Dear Mom . . .
Monday, April 20, 2009, posted by Q6 at 11:32 AM
I honestly don't remember a lot about what I was like as a late teenager. I should, I guess, but I don't--and it's not because those years were bad, it's just that a lot has happened since then and the details are now hazy at best. But if you had to endure anything like what I'm enduring now, this should make some sort of sense.

I'm not sure what your sense of my responsibility level was at the time, but I imagine it couldn't been all that high. What I'm quickly starting to realize is that, at any age, the demonstration of maturity goes a lot further than the proclamation of maturity. I expect that there were many times where I merely made the assertion that I was mature enough to handle something; even worse, there were probably times that I merely assumed my maturity made me responsible, and I assumed that you agreed. It never occurred to me that you might want--or feel better with--proof.

I also know that the true test of my maturity and responsibility usually involved me falling flat on my face, no matter how much you didn't want to see that happen. I'm sure the last thing in the world you wanted to see was me, spreading my wings to take flight for the first time, falling like a brick to the pavement below. I don't want to see that either, but that's one of the risks of parenthood I'm discovering. I should have provided you with (at least a little) more confidence in my ability to fly; I shouldn't have just assumed you trusted me.

I guess what I'm saying is this: being on the other side of this equation, I understand a lot more what your side was like. It wasn't easy, and although there was no eartly way for me to know it at the time, I wish I HAD known. But things turned out alright in the end.

Which is something I can aspire to, I suppose.
 
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