The Bridges of Madison County is one of my favorite movies. I love it on an almost irrational level; perhaps it’s because I grew up in Iowa and can relate to the dusty roads and beauty of old farm houses, or then again, it may be the simplistic depth of the story itself that resonates with me and anyone else who silently hopes that Meryl Streep will open the car door at the stoplight and run to Clint Eastwood in the rain. One line in the movie stands out among the rest, beautiful words that capture a beautiful sentiment in a beautiful story.
“What becomes more and more important is to be known – known for all that you were during this brief stay.”
As a mom, I parent in two different ways. I directly parent, which I define as the day-to-day life lessons, skills, and values that I try to instill in my children through example and constructive discipline. Direct parenting constitutes the majority of my life – all of the sports snack scheduling, homework, dentist appointments, and daily discussions around the dinner table that are necessary to keep the wheels of the family in perpetual motion.
I consider indirect parenting as something entirely different. I believe that who we are, where we came from, mistakes that we have made, and life experiences before having kids can have just as great an impact on their development as what we try to teach them every day. When I became a parent, I was overwhelmed by the need to share this information with my boys; so, with a lifetime of stories to tell and lessons to teach, I did the only thing that I knew how to do. I wrote.
For over two years, I wrote. I stole moments here and there to write about childhood vacations spent on the beach and in the Colorado mountains, details of which may have stayed forever undisturbed in my memory vault had I not written them down. I wrote about high school parties and the string of stupid mistakes that plagued my teenage years. I wrote about devastating professional disappointments and personal heartbreaks. I wrote about the crippling lack of confidence that stopped me from following my dreams and the courage that finally emerged to listen to that inner voice. And, through it all, I wrote for my boys. I wrote and secretly hoped that, someday, they might read my words and gain a little insight into life, as well as get to know me — not just as their mom — but as someone who’s been there.
Sure, maybe my boys will always want to sit down for long talks, confiding in me about their dreams, hopes, and feelings. Then again, maybe they won’t. I’m well aware that the day may come when their idea of a day well-spent is not one that involves exchanging feelings with their overly talkative and opinionated mom. When those days come, and life hands my boys some of the tough lessons that so many of us face, maybe they’ll be open to scanning a few of my stories to see if anything looks like an interesting read.
Because, at the end of the day, I want to spare my boys the mistakes that I made, so they are free to make their own. I want to free their minds from fretting about things that I’ve devoted way too much time worrying about in life. I want to pass along what I’ve learned so that they may benefit from my knowledge. And my mistakes. And the lessons that came with a rather sharp sting. Perhaps, just perhaps, there’s something in the words and pages of my stories that will resonate with them. I can only hope.
I don’t know when, or if, my boys will read what I wrote for them; today, hundreds of pages rest neatly stacked in a folder on an office shelf in wait for when they are needed, wanted, or stumbled upon. And, for now, that’s perfectly fine. Their mere existence is enough to make me feel a little more known.
