Waiting is hard. At least for me. It sets up time to let the stories and scenarios in my head spin more then occasionally out of control. Having a vivid imagination that borders on panic isn't where you'd want to spend those moments that can last eternity.
But, what's even harder than waiting for something for myself, is waiting for my kids. Not waiting as in when they're coming home from school, but waiting to find out whether they got a part in the play, a spot on the flag football team, passed the test they'd studied so hard for.
Knowing that those results aren't my results. I'm here to celebrate or support. To listen or be shut off and shut up. To scream with glee or hug through tears.
To be there.
To not be there.
My feelings about these outcomes are vast but in the end are secondary.
And that's almost as hard as the waiting itself.
There is nothing more in life that I want than to make sure my kids are safe. Happy. Ok.
I wish I could prevent disappointment. Deflect heartache. Take away the sting, the pain, the crash that comes from putting yourself out there.
But, I can't.
And, in the end, those are some of life's most important lessons. Play parts aren't guaranteed. Making the team isn't a given. Romantic feelings aren't always mutual. Favorite schools don't have room for every person who wants to attend. Friends often can't be counted on.
You can't always get what you want.
Me neither. I can't stop the hurt.
But I can share the wallow. And then help move on.