The people who tell us that our sons and daughters are amazing drive us crazy. They are fooled by the pathologically charming veneer. They do not have to live with what we live with. But my RAD parent compadres, I offer you this: they are right. Kind of.
Imagine a car. It's not a top of the line model, because its makers had their own issues. The tires are worn down. There are bullet holes in the body. The air conditioning doesn't work and neither does the stereo. It's only three years old but it has 500,000 miles on it. The windshield is cracked. The rearview mirror is held on with duct tape. So is the muffler.
But here it is, that old beater, driving nonetheless. Not in a perfectly straight line, but getting there. Stopping often. Exuding noxious fumes that make us passengers sick.
I am exhausted and frustrated because this car has so many damn problems. No matter what I do, the thing breaks down every few miles. And if I keep breathing these fumes, it's going to kill me.
And now here you come, in a moment when we happen to be coasting downhill and glistening in the evening sun, and you tell me the old girl is an absolute beauty.
I want to say: Sorry, buddy, but I can't live every moment in the space where I remember that she is amazing for one simple reason: self-preservation. When you call her amazing, it feels like an attack on me because I need that very critical protection. You are an arrogant sucker and I want to scream out every horrible thing she has done in just the past 24 hours.
But, then I remember that they are just believing that what they see is real.
So what I try to say, when I am my best self, is: Yes, she is amazing. And yes, I am proud. Because I am giving her everything I possibly have to give, and she is doing the very best she can to use it, given those bullet holes, and that duct tape, and those many, many miles. Thank you for reminding me.
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