My hardest job as a parent is learning how not to parent.
I have men, or near-men, living in my house. Because they were once little beans growing inside of me, I somehow still believe I can pick things out of their hair, or pop things on their chin, or pat their butts as they walk by. I somehow believe I can decide things for them.
Um, I can’t do any of these things, not always, maybe not ever.
What is so, so, so, so hard — probably way harder than changing even the most disgusting corn-filled diaper — is letting go. Ceding control is not my strong suit, nor is shutting my mouth. Neither action comes naturally to me. And so I am learning the hard way.
My younger one is more forceful with his need for independence. He will swat away my hand when I go to touch him, or swivel out from under my intended kiss. I have to be careful to make even the slightest suggestion for fear he will take it as telling him what to do and immediately say “No,” when he might really want to say “Yes.”
I just try to smile and laugh it off. I remember being the same stubborn way. I could do things myself, I could stand on my own two feet, I didn’t need anyone, least not my mom.
Ha. Of course, they need me when they need me, like when their throat starts to feel sore, or they can’t find their baseball socks, same as I was with my parents. But that is natural, I think. I just have to gently remind them that I am human also, a human with feelings and needs, and that sometimes their rebuffs can feel a bit mean, especially when they would like me to happily do things for them.
It is a funny thing, living in a house with four people who all pretty much act independently, coming and going with different schedules, interacting, but not always. It is a whole new world.
The other morning, one of the boys had a stain on his shirt. He looked cool anyway — wearing a hat and a little bit of a swagger — so I shut my mouth. I actually didn’t say what I saw, or my opinion that he might want to change. It seemed a small thing, but it was a big thing for me to learn to hold my tongue and remember it really didn’t matter.
I might have said something about the spot, and he would decide not to change but he’d think about it all day and feel a little less cool. Or he’d change but then not like what he was wearing as much, and maybe he’d be late for school. What was the point of my saying anything? I asked myself the question before I blurted out what I saw, and what I thought he should do, and, amazingly, the world went on just as before. He went to school with a small stain. Everybody was fine.
Same with the odd pimple that creeps up on one or another of the boys’ faces. I am trying not to point them out and make a fuss. I am trying not to say the standard, “Oh, teenage pimples. You’re going to get pimples, just wait.” I’m trying to let them go through what they go through without the constant prying, labeling, and controlling of their mother who, although she might mean well, is just way too worried about every small detail that really doesn’t matter in the end.
Look, I’m trying. My bent is to give them a full body scan morning and night and pick at them like a monkey does to her young, pruning and perfecting these little beings that came out of me, who are here because of me. But the cord was cut a while back, I’m afraid. They are solidly their own super humans, and I am trying to just enjoy watching them be who they are without the constant imprint of my many opinions.
I am opinionated. Very. But, see, I’m me and they are they. I can listen and watch, and offer a few thoughts on things they’re trying to decide. But the decisions will be theirs, now and moving forward. They are going to make choices that fit who they are. They are going to make mistakes figuring who they are, but those mistakes will be necessary footprints on their path, just like the ones I had to make in the earth, just like the ones everyone makes.
Smile, nod, say “I love you” a lot, these are the things I am trying to do most these days for peace and harmony in my house of men.
