June 11, 2002 - 10:09 p.m.
I was talking to L the other day and she just causually brought up that she thought I did an awful lot of family things for an "at college" sister. I said something like well, I missed a year of games and concerts and stuff. And she said, well, don't feel like you HAVE to do that stuff. I've been thinking about that a lot lately. I do do more with my family than most kids my age I know. But here's the thing. I don't feel like I have an obligation to my family, or a responsibility, though I do have both of those, but I feel like if there's something I can do to help them, I should. If there's some little transportation thing that needs to be done, and everyone else is busy, it doesn't seem at all unusual for me to drive the 45 minutes home to take Abbie to the orthadontist or whatever. I'm just far enough away that I get all the independance that I want and just close enough that I get to be an intrugal, important, contributing member of my family. I adore my family.
My parents, while not perfect are wonderful. My father loves my mother with this perfect completness, and she him. When he looks at her, I know he sees the bright cheerleader he knew in high school. But he doesn't just see that girl that she was. He sees a woman who married him, who worked when he didn't, who showed him religion, who gave him children. He brings a social aspect, and a richness to her life, and she brings moral grounding and laughter to his. My parents have been together almost for longer than they've been apart. My father is 45 and my mother 44 (but will be 45 on Thursday!) and they've been married 21 years. He knows more of her history than any other person in this world. Their love hasn't taught me that you can do anything with love, that love is all you need, rather, their love has taught me that some things are worth fighting for. It gives me grounding and support because when I don't know anything else, I know my parents love each other and they love me.
Tonight, for dinner, Mary Beth, Mom, Dad and I were sitting on the back porch, listening to the tinkling laughter of the neighbor girls playing in our sandbox, and Baxter, our pug, snoring at our feet. The weather was cool and heavy, at least, for Colorado, and the sun was just starting to go down. My Dad had a jazz singer playing on the CD player in their room and her sweet, sultry voice underplayed the conversation. Mary Beth, ever the pyro, was burning a little candle down to the nubbins, and my Dad was asking her to mow the lawn.
When I'm done! She snapped in her "I'm 17 now!" voice.
Yeah. My Dad said. OK, when you're done burning your candle and you've cried OW OW OW
I won't do that. Mary Beth good naturedly sulked.
A few minutes passed, talking about what we're going to do for Mom's birthday, and I was thinking of the book and tee-shirt I'd gotten her, and before we knew it, Mary Beth was saying
Ow ow ow! She'd burned the candle to the nubbins, just like Dad said she would.
We all CRACKED UP. Even Mary Beth.
I don't know if this can even tell you what it's like to be a part of my family. I don't know if this can explain why I want to create a family of my own. Not a blood family, necessarily, although someday, maybe. But I want my friends, who are just another kind of family, to know that unending love. That security, that knowledge that when you don't know anything else, someone loves someone else, and they love you. I want them to be able to laugh and cry, and to know and appriciate one another. I want to create something where we laugh together until we cry and we have the freedom to cry.
Isn't that a nice idea?
Emily
