Page 39 of Wild and Wrangled

“Excellent idea, Sunshine,” I said. “What do you have your eye on?”

“The chocolate cake,” Riley said, smiling wide. The chocolate cake in question had chocolate ganache with a layer of strawberry compote between the two layers. “It’s decadent,” Riley said with a nod.

“That’s a good word,” I said.

“Teddy taught it to me.”

It was our turn now, and the cashier waved me up to the register. “Hi,” she said. “What can I get for you guys today?”

“You go first, Sunshine,” I said to Riley. She liked to order for herself.

“Um…” Riley said. “Can I have a small vanilla steamer and a piece of the chocolate cake, please?”

“Sure thing,” the cashier said with a smile. “And for you?”

“I’ll have a small latte with skim milk, please, and…” I looked over at the pastry case. “A slice of coffee cake, please.”

“Absolutely. It’ll be right out.”

Once we sat down, Riley was able to remove a few of her layers to reveal her white knit sweater with a red heart in the middle.

“Are you excited to have a break from school?”

Riley nodded. “Yeah, but I like school, too. This week was fun. We watched the Grinch and frosted cookies and made ornaments.”

“I love the ornament,” I said. Riley’s teacher had each student make a small stocking from felt and decorate it. Then, she cut a little circle out of the front and put Riley’s school picture in it.

Riley told the teacher she needed to make two because her parents didn’t live in the same house, and the teacher let her, so Gus and I each got a very glittery stocking ornament.

“And we colored, too,” Riley said. “A lot of coloring.”

“Is that your favorite thing to do at school, do you think?” I asked. “The art stuff?” Riley’s adjustment to first grade had been a little bit rocky. The first day of the second week of school, I walked into her room to wake her up, and she told me she was too sick to go. She didn’t have a fever or a runny nose and she said her stomach didn’t hurt, but she looked at me, and her big green eyes were full of tears, so I let her stay home.

I had to work, but I set her up on the couch with a few movies and some saltines while I got some things done in my office. When I got to a place where I could stop for the day, Iwent out and lay on the couch with her. After a few minutes, she burst into tears and confessed that she wasn’t really sick. I held her tight and let her cry before I asked her why she didn’t want to go to school.

She wiped her nose and said, “I didn’t know that being in first grade meant that I had to go to school all day.” The year before, Riley had only been in morning kindergarten. She was absolutely torn up about the fact that she had to be in school for seven hours.

I watched Riley’s face morph into her thinking one—cutest face in the world, by the way. “I like library time, too,” she said. “And my teacher says that I’m good at math.”

She didn’t get that from me. I hated math.

“Do you like math?”

Riley shrugged. “I like that I can do other stuff when I finish it early.” Ah, she had a strategy. Now that was like me. I loved that she was using the analytical part of her brain; except, in her case, she was doing it to do things she loved, as opposed to when I was growing up, when all I used it for was to get other people to love me.

I always thought maybe if I changed this or did that—got the highest grades, ran the fastest, and did the most—I would be the best. Then my parents would have to be proud of me if I was the best, right?

You would think. Generally, I only really got a rise out of my parents when I was doing something wrong, so in adulthood, I think I just tried to keep them happy. That way, they’d leave me alone.

I never wanted my daughter to feel that way. I wanted her to enjoy spending Saturday mornings with me at the craftstore. I never wanted her to feel like we couldn’t share a brownie and a coffee cake or sit at a table and enjoy each other’s company. Personally, I can’t say I ever enjoyed my parents’ company, and I would guess they probably felt the same.

Like any parent, I had expectations for my daughter. I expected her to be kind and curious and hardworking. I had hopes for her, too. I hoped she would never feel unloved or disposable. I hoped she had dreams and that she was brave enough to go after them.

But I never wanted the hopes and expectations I had for her to overshadow the hopes and expectations she had for herself. Because if I did my job right, she would have them, and they would be wonderful.

I never really saw myself as a parent, but when I was younger, I wondered if I was capable of being a good one—like Dusty’s parents. They were the first example I had of parents who were…there. My parents had always been more of a presence in my life versus being actually present. They inform every decision I make because they’re on my mind almost constantly—even though I don’t see or hear from them very often. I feel like I live my life like they’re watching—in an ominous way.

I’m sure they’ve been proud of me at some points or found joy in something I achieved, but I don’t think they knew how to communicate those things. I think they only knew how to communicate disappointment, which I understood now as kind of a double-edged sword for them and for me.

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