A note to my children,
Sixx:AM has a song with a line about not crying at my funeral. I just want my kids to know that when I die, you damn well better cry. You better weep buckets. After all, I’ve spent YOUR entire life crying for you. I cried the day I found out that I was carrying you and the day you were born. I cried more than you when you fell down and scraped your knees or when you got your feelings hurt by uncaring and insensitive others. My greatest disappointment is seeing you give up because that means that I failed. And this makes me cry even more.
As “long-haired, hippie kids,” I watched as both of my sons had to repeatedly explain that they were indeed using the correct restroom; and I often stood right outside the door just to make sure no one messed with you. Sorry (actually, I’m not), but I liked your hair long. One boy with midback blonde waves and the other slightly shorter, pin-straight, dirty blonde locks. Why was my daughter nearly bald? And you know what? I cried when I had to cut off those long tresses. It broke my heart, and it continued to break my heart when you each took turns cutting and dyeing your hair over the years—and still do. My favorites were always the blues and greens, which each of you tried at one time or another. We lived through frosted tips, buzz cuts, long hair and short, every color of the rainbow, mohawks, bihawks, and several other unique personality expressions. It actually gave me a sense of pride to see you embrace your independence in this very visible way. I never fought it because it was one element of your life that you got to control. The school wasn’t particularly impressed with these attention-getting displays, but I can and did go to bat for you. I bet you never knew that. I also defended your clothing choices, even when they defied school dress codes. How can we raise free thinkers if we dress them all the same? I had a love/hate relationship with your school uniforms, but fought school administrators for your right to be individuals.
You were raised to be strong—or at least I tried—and vocal. To stand up for what’s right even if it isn’t the popular thing to do. I’ve watched as each of you has developed, of your own accord, necessary life skills like empathy and caring, right alongside the need to question authority, which is not done out of anarchy or defiance, but to seek out understanding. Please, question authority. Wonder about rules and regulations. Just don’t be an ass about it. Remember that there is always a reason for rules, but that doesn’t mean that you can’t push the limits a little, like the time you were caught trespassing on the local college dormitory because you were trying to catch a Pokémon.
Defy authority from time to time, but know when to keep your mouth shut as well. You were raised to be honest, and I’ve seen that in action as you tell a perplexed police officer, “Yes, I stole these items from your store” or “No, officer, I don’t have car insurance.” And you took your lumps for these transgressions. Even though you confused the police by telling the truth—something they’re not used to hearing—you also listened in silence at the lecture that followed and learned from the experience.
Now that you’re all (technically) adults, I feel a sense of pride when I witness you stand up for the underdog or face bullies. We all know that mean people suck, so don’t be mean. I’d like to think that, as your mother, I’ve done my best to instill good qualities in each of you: honesty, integrity, a touch of defiance, and a healthy dose of independence.
I’ve watched with pride, humor, and occasionally disappointment and even horror as you’ve advanced through the years. No longer children, but now young adults, I can’t say that the journey has been easy. You’ve all done things that make me question my parenting skills, yet more often I look upon each of you with wonder and excitement, pride and joy.