Formed

potters hand
     As a grown up, I can honestly say there isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t think about my childhood. Actually, there probably isn’t an hour that goes by in the same way. I have only recently begun to feel like I’m a grown up. Until recently, I felt exactly the same as I did when I was seventeen. I looked out of the same eyes, and processed in the same inner room of my mind.
     The point I am trying to make is that I was formed by my childhood, and the clay has dried. Let me be clear. I was formed by two parents, for better or worse. By their presence and absence, their care and carelessness, their hopes and fears and wins and losses and tears and laughter, and they were knowingly or otherwise the architects of what I am now.
     This fact has been the single driving force in my parenting. I am now the potter at the wheel, and I have the opportunity, and the responsibility, to mold and shape these little people, recognizing that they too will spend most of their years looking back to wonder at their forming.

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