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I felt this in the depths of my rainbow-gingerbread body. Thank you for bringing your full humanity to us so we can share ours, too. (I know spacing often gets lost in the comments depending on the format, so I'm using periods as spacers):

.

They did their best.

That felt like such a cop-out

before I birthed my babies

and found myself

entirely unprepared for

everything that followed.

No one told me

.

that as each of us begins

growing into ourselves,

our parents are still growing

into themselves, too.

That maybe the fruit

of our parenting

takes time to ripen,

.

that there might be bitter -

before there is sweet,

or mixed into it.

But we do our best,

and the ones who

allow themselves to

keep growing

.

eventually soften.

Let me be soft.

Let me be sweet.

Let my children forget

the taste of my bitterness

enough to remember me

as love, and let them

.

remember enough

of my bitterness

to hold space

for their own,

and for their babies'

(which will inevitably

grow up together).

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I let out a big gasp at the last stanza. This whole poem is so beautiful, A, and I relate to it so deeply, but I didn't see that gorgeous turn coming . . . the wish for your children to remember rather than forget the bitterness, so that they can hold space for the bitter that they carry, too. One of the things I try to be really good at as a parent (because there are plenty of things I'm not especially good at!) is repairing breeches. So after screaming at my son (as described in my poem for this post) and taking time to calm myself, I went back and apologized and then we talked about how my tantrum was proof that we all get overwhelmed sometimes, we all do things we regret, and big feelings are hard for everybody . . . and that's okay. Sometimes he gets in his head that he's the only one who struggles with anger, so in a weird way, I'm hoping that my having lost it breaks that sense of isolation for him. It feels like your last stanza points in that same direction.

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It's funny, because I grew up watching my parents be mad a lot and still somehow felt that my "mom rage" was my own failing and different from them. But we also didn't really talk about our feelings much, and it wasn't until after I had my first and was crying in a car with my mom that I realized (because she told me) that she had felt that way, too. I also make it a priority to repair things with my kids and talk about my struggles so that they can understand it's normal and they're not alone and that it's okay to struggle, and I definitely had that in mind here. ЁЯзб

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I think those conversations about feelings and intentional repairs make a huge difference. Or at least, I hope they do! I don't remember those kinds of conversations ever happening in my childhood.

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I've read that traumatic events are traumatizing because we don't feel safe to fully process them and/or aren't given enough information about them to heal well (especially as children), and I think that definitely also applies to understanding other people's feelings and that they're often not even really *about* us even when they're directed *at* us, and recognizing that sometimes feelings are just hard and we don't know how to deal and that's normal and we can keep trying and learning. I think if someone had had conversions about that with me when I was younger, I'd be better at processing and regulating my feelings now, and I also wouldn't have felt so responsible for others' emotional state.

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This makes so much sense to me. I definitely entered adulthood with the beliefs that I should never feel anger and that I was responsible for the feelings of people around me. It's been a slow unlearning, but I've come a long way!

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Same here!

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Wow, A - this is so poignant and so resonant with truth! The metaphors of fruit and growth, ripening into softness, bitterness and sweet lend themselves to the tenderness of this experience. I love so many of the lines here...and so appreciate the nuance of "those who allow themselves to keep growing," because that's such an important nuance. Aging is not a free pass to wisdom or softening. Growth is required. Your last stanzas were such a beautiful and moving wish for your children. <3

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Wonderful. тАжbut we do our bestтАж

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This is simply beauitful A. It truly comes from a heart space, and a wisdom that lies deep beneath the clutter of these times. I love the inclusive nature of your poem, and the invitation to your children to take it all, softeness, sweetness, bitterness, as they grow into their becoming. What gifts you bring to this wotrld, to your children and all of us children of the universe. Thank you.

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So much good fruit here -- the idea of wanting to be soft and sweet for your children, but with just enough complicating bitterness that they'll be able to hold their own imperfections. Also the idea of growing/ripening with our children (if we let ourselves), and of giving grace to our own parents. Thank you, A!

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Ah that last line about bitterness and love - so very very true. I have so many regrets but I have to hope that there was some lessons that were learned after the mistakes I have made (and the subsequent apologies and amends).

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