Dancing

Lest you think that my life is all tea parties, read-alouds on the sofa, and porch swinging, we do have the occasional argument around here. For example, last evening I had a row with one of my sons that my husband had to referee. Though I won’t air our dirty laundry, suffice it to say, my son is learning to take greater responsibilities and I am learning to give up greater responsibilities. Enough said.

You know, the dance I do each day with my sons looks different than it did a few years ago. Then it involved a mommy and her three little boys. Now it involves a mother and her three young men. And so we dance. Trying to get it right. Trying to figure out how our roles in this season look – my role as a mother, and their’s as young men.

And the dance goes on. Sometimes we step on each other’s toes. Sometimes things get ugly. But always, always we come back together – taking one another’s hands and beginning our awkward steps again. I realize that I’m working my way out of this dance instructor job. For one day my sons will begin a new dance – with a different lady in their arms – and I will bittersweetly hand off my dance partners.

And the dance goes on.