I am wondering why we always give our families “leftovers”.
Our best selves are often given to those people we work with, see at the gym or in the line-up at the grocery store.
Say a friendly hello.
Display consistent kindness and consideration.
We rarely raise our voices or yell in our workplace.
But, when we are at home, a different menu is being served.
The ‘leftovers” go to our families.
These lovely people that we have given birth to or have given birth to us.
Those people that we are placed on a family tree with.
Yup, those ones.
Can’t just erase a name off of there, can we?
The ones that get our grumpiest selves and our often complaining selves.
Those same ones that we show our ‘true’ colours to.
The ones we ignore, avoid and can’t say one kind word to or pretend to say kind words to, but it is meaningless.
The ones that we visit with and then nap for one hour on the sofa.
My journey, as I have watched my family of origin evolve over almost two years since my mom’s death, is that it is no longer okay to give my brood of boys my leftovers.
I want my family to know me the best.
My boys will get my best self.
I will give them the most smiles, the friendliest eyes and the kindest words.
The one I chose.
The boys I birthed.
JC, OC and CC.
8, 6, 4.
My brood of boys.
My best self.
All of my love.
All of my life.
Allowing space for them to be themselves.
Allowing myself to be me.
The full meal deal.