I have come across the poem again, almost accidentally (of course, there are no accidents…), and it struck me in a completely different way. The past few weeks this line from the poem has haunted my thoughts: Your children are not your children. I have been reciting this, almost like a mantra. I finally understand it now.
In the beginning of parenting, it is easy to believe in the romance that your child is simply an extension of yourself. After all, everything about the process that makes them come into being seems to proclaim that truth. They would not have been born without your, um, full cooperation, so to speak. Ideally, they are born from an outpouring of love between two people. As a mother carrying a child in one’s womb, you lull yourself with the idea that you are co-creator in the kingdom of god and your ability to create life puts you on some higher level.
And, lo and behold, when a child is finally born, you recognize instantly your child’s face as yours. That’s still one of the most amazing things about giving birth – how your child looks just like you, acts just like you, sounds just like you – a mini-me, as a matter of fact. Society helps us believe that. When a baby is born, we are quick to decide which parent it resembles the most. As if it were impossible for a child to look only like himself or herself alone. After all, what could be more appealing than the idea of rebirth?
Oh, but as with all appealing notions, this comes attached with its own warning signs. Because, at some time, at some point, a child will begin to assert his/her independence. I’m not really sure who has a harder time figuring this out: the child who must figuratively eliminate his/her parents to fully claim his/her own identity; or the parents who must come to terms with the fact that their children are not children anymore.
I have begun to feel this struggle now that my children are getting older. In the beginning I made sense of their world through my eyes and figured it must look exactly the way it does through mine; after all, I rationalized, "We are so alike!" And so I built categories for them based on my personality. (I assure you, I did this all unintentionally!) Yes, my oldest son, like me, likes music and theater. And yes, my daughter, so like me, enjoys reading and quiet. Oh, and my other boy – so unlike me, more like his father – is into basketball and golf. I’ve used them to make their existence something about myself – a mirror image, a likeness, a foil to my own self. And even worse, I’ve used them to make me look good in my eyes and in the eyes of the public.
I get it now. My children are not my children. I will admit now that, much to my dismay, my children like the songs of Willie Revillame.
But there’s something far more mysterious and rich to think about. It is another line from the poem: "They (the children) are the Sons and Daughters of Life’s longing for itself."
I love the idea of the world desiring something for itself. It is an idea that moves me. To believe that the world has a natural progression and that it seeks to complete that progression in the continuation of humankind. These children who are born are born for the world to complete itself.
Why then, are there children who are different? Or who are special? Or who are wounded? Or who cannot be like other children? I have one such child and it is his presence that makes that line from the poem confusing to me. If we are to accept the premise of the poem, how could the existence of this child help in the world’s fulfillment? What do we have to learn from special children in this world?
I think that special children allow us to be more kind to each other. One’s patience and love are tested when dealing with children and so much more with difficult children. I struggle with this every day, at the moment when I anticipate my son’s tantrums, or his violent outbursts. I try to make sense of it when I do a catalogue of all my wounds, and his as well. How patient was I? How loving was I? I always thought my goal was to make him a better person. Ironically, he has made me a better person – by extending my human kindness; by the constant chances he gives me to muster even more love. This happens in public, too, when people watch us. More often than not, people are kind to my son and to us.
I see this even more with his brother and his sister who have to make sense of him and how his life changes their lives. I am always amazed at how my younger children have adjusted themselves to make room for their older brother in their lives. Once, after a particularly painful episode, my daughter came crying to me and said, "I can’t believe how much I love Kuya. I could actually feel his pain."
I think special children allow us to see if our society is doing enough for all children. It is easy to gauge how far we have come as a society in terms of what kind of education and protection we give for all children. But then, what do we have in place for other kinds of children? What measures have we put in place to make sure they can become productive in society? What have we promulgated to make sure they are cared for? How much attention have we given special children? Do we look upon them with love, or with fear?
I think that special children help us to see that it does take a village to make a family. We have a tendency to isolate ourselves from each other, when things go well. But the dynamics of a family with a special child changes all that. Special families would not survive without support systems from their extended families, from schools, from communities and from government. The presence of these children forces us to think of others apart from ourselves. These children show us different ways of being family. Our household is so large. We have doctors and therapists and teachers who come in and out of our house. My son is everyone’s son in this world.
And maybe special children help us to filter what is truly important in life. I’m going to be honest with you and tell you that when I think of my life and my assessment of it, my only gauge is how good I am as a mother. It is this category that means the most to me. No matter how much I have accomplished in my life, and no matter how much I will have accomplished in the years to come, I never truly feel successful unless I have done my best as a mother, every day. Yes, I am hard on myself – but it’s a gift my children, and most especially my special child, has given me: a healthy sense of who I am and what my real purpose is: it is almost impossible for me to lose my way. I am the arrow and my children are the bows. My eyes are set on the future and its promise.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the Infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.