I’ve been trying to figure out what my superpower is. I mean, that’s important information to have! I can’t just be walking around this Earth all willy-nilly and such. There is power in purpose, and my purpose is to find my power.
I called a Family Meeting to get some input. One person showed up.
I have two children.
Well, one person and a dog showed up, but Izzy was really just in it for the snacks.
It was clear I was on my own. Maybe if I figured out what it’s not, by process of elimination my superpower would reveal itself.
I think we can all agree that aging gracefully is not my superpower. I’m generally pissed off about Father Time stealing my youth. He’s such a narcissistic ass. He looks sweet and kind with his long white beard and Merlin cloak, but he’s the Grim Reaper for crying out loud! Take your hour glass and scythe and get thee hence, you manipulative old man.
Perhaps patience is my superpower. Nope. That’s not it.
Yeah, this process of elimination thing isn’t working. Let’s look at the realities of my life…
Like everyone else, I have been wounded. The circumstances may be a bit unique, but the pain is not. A gut-wrenching, suffocating, drop-you-to-your-knees pain that is felt to the core. I feel it still today, but it has softened over time. In that way, Father Time has been a friend. An ally. But he still pisses me off.
I feel things deeply. I cry at the drop of a hat. Joy, sorrow, worry, relief. I’ve got all the feels. I often find myself apologizing to those around me when I cry. As though they are harmed in some way by my tears. I’m working on not doing that. I am entitled to my feelings, and my physical reaction is part of the package. It’s part of who I am. If my tears scare you, then perhaps you have some soul searching to do.
To see my children in pain evokes the strongest emotional response. I want to fix it. To make it all go away. I want to be the superhero that swoops in to save the day. When they were little I could easily be the hero with a bandaid, a hug, and the best damn chocolate chip cookies you’ve ever had. But as they got older, their pain was more often emotional than physical. Those wounds are deeper and take longer to heal. And I couldn’t fix them. My job was, and is, to acknowledge and honor their pain and remind them that they are strong and courageous and resilient. That they can do hard things. That they come from a long line of tough, kind, powerful women who have their back. And then…quietly in my head…I make a voodoo doll of the person that has hurt them and poke needles in their eyes. Cuz that’s what good moms do.
So, we have established that I love and cry and protect.
Wait. That’s it. That’s my superpower. I’m a compassionate badass! This is fantastic news! My cape will be bright orange with SUPER CBA in yellow letters. (Since badass can be one word or two, I made the executive decision to use the three-letter acronym. It’s a personal choice. Please respect my decision.) My catch phrase will be:
Father Time is a narcissistic ass.
No, that’s probably not the best. How about this?
There is power in purpose.