of the memories are painful, but they give me sympathy for what he’s going through. So much of the memories are joyful, and I’m glad to relive the good times. Glad to have the chance to live life again and try to make his better than mine was.