I recently saw a musical in which the teen suffers from an aging disease. It’s impacted the entire family, with the parents afraid to have another child in case he is born with the same genetic abnormality. As the character nears the end of her life, her parents decide the time has come to try again, in a way, replacing the teen.

            Toward the end, the teen sings about shucking off the ghost of the girl you wanted to really “SEE” the one before you. To appreciate their daughter for who she is, not for who she is not.

            The song struck me deep in my gut.

            I was not the daughter my parents had in mind. Even when quite young, I wanted to run and play with the boys. I was a pretty good athlete: not always on the varsity teams, but still wearing a uniform and competing.

            I hated dresses, but that’s what all girls wore to school in my town. At home I always wore shorts or jeans, t-shirts and sweaters. I didn’t “walk” like a girl, as my mom told me many times. I had no skills or interest in painting my nails, wearing makeup or styling my hair. I had no interest in learning to cook, something that annoyed my mother, as she claimed to have given birth to me only so I’d take over household chores. And be around to watch her when she grew older.

            I did have assigned chores. One that I hated the most was cleaning my older brother’s bedroom. Why did I have to pick up his dirty underwear? Change his sheets? Clean his bathroom?

            My mother’s excuse was that he needed to spend his time studying so as to go to college.

            I wanted to go to college as well, but that wasn’t important to her. She wanted me married as a teen and producing grandchildren, one after another.

            I wanted out: out of the house, out of her life, out of the family. The only way I could see to make that happen was by getting into college, earning a degree, and then being able to support myself.

            My brother was allowed to study from the moment he came home from school. I couldn’t study until all my chores were done. He finished his schoolwork by dinnertime: I began mine around nine o’clock, or later.

            Because I graduated from high school without a boyfriend in tow, I was a lost cause. I hated dating. All the sweaty hand-holding and sloppy kissing and front seat make-out sessions. I had been told repeatedly that I wasn’t pretty, that I was unlovable and so I couldn’t be picky,

            I was picky. If I married, I would choose a man who respected me for who I was, not who my mom wanted me to be. Therefor in college I dated a series of men. One, George, I thought I loved. Until he insisted that I change faith once we got married. End of that relationship.

            By the time I graduated from college, marriage became an actual thought. I dated a guy I met at the bowling alley, a too handsome guy who probably only took me out expecting something in return. He didn’t get it, therefor, no more dates.

            A couple of years later I walked into my new office to see a tall, smiling man who immediately warmed my heart. We worked a few cases together and had time to get to know one another.

            In time, we began dating. Then I enlisted in the Army Reserves because I wanted to go to the Monterey Institute of Languages, run by the military. I was sent to Alabama at the end of August, where the humidity was miserable and the constant drilling oppressive.

            I was only there two weeks, and was allowed only one phone call. I didn’t call home, which angered my parents. I called my beau, who met me at the airport with a hug and a kiss.

            Our relationship was sealed.

            We’ve been together 50 years. He’s always “seen” the real me. He’s never tried to make me into someone I didn’t want to be. He encouraged me to return to college to get my teaching credential, even though it was a financial strain and it meant he had to put the kids to bed.

            He’s my best friend, my partner, my fan club, my everything.

            If years ago my parents had seen the real me, I wonder if things might have been different. If our relationship would have been more amicable. If I wouldn’t have been a disappointment to them.

            Although I wasn’t the perfect parent as I made plenty of mistakes, I always tried to encourage our kids to be the person they wanted to be. As long as they kept their grades up.

            So this is a cautionary message to all soon-to-be parents out there: give your kids room to grow, to explore, to discover who they are supposed to be.