Angels Inside

“Knock, Knock.” Maire said, blocking my view of Frozen 2. “Who’s there?” I asked, not really paying attention. “Frozen SUCKS and I hate it.” Well alrighty then. “What about Moana?” I asked, really hoping she’d want to watch it. “NOPE.” Looks like life with two older brothers has negated any chance of liking Disney princesses. “What about Barbie Extra? Do you want this for Christmas?” The answer to that was a solid no. How can you not want these dolls? I mean just look at them!

Yes, my daughter is not the typical girly girl. She regularly tries to trick me into flipping her off by playing with my fingers and carefully putting each one down except for the middle one. She farts a lot, burps even more, and smacks her butt when she dances. She was difficult in the womb so I guess I should have known I had it coming. I also guess I should have known that there’s no flippin way I would birth anything that would be classified as “subdued”. Nope, no chance. She stomps when she’s mad, growls at her brothers, cries when her feelings are hurt, and laughs maniacally when hyper. Her brothers call her a “drama queen”. And they’re right, 100%. 

This morning I found myself wondering just how far back our children’s personalities go. I was a pain in the ass as a kid (still am sometimes) and my mom was a pain in the ass as a kid too (shocked? You shouldn’t be). Her mom, my grandmother, was a Coleman—quiet and gentle from what I’ve been told. So, we assume that this fire inside is a Twomey trait, descended from my maternal grandfather who, on all accounts, was a bit reckless and became even more so after the very untimely passing of my grandmother, his wife, at the age of 43.

The Coleman Twomey mix is the yin and yang on the maternal side of my family. Both are good, just different. We temper one another with humor, advice, and a shared affection for our history. To know that my children carry traits from that history is both humbling and comforting. They do not shine like beacons of exemplary this or that. That’s just not their style. They do, however, have a certain patina that you can only discover after spending a significant amount of time with them. Anyone who walked in and heard Maire’s “Frozen SUCKS” comment would think she was, perhaps, on the naughty list. Stick around a while and you’ll see her scurrying around the house, clearing objects off the floor and couch that are in Grampy’s path to his “nighttime seat”.  She’s what I would describe as raw. Nothing is hidden, you see what you get and you get what you see.

The patina of my children is a mix of Coleman, Twomey, Alfaro, and Escobar. They are who they are because of the DNA they carry. Angels are not just among us, they are inside—fueling us and our fiery sons and daughters. They are what push us forward on the days we feel incapable of another step. As I sit here, in the bathroom, trying to finish this piece in…peace, it is my daughter who bangs on the door and demands a fried egg. “Mama, mama, mama, maaaaaamaaaaaa, mamamamamamamamamama, MAMA…” she says with complete exasperation. Like I said….patina not beacons, the angels inside are not always easy to see or hear.