My oldest son, Matthew, called me a loser a few years back. He was 15 then. OK, he didn’t call me a “loser” specifically, but he was talking to a nurse in the emergency room about how he was thinking of going into politics when he gets older. He wants to be the president, he said.
“Hey,” I said to him after the nurse had gone, “I was going to be president when I grew up.”
I really was going to be president. I had every intention of going into politics when I was between the ages of 14 and 18. My intention was to complete college, maybe go to law school and then run for office – with the White House in full-view. To make a long story short, I went to college in DC and in essence found that I enjoyed writing about politics and being an activist more than I wanted to run for an office – and as I pointed out to my son, who was looking at me with much pity – I still have time to run for an office if I so choose. At 34, I am not even yet eligible to run for president…although the clock is ticking louder now than it once did.
“I know, Mom,” he said. “But I’m actually going to do it.” The way he said it, stung a little. He said it with such disdain, as if I had thrown away my dream. Did he just see me as a wife and mother – with no other accomplishments under my belt? Did he think I somehow failed because my dreams at 14 or 15 were not the dreams I achieved?
He did.
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