Everyone played "Mother, May I?" as I kid. One of the players is nominated the "Mother" and stands separate from the pack, whom are all lined up an equal distance away. Then Mother goes down the line and gives instructions as to what each player may do. "Carrie, take 3 giant steps forward," to which the player must respond "Mother, may I?" and wait until she hears "Yes, you may" before taking her steps. If you move without asking permission, it's back to the starting line with you. First to touch Mother wins. And is apparently the biggest suck up.
What a weird thing to base a game on asking permission.
But as a child, it's true that your every move is cushioned and guided by permission. Some kids rebel against having to ask for it. Some kids embrace its safety. I remember I used to love using the "they didn't give me permission" card when I didn't want to do something. "Well, if you don't want to go," my mother would say, "then just say I didn't give you permission. I'll take the blame."
I loved getting to blame my mom.
For example, moving out is a big shift from permission to responsibility. And as time goes on, if successful, that responsibility continues to blossom. You no longer have an "allowance", it's your hard-earned money, free and clear. It's no longer school work, it's a diploma and a real job. It's no longer an apartment with three roommates, it's a house with a wife, a baby, and a golden retriever.
These past couple years, I've given up a lot of permissions, and accumulated greater odds for blame. I went to a church that wasn't with my parents. I moved out. I became more than 90% financially independent. I went to school and maintained good grades. And then I got married. That's a lot.
When Dave and I were driving down to West Virginia for a vacation last weekend, during the ride I was thinking about how often I still feel this child-like need for permission. I'm the kid who loved the safety of asking permission. I didn't want to own my "no", and was happy to have my parents say it for me. Often times, even now, I am still scared to take the hit of blame for something. Because permission was safe. Permission protected my desire for everyone to like me. Blame and responsibility promise no such thing.
And there I was on the winds of a West Virginia mountain road, surrounded by green and a strange realization of my independence. Mostly strange because I was sitting next to a man whom I'll probably have to ask permission for on more things than I ever did with my parents. But it's different. It's not, "Dave made the decision," it's "We made the decision." And I felt this fierceness, this perilous wildness rise up at the thought of looking over that edge with him, the weight of our decisions yoked across our shoulders.
Over that edge is the first sight of the end of school, less than a year away. And permission will diminish even more, crystallizing into our personal responsibility. Less and less we are those children asking "Mother, may I?". And it's a fearful and glorious thing.
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