I'll Be the Change (I Want You to Make)

Beloved children, because I know you to be kind and thoughtful people, I begin each day assuming good intentions. If my harmony was less developed I might regard your daily trail of gum wrappers, clothes, and empty mechanical pencils as a calculated attempt to fray my last nerve, but I refuse to invite negativity into my life. I reframe it, choosing instead to take it as a sign that your attention is on more important things.

Perhaps you're thinking deeply about what to do for Mother's Day this year, or which would delight me more on a Saturday morning - waking up to a new book propped against a fresh pot of coffee or a vase of dewy daffodils on the counter.

This works really well until I come downstairs to (find once again) a sink half full of dirty dishes that weren't there when I went to bed the night before, and I see you merrily eating, drinking and melting your brains on Pixel Gun, without a care in the world.

When my inner harmony reminds me that you're not rotten little slobs, I wonder how, then, this can be (again). And it hits me. Gandhi was right. I should be the change I want to see. Of course! I'll be the change I want to see (in you).

And you, seeing me changed, will no longer do the things that drive me to the brink of despair. Like that thing you do when I'm in the bathroom. With the door closed. How you say things like, "Mom, is my blue hoodie clean?" and I say, "I'm not going to talk through a closed bathroom door. But yes, it's clean." Yeah. Not doing that anymore.

And how you bellow to me from 2 floors away to ask if I can drive you and your friends to the skating rink and I yell back, "Don't holler to me from 2 floors away! And yes, I can drive you!" Not doing that anymore either. I'll be the change.

I'm done separating your underwear from your pants when I'm doing the laundry. If you peel them off of your body together, that's how they'll stay, unless you pull them apart.

Maybe I'm a dweeb, but I love packing your lunch. I love the Mom-ishness of it. Even so, I'll no longer ask more than once what kind of sandwich or drink you want. If you can't be bothered to construct an intelligible answer about what you want to put in your body, perhaps an empty lunchbox is just what you need to get that gray matter firing.

Now that I'm getting warmed up, you should know I'm done driving too fast to get you somewhere on time to make up for the 27 times you Face Timed your friends about what they're wearing.

I will no longer set an alarm on my phone to hatch an Enderdragon egg, open a golden chest, wash a Boo, feed a mooshroom, declare a siege, or do any other thing so you don't Lose a Level while you're at school.

Not gonna swelter with the heat up to 89 in my car because you're too hip to wear a coat. In New York. In the winter.

If you ask, "What is there to eat?" I'll no longer sigh and say, "Child, I'm not a waitress. Look for yourself. Whatever you find is what there is." (5 seconds later) "I made a fruit salad this afternoon. It's in the fridge, bottom shelf, left side. And there's hummus in there. Or how 'bout that vegan bacon you like? There's some in the freezer. Pretzels and crackers in the pantry....Do you want something hot? I'll help you heat up some lasagna."

My loves, it's not all about what I'm not going to do. I'll still kiss you good night. I'll still ask about your day. I'll smile when I see you and cry when you sing. I'll share my clothes and hear your prayers and slip special treats in your backpack. I'll seek you out. I'll notice your efforts. I will still begin and end each day with gratitude for you. That will never change.


Sally Bacchetta - Freelance Writer