Growing up, there were only a few molds I was allowed to fit into.
The bookworm mold.
The theater mold.
The music mold.
Everything else was pushed aside because I was either told or believed myself that the other molds weren’t for me. I couldn’t play sports because I was a little less than coordinated, and thus, I made the decision that it would be easier to hate them and save myself the embarrassment. Because of my lack of coordination, I was told I’d be a terrible driver. I also wasn’t very domestic, which led me to believe that cooking anything was utterly out of the question so I renounced the learning of all kitchen equipment- which made my bridal shower a hoot (thank God for my sis-in-law who sat next to me and whispered what each kitchen tool was used for so I could publicly thank people).
Why am I telling you this?
Because as I watch my daughter dance around with no shame, sing at the top of her lungs, plunge her whole hands into fingerpaints and eagerly “help” me bake, I recognize that we’re not born with this idea of, “molds”. Which means, little people have to learn it from someone. I’m determined it’s not going to be from me.
It took me 22 years before I was ever brave enough to run. To really, really run. And I found that I didn’t hate it as much as I thought I would. It’s still clearly not my favorite thing to do, but I CAN do it- which is something I never thought was possible before.
It’s been seven long years since I first baked a whole chicken without removing the giblet bag- who the heck knows that’s in there without any proper notice?- and I think I can say that I’m more than a little proficient in the kitchen. More,because, I love it. I love to cook. Mapping out our weekly menu is one of my favorite activities of the week.
The driving? I think, if you polled all of my sisters and their driving records, it’s pretty obvious who the best driver in the family is-sorry ladies!:) No one was more surprised than my truck-driving Dad who tried to teach me how to drive standard when I was fifteen. Bad idea.
I don’t want my kid to think that just because she loves music, that means she can’t play soccer. Or because she loves English, she also can’t be good at Math.
As a parent, you can’t believe the lies that others have foisted on you as you grew, either. You have a responsibility to stretch your own belief about who you are.
God didn’t place us all into categories-only one, as his children. Why should we do it to ourselves?
Enjoy this beautiful, autumn day. I think I’ll take my brainy, coordinated, singing artist to the zoo.