Like Amy Chua, I am a tiger mother, of sorts. Rather than kill the aspirations to FB presence and sleepovers, I instead kill dreams. Well, I'd like to sound a little less severe than that, but that is how my sixteen-year-old would dramatize it. I'd rather say that I rain a bit on the dream parade. I only rain reality, nothing toxic. And, well, if a dream cannot withstand a few droplets, then of what was it made in the first place?
We've gone from actress to event planner, with a few pit stops into things like wedding planner and cook in between. And, on every single one, I've rained.
I can't help it. For one thing, all those horoscopes, whether you believe them or not, claim that I'm destined to realism to a fault. Anyone who knows me well enough will agree on this point. I am extremely realistic, and yes, to an extreme that might be considered a negative personality trait. To demonstrate a rather mild example, no one "passes on" from my life, they die. There is no "transition" but death. Period. When I offer condolences to friends, I say, flatly, "I'm sorry that your mother died" because that is what happened. I don't offer sympathy for a "loss."
As usual, I digress. I read a post from a friend on FB that sums this all up quite nicely. The friend posted a snippet from a book Tina Fey wrote. There is a little poem/prayer wherein Fey asks the god in which she believes to lead her daughter away from acting, but not all the way to finance. Exactly. She wants her daughter to have autonomy at work and to find meaning in her work. This is what I want for my daughter, too. And, like Fey, when my daughter asks me just what exactly is this work I want for her, I don't have an answer because like Fey, I'd be doing it myself if I knew. (For the most part, I do have work that I love. I can't complain. My work requires my brain and compassion. It spreads positive things out into the world, and I never, ever have to wear heels for it.)
My daughter complains that I rain on her parade all the time and naysay every career she presents, every college major she conjures. Maybe I'm not even raining exactly, but rather making sure she's got an umbrella for the rain that might show up on her parade once she's actually doing one of these things as a major in college or out in the real world for some kind of pay. I'm saying to her (with my less-positive words) that every job has its issues, for it is called work for a reason. It's not that I don't want to encourage her, but rather that I want to make sure she wants whatever it is bad enough that the naysays and bad days don't ruin her overall parade.
*The spelling and repetition of Tyger are in reference to the William Blake poem which is interpreted as being about creation and how innocence is lost to experience. This is pertinent not only to the Amy Chua book but also to my lamenting on how I might help my daughter move from doe-eyed views of life and work to more practical, realistic views without simultaneously killing her dreams and aspirations.
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