We collect them. Put them on display on the backs of doors and on ornate hat racks, but how many do you actually wear. I find myself thinking a lot about hats these days. Not the ones we hang on the back of a door, or the ones we add to a collection to admire. I am thinking about the figurative hat that identifies us as a doer, a parent, a caregiver, a friend, spouse. I find that I am collecting more hats than I can wear these days. Some fit so well they feel like a second skin while others seem a little big and slide down over my eyes.
How do you balance the needs and demands that expand exponentially when the quasi parent to my parent hat shows up on your hat rack? I am not sure how to wear this one. Should I tilt it to the side or wear it straight up and proud? Will I offend if I am too forward? Will I drop the ball and miss something if I slide it back to far? This is a complicated hat to wear. I am her child but I am also her advocate, her person, the one who needs to have her back at all costs. Yet, I miss being the child in this equation. I miss my mom being my mom. The person who would look after me. The one who gave me an escape from the adult world and let me slip back into my childhood for a little while. I miss being mommed.
This damn hat I am now trying to wear doesn’t fit as well as I would like it to most likely because I really do not want it to. Let’s face it, who wants their parent to no longer be able to parent you. When you were young you never said I want to grow up to parent my parent. It isn’t really a life goal but, it is a reality. Our parents age, if we are lucky, and with age sometimes comes a diminished ability to handle ones own life alone.
So out comes the parent to my parent I’ve got your back hat. I’m gonna bedazzle the crap outa this thing and wear it like a fedora. I will remember all the moments she had my back, she eased my confusion, and made things better for me and I will pay it forward. I will ease into this hat and make it work because at the end of the day it’s just a hat.
