Asher has been asking to take pictures lately which makes sense because he lives in a world of people that walk around with rectangles in front of them saying, hold up, I just want to take a picture of this.
He asked to use my phone in the car to take a picture yesterday and at first I said no because I had visions of him accidentally messaging every contact in my phone with something deeply poetic like, sdjghasldkhaoeurywpeuioh sdighsduhgw0397e8hg;SDKGJ, but then he said, “You just look so cute right now, Mama. I have to take your picture”. Asher for any political office 2014.
So of course I handed him my phone and he passed this back:
I’ve posted before about wondering who Asher sees when he watches us because I never feel like the adult that he presumably assumes that I am. And yet I look at this and see a woman driving. That’s Mama in the front seat, taking us places. A bonafied grownup.
I keep waiting for that switch to flip, when I’ll suddenly feel the age that I am and not be aware of the ages that I’ve been or that I think I will be or that I assume that I still am. I’m only 30 (for a month more, at least) and if I take the time to think about it, I become hyper aware of how overwhelmingly young 30 is, and conversely how not-so-young it is. But my young feeling 30 is, through the eyes of a three-year-old, ancient. I’m just part of the glaum of grownups in Asher’s life with no distinction between my 30 and your 40 and her 20. We’re all tall(er) and authoritative up there in the front seat, and god, don’t we look confident.
You know that kind of ridiculous bumper sticker, I want to be the person my dog thinks I am? I have that sense looking at this picture. I want to be the woman that he caught right there, to cross the great divide between my internal juvenile existence and that external perception, but of course, that’s the rub. I am that woman. In fact, it would seem that the only person who doesn’t get that is me. I’m willing to bet that we all feel that way. We’re so short sighted when it comes to our own reflections, and then a three-year-old takes our picture and poof! Existential crisis solved. Or at least moderately chipped away.
So there it is, team. My recurring theme for the month. I want to be the person my child thinks I am. And not to get all Oprah on you, but I think really what I’m saying is, I want to accept myself for the person that my child knows that I am. Front seat driver’s side flaws and all.