Unmet expectations

I’ve read so many books in which 

The characters describe with pain 

What disappointments they have been to their parents 

That I’ve begun to wonder 

If it might be that the Jesus myth’s at fault: 

That knowing that poor Mary — 

Who wasn’t even married — 

Could give birth to the savior of the universe, 

Each parent, pregnant, then develops expectations 

That each child must inevitably not meet. 

And then, when they’re born, 

And we see those bright eyes, 

Taking everything in, and learning so quickly, 

We project into the future and begin to imagine 

How much they could accomplish 

With all that intelligence, 

Taking each new small learning 

And extrapolating potential into miracles 

That, unhampered by the stuff that held US back, 

They might achieve, as we, like sweepers 

In the curling rink of life, brush away, 

That they might have a clear path to success.