I’ve never been one to worry too much about what my purpose in life is. It’s not that I’m incapable of being philosophical, or that I was ever too egotistical to think I needed one. I suppose I just thought that if I had a purpose, it’d work itself out, whether or not I put any effort into it.
Since becoming a parent, my purpose mostly seems to be ensuring that my children thrive. Because I have three boys and half their DNA comes from me, it sometimes feels more like I’m ensuring they survive to adulthood, despite their best efforts. To me, my multiple scars are the perfect blueprint of what not to do, but my kids often don’t see it that way. In typical childlike disconnect, they seem to feel that either those things could never happen to them, or that my original plans simply need improvement.
I wish I could tell you that because of the wisdom that comes with age, I’m past that sort of thinking. It wouldn’t be true, though. My latest bout of foolishness didn’t leave any visible scars to point to as I relate this tale, but it left an imprint on me. Hopefully, there’s a lesson here worth passing on to others. Bear with me, please.