My kids are who they are. My kids are who they are. My kids are who they are.”
It has become my mantra, and I have to say it over and over again so I believe it.
I know in my heart that my kids have their own path, and that I only ferried them here in my womb, then nurtured them as best I could.
But life is a lot to undertake. Pressure seems to be exerted from all angles, and home is not the place to put kids in a vice. And their home is my home.
It’s the home I imagined as I held those plastic big-boobed Barbies in my hands in front of that three-sided triplex townhouse. It’s the one I thought of as I played that little paper-fortune game at my desk in elementary school. I didn’t know then that I would get Urban and Apartment, but here I am. And here are my two boys.
We deal a hand, and our children have to play the cards. They are little hostages in a world where we call all the shots.
Yikes. You can see why this relationship can get tricky. At some point, even though they are in our little Barbie dream world, they begin to
have their own dreams.
Actually, watching babies and toddlers with the knowledge of hindsight, it appears they always did have their own ideas and ambitions. They are themselves, straight out of the womb.
Armed with this knowledge, I have to remember these aren’t little plastic dolls for me to position just so and speak and decide for.
These are humans in my home who are separate from me. They need my support, and my encouragement. Sometimes they even need me to help them learn tough lessons. But they don’t need me to control them.
I can’t put them in a straight jacket in a padded cell.
Feeling free and independent as a child is a gift. I remember riding my bike after school, with no hands, careening down the black-tarred streets of my neighborhood, mountains all around. Sure, falling wasn’t fun, especially when it meant landing on a cactus, but the decision to take a risk was mine to make. And no one could stop me.
Geez, I did stupid things when I was a kid. So why now when my kids make really poor choices am I so judgmental and angry?
They need my understanding. They need me to help them figure what might work better for them and, frankly, for me (I do count, and I have to somehow convince them of this.)
But they don’t need my hostility. They don’t need my ire. Those emotions are directed more at myself, actually, for failing them. And I need to drum them out, or write them out, or draw them out, or talk them out with a friend or family member who might listen just so I can figure them out.
I’m pretty sure taking out our frustrations with our children’s mistakes on them is not super helpful. And the cause is important. Creating a home where children do not feel like nervous hostages in your world is a pretty good cause.
This is where I need to pause, and take a deep breath. I need to let myself off the hook for all the times I screwed up and got mean and yelled, or gave a smack. I need to remember there’s nothing I can do about the past. I need to breathe in and out and know I was only trying to help when I got all distrustful and controlling, when I worried too much on their behalf and worried them.
And then I need to stand up tall, pull my shoulders back in strong resolve, and engage with my teenage boys like the kick-ass people they are, and love the heck out of them despite their failings.
And because of them.
I just need to hope that I’ve modeled understanding enough that they can forgive me. I fail them a lot and I pray they can see the love underneath.
I imagine, somewhere, that they feel the same.
