Letting Go...

I feel like this is a theme of quite a few of my blog entries.  It's my way of making myself accountable, admitting I have a problem.  It's my very own 12-step program for control-freaks anonymous.  Besides, I have found that, sometimes, if you put it out there in the universe, the burden feels lighter.  Is it the lack of gravity?  That weightlessness?  Oh wow, there are so many metaphors right here for just everything in my life lately that honestly, my head spins and I wish I could address them all and I'm a little heartbroken that I can't --  the crazy English major and wannabe writer in me.  Am I the only one who loves it when her children ask her about words?  I got so excited trying to describe abundance to T today that he said "ok, now you're just creeping me out."

What can I say, I'm a word nerd.

Back to letting go.

I long ago made peace with the fact that I'm not perfect and neither is my life.  I try to embrace those imperfections and look to the blessings within:  the toys strewn all over the house that indicate a house full of children; the din of screaming that, upon further examination, reveals itself to be joyful screeches and laughter; the holes in the knees of pants that indicate active, playful children.  My home is full of half-finished or not-quite-completed projects.  My laundry is slightly too wrinkled.  My home isn't perfectly decorated or completely what I envision, but it's cozy and comfortable and welcoming.

But, lately, I've been having trouble letting go.  The irony of it is that "letting go" is the whole purpose.

My Little Meems is almost 11.  After redoing her brother's bedroom, she decided it was time for some changes in her own room.  As we just painted it a couple years ago, I told her that was off the table, but I'd be happy to incorporate her favorite colors into the room more.  She decided to trade up her antique twin beds for a double bed with a sheer canopy draped over the headboard.  OK, I can do that.

And immediately all the possibilities came rushing toward me.  I have about 12 inspiration boards going for her room -- oh it's going to be fabulous.  It will reflect her age, but be something she can grow into.  I'm going crazy over fabric swatches and curtains and wall decor.  Saturday, we stopped in Pottery Barn kids and I started showing her a variety of options -- polka dots! stripes! paisley! geometrics!  I went into a frenzy brainstorming over them.  She pulled out a sham she liked (her duvet is white).  It was solid, quilted, and turquoise blue.  Plain.  I was all, "but Meems, the polka dots!" and she was all "I hate polka dots."  I was all "what if we combine this turquoise and add a pop of purple?" and she was all "I don't like the purple, just turquoise."  I was all "what about..." and she held up her hand, and with a "Mom!" completely shut me down.

Totally defeated, frustrated and confused, I thought "but who wants...plain?"

And it occurred to me, she does.  I have been so hell bent on decorating the room for her my way that I forgot to ask her about her way.  I never got to decorate my own room when I was younger -- my mother did  and it was beautiful...but I couldn't hang my Rob Lowe or Duran Duran posters.  There was no where to put up all my snapshots of friends.  There was no making it mine, and I longed for a space to do just that.  And I swore to myself that, one day, I would let my kids do just that.  And what was I doing?  Making a gag face when she showed me plain old turquoise shams.  Blinking my eyes and making a horrified face when she handed me a red and black bedazzled "Rock Star" sign she got for her birthday that she desperately wants to hang.  Pulling down the photos she has haphazardly taped to the wall because there's no rhyme or reason to the placement.  I do the same thing to her older brother.  I am trying not to get upset when the posters he has tacked up to his wall from Sports Illustrated are crooked and clustered all together rather than artfully arranged.

I like arrangements.  I crave vignettes.  She is not interested in vignettes.  At all.  Or maybe she just doesn't know she needs them??

And there I go again.

It's time to let go.  This is supposed to be fun and nothing is getting done because I can't make up my mind because there are just so many beautiful options.  But that's not my luxury to possess...it's hers.  It's her room, her taste, her decision (within reason - I'm not crazy!) and should reflect her personality.  It should make her comfortable.  And, for the first time since we began this process, a decision has been made, and it was her decision and I have to respect that (even if I feel like she just doesn't understand how many options are out there!).  She knows what she wants (which is unusual -- typically she knows what she doesn't want, and let's just say there has been a lot of this in the process as well).  The room won't fulfill my visions of a spread in Domino, but that's OK.  As she's entering those prepubescent years, she needs a haven she can stomp off to when she just can't TAKE it anymore, or she can't believe how STUPID her brothers are, or when I'm making her life MISERABLE.  She can throw herself on the bed and snuggle her plain turquoise shams and feel that sense of...mine.

If she's like me, we will experience those episodes in abundance.

I'm off to Pottery Barn kids, the tune of "Let it Go" stuck in my head.  Besides, turquoise never bothered me anyway.


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