“ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕞𝕦𝕔𝕙 𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕖𝕪 𝕕𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕒𝕜𝕖?” 𝕙𝕖 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕.
“𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕙𝕒𝕧𝕖 𝕒 𝕕𝕖𝕘𝕣𝕖𝕖?” 𝕙𝕖 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕.
“ℍ𝕠𝕨 𝕝𝕠𝕟𝕘 𝕨𝕚𝕝𝕝 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕥𝕒𝕜𝕖 𝕞𝕖?” 𝕙𝕖 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕.
“𝕀𝕤𝕟’𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥?” 𝕤𝕙𝕖 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕
“𝕎𝕙𝕪 𝕕𝕠𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕥 𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦?” 𝕀 𝕒𝕤𝕜𝕖𝕕.
The questions mattered, but not for the reasons they believed them to matter. They continued asking them until curiosity was momentarily satiated. They weren’t the kind of questions I find value in answering, for a variety of ironic reasons, the foremost being that I’m Mom, and sometimes a Mom knows when rules are better explained by anyone other than her, at least for some aspects of this life’s game. Not because I might teach them in different words, though I would, but more because I want them to decide which to live by and which to break if any.
The banker sat my children around his desk and proceeded to answer their questions with real-life examples, purposing to teach them tried and true lessons about money.
Earlier that day…
I’d been running around for supplies. That’s the abbreviated version of attempting to shove eight hats up my ass in the hope that the correct teachings will spew out of my mouth and actions to cover my loved one’s heads.
No success or failure rate in my head matters more than the ability to bring peace to the table more times than not. No facade in my mind matters more than those granted entry past, allowing love to build value within – an investment multiplied by time and not money.
Yet, I regularly feel like a teacher that has walked into the classroom thirty minutes late and without their materials, to stand before class staring at the faces of expectant students without saying a word.
Why I never believed what was in the textbooks I couldn’t tell you, but do know the words the world expects parents to impart or fall in line with generally, and they are challenging to say with integrity. A parent’s cognitive dissonance may find expression chained to the hope that the child discovers their truth before building a life opposed. A parent’s wisdom also knows that kind of faith is falsely placed and may like me, shove hats up their ass, endeavoring instead to bring such peace to the table, that the child can carry it with them to whatever facades they create in their lifetime.
Back at the bank…
The scope of what the banker addressed was uncommon, as was the irony layering the discussions. He had the children’s full attention and made an impact my words and actions would not have made for another ten years. With complete presence and gratitude, I sat silently, holding back tears at the scene.
Later that evening…
What felt to be creative insight directed my request.
“Will this be enough?” he asked.
I held the phone silently and counted fifteen seconds. Pride.
“Yes,” I said.
“There is always enough,” I thought. He didn’t ask any other questions, and though grateful, I was out of sorts because I was also trying to nurse Humble, the baby crying in my heart who was causing me to cry also.
In the middle of the night…
The set of rules people play by doesn’t reveal the game they play, but if they are for love, all sides will come to find award within themselves and one another.