You'll find me at the door

I've been told that one of the most pivotal times in a child's life is the day he realizes that his parent, parents, or parental figure is fallible. It is natural that they hold us in such high regard. They come into this world with no reference to it but us. They look to us as the arbiters of their existence, shaping their truths about everything from how to eat and speak and garner attention, to how to function in complex social situations, how to manage their own emotions, how to breech their way into the world, alone. We all probably remember an earth shattering moment when one of those people in our lives disappointed us. And yet even that disappointment instructed us further.

The interesting thing, I think, is that each parent too must go through the realization, on a deep level, that our children too are merely human. It isn't exactly the same sort of revelation. We all know on an intellectual level that they will lie to us, will do stupid things in high school, will make ridiculous choices in love. We joke about it sometimes with each other. But I think that most parents, like myself, hold a tiny infant in our hands on that first birthday awe inspired at its perfection, and make a solemn internal vow to preserve and protect it for all time. As time passes we beat ourselves silly over choices we've made and train ourselves to agonize more and more over each decision. Why wouldn't we, we have the power of a god over something we adore more than our own lives? It's a painful process this parenting. Or maybe that's just me, I suppose I shouldn't impose my baggage upon anyone else.

Sooner or later though in the process of parenting these miraculous gifts we stumble upon the painful shocking realization that they are not perfect, not in the cute "Oh I dread the day she has her first heartbreak" way, but in a real gut wrenching, eye popping way of knowing deep in your soul that this can all go terribly wrong - and there is not a single thing you can do to change it if it does. I think that perhaps parents of special needs kids understand it a lot earlier on. Or maybe not, but we have regular reminders that keep us well grounded in the truth that we are not the gods we are made out to be. We know that each moment is a lifetime in itself. That is where we know the truth about our children, good, bad or indifferent. That is where we know ourselves. That is where we rediscover the perfection of that first birthday again and again.

I find myself realizing more each day that I am not an arbiter of truth. I am merely the woman at each doorway, coaxing my children to pass through them to see another facet of life they haven't seen before. Okay, maybe sometimes yelling at them to come through, sometimes trying to pick them up and carry them through. But always the holder of the door. Door holding certainly isn't as authoritative as a gatekeeper, nor as glamorous as an arbiter. Door holders smile a lot as they watch others pass by on their way to things they themselves may never see. But they are crucial, particularly for people who can't open doors for themselves.