I watched Jack giggle over the frustration of trying to blow out these candles, and I saw in him his father, at which I felt delight, realizing my son was free to be the man who is both son of his father and son of his mother, as his sister sings along. It is a moment of happiness for me, the two of them together, she supporting him as she has always done, always loving him as her younger, more vulnerable brother even though he presents himself as confident and competent. I remember when she told me how she used to watch over him in his infancy and then rolling around with him in his babyhood, her heart overflowing with protective love, and she, the young girl at age 13 who curled up into the fetal position on the cold linoleum hospital floor when Jack was just born, she, the vulnerable baby of my heart, who I thought had grown into a young girl, having a far greater need to be held and rocked by her mother than did this innocent, jaundiced, new-born Jack. How could I not have seen it? What could I have done with the 140 pound adolescent, sound asleep on the floor? I wish I could have turned back the clock and given her what every child deserves and requires - consistent, unqualified love. But I, the baby that I was, hurt, abandoned by her father, and utterly at sea, a nursing babe in my arms, facing a world that I could not fathom, was not trained or educated for, and hadn't the thick skin for, could not manufacture enough love for myself, let alone for this bulging, hulking, quivering mass of needs. I never felt I gave her enough, and isn't it funny that I write this as I celebrate not her birthday, but her brother Jack's birthday, Jack, the boy who could do no wrong but who also feels in many, many ways wronged and judged and unloved.
As parents we can only give our all and then wait for the blame, knowing that for children, including own little inner child, we never, ever feel loved enough until we can finally, finally GIVE it!.
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