My Buddha in the Backseat
I went to Barnes and Noble yesterday to see if they had updated their shelves to carry my novel. As I scanned my book neighbors, I came across a little novel THE BUDDHA in the ATTIC. The book cover was pretty and the title sold me, as I have had my own Buddha in the Backseat for years.
My older daughter was born an old soul. She just gets things and has always had a reasonable answer to all conundrums. While she has learned not to force those answers on everyone (a lesson learned younger than her Mother who still does this too often, I’m afraid), she was a fount of wisdom and advice as a child. If someone had a headache, maybe they needed a nap. If corn was not digested thoroughly, then perhaps one was allergic to it. If a child was tacky, she could find the perfect place for a timeout. Her best advice was reserved for me. In traffic. Bumper to bumper. Fighting the urge to spew profanity while listening to Barney blasting from the speakers about being a “happy family.”
I was able to curb the words but not the attitude while I huffed: “Come on, people!!” in my thick west Texas drawl. Micah would grow quieter as I grew more exasperated until finally she would pipe up: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.” No hysterics for her, just a calm admonition from the 2 year old in back seat to relax.
She has always done that for me: brought out my best self, called to the better angels of my psyche. And today she is 19. She is me, only much more zen, much more adept at handling the big and little stresses. She amazes and humbles me.
While I read The Buddha in the Attic I thought about those young girls on the voyage to a new world, a new husband, a new life, and I felt pangs of sympathy for their mothers. Some of which grieved letting their daughters go and some that were portrayed to be glad their daughters were gone. I felt sorry for both. I am learning to reconfigure my relationship with my semi-adult daughter, but I will never let her go. And her little wise, innocent voice still guides me on this crazy journey of life, love, parenting, writing, and learning: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.”
My older daughter was born an old soul. She just gets things and has always had a reasonable answer to all conundrums. While she has learned not to force those answers on everyone (a lesson learned younger than her Mother who still does this too often, I’m afraid), she was a fount of wisdom and advice as a child. If someone had a headache, maybe they needed a nap. If corn was not digested thoroughly, then perhaps one was allergic to it. If a child was tacky, she could find the perfect place for a timeout. Her best advice was reserved for me. In traffic. Bumper to bumper. Fighting the urge to spew profanity while listening to Barney blasting from the speakers about being a “happy family.”
I was able to curb the words but not the attitude while I huffed: “Come on, people!!” in my thick west Texas drawl. Micah would grow quieter as I grew more exasperated until finally she would pipe up: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.” No hysterics for her, just a calm admonition from the 2 year old in back seat to relax.
She has always done that for me: brought out my best self, called to the better angels of my psyche. And today she is 19. She is me, only much more zen, much more adept at handling the big and little stresses. She amazes and humbles me.
While I read The Buddha in the Attic I thought about those young girls on the voyage to a new world, a new husband, a new life, and I felt pangs of sympathy for their mothers. Some of which grieved letting their daughters go and some that were portrayed to be glad their daughters were gone. I felt sorry for both. I am learning to reconfigure my relationship with my semi-adult daughter, but I will never let her go. And her little wise, innocent voice still guides me on this crazy journey of life, love, parenting, writing, and learning: “Just be lax, Momma. Just be lax.”
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