For some reason, lately I cannot help but think about my life back when I was younger.
And sometimes about the most random and obscure things, too.
I suppose part of the reason is that I am getting older. I think there is a fair amount of reflection and backwards-glancing as you get older.
Lately, I have been thinking about when I was my kid's age.
I remember being 10. I remember 5th grade. I despised, detested, feared, and absolutely HATED my teacher. She is the only teacher that I have ever hated (unless you are counting the seminary teacher from 11th grade, who I continue to hate and despise to this day with a passion and fury normally reserved for spiders and other servants of the devil. but, technically, he wasn't my teacher, so it doesn't count). I was one of those nerdy bookworm kids who LOVE school, and love teachers, and consequently, one of those kids that teachers love. But, not my 5th grade teacher.
I HATED her. And after my dad had a "conversation" with her, she hated me too. Although, after that, she was terrified of my dad, so she was civil and polite in her hatred of me.
Anyway, my point is that I remember being Savannah's age.
For the past several months, maybe even the last year or so, I have wondered about sacrifice. About priorities. About being exactly where I feel I should be.
Or not.
I have been worried about whether I am ruining my kids by not sacrificing enough. About our priorities being out of whack, and therefore not being where we should be.
I worry that my kids do not know the meaning of the word sacrifice.
I fear that they have no concept of having to wait for something they want.
Or worse, I fear that they have never learned what it is like to NOT get what they want, whether sooner or later.
I worry that I have turned them into spoiled and entitled mini-humans.
Not on purpose, mind you. Rest assured that spoiling my kids and turning them into rotten Veruca Salt-esque hooligans was never on my Parenting To-Do List.
I think it is an almost universal ambition, as parents, to give our own children more than what we had. We want them to have it better than we did.
At least, I know that is how I feel as a parent.
I want to give my kids everything I was fortunate enough to have had as a kid, and then a little extra besides.
It seemed an innocent enough wish.
Until recently.
Now I have become (maybe a lot) paranoid and panicked that I have not tempered all of the "a little extra besides" with a healthy dose of wisdom and sacrifice.
And not because of any Veruca Salt-esque tantrums on my children's part, or anything like that. None of my kids have demanded ponies, or geese that lay golden eggs, or anything even remotely absurd and grandiose.
But I worry.
I recall my childhood, and I think about all that I had, but also, all that I didn't have.
I had two younger sisters, and my mom chose to stay at home with us, for many years. So, we were a family of five, living on just my dad's income. And we were fine.
I never worried if we would have enough to eat. I never worried that I wouldn't have warm clothes in the frigid Utah winter weather. I never worried that we would not have a warm and safe place to live.
Never.
I knew that we were okay. We had what we needed, and that was enough.
That isn't to say that I never wanted anything. I remember when certain brands or styles of clothing were trendy and stylish (anyone remember Guess? jeans??!!), and I knew that I wouldn't be getting any of those. They were just too expensive. But, when push came to shove, I knew that I would always have what I needed.
I look back, and I can see how much my parents sacrificed for us. I can see how much they went without in order for us to be okay, to have what we needed. And sometimes, a little extra besides.
I remember that my mom almost never had new clothes. She would always say that she was just fine. She always said that she hated shopping, and that she had enough to wear, and she wasn't likely to outgrow anything, so not to worry about her.
And then, she'd find a way to buy us the clothing that we needed; that we had outgrown.
My parents did not often have a "date night." They did not often go and do fun things, just for themselves. Occasionally, my dad would play golf with his buddies, that was about it.
It never occurred to me then how much my mom and dad sacrificed so that I could have all that I needed, and, even sometimes, what I wanted.
I wonder how many times my mom looked in her closet, and thought to herself "If I have to wear this shirt one more time, I'll freak out." Or, if she ever thought "I would love to just go out and buy a new bedspread, because this one is 15 years old, it's falling apart, and I hated it when it was brand new."
I wonder how many times my mom would have loved to have had a 2nd car, so that she wasn't stuck at home all day with three (probably whiny and ungrateful!!) little kids.
I wonder how much my dad wished he could afford to buy my mom a 2nd car.
I wonder how many times they talked, after all of us were in bed and asleep, about going on a vacation, just the two of them. I wonder how many times they planned a dream vacation that they knew wasn't likely to happen anytime soon.
I wonder how they fretted and worried about paying for my braces. About how much they worried when the washer and dryer broke down at the same time.
I wonder how much they worried about us.
I wonder how often they wished they could give us more.
I wonder how often my mom wished she could find a way to afford those stupid Guess? jeans for me.
I wonder how many times my dad thought about a second job to pay for a 2nd car.
Remember when I said that I remember being 10?
Well, I do, but the thing is, when I actually was 10, I don't think I ever noticed any of this.
I remember hating that horrid Ms. Kitt.
I don't remember ever thinking about my mom's clothes, or lack thereof.
I remember when I got the Pet Shop Boys "Actually" cassette tape for christmas.
I don't remember ever thinking about my parent's complete lack of date nights.
Which brings me, in a long and convoluted way, to my worry and dilemma:
How am I teaching my kids to save and work hard and sacrifice?
I kind of feel like I just get whatever I want. Mostly.
My kids get what they want. Mostly.
What example are they getting?
And then my husband, in his amazing awesomeness and wisdom, points out to me that,
A- I never figured out how much my parents sacrificed for me until I was in my twenties, and
B- That's the way life works. My kids will figure it out when they are in their twenties.
He assures me that they will come to understand that there were plenty of things their Mom and Dad wanted, or dreamed, or hoped for, yet made do without.
He assures me that some day, in the future, my kids will call and talk to me, and tell me that they are grateful for what they had growing up.
He assures me that they will someday be aware of, and grateful for, the sacrifices we made in order for them to have what they needed, and maybe sometimes a little extra besides.
He assures me that I haven't totally messed up my kids, and that they will grow up and be normal, happy, healthy, and not Veruca Salt-esque brats.
Anyway, my (mostly pointless) ramble comes to this-
I love my Mom and Dad, and with every passing day, I realize just how much they loved me, and how much they sacrificed for me.
With every passing day, they become more smart and wise to me.
I hope that I am doing as good a job with my own kids as they did raising me, and my sisters.
