My friend posted a meme this morning that said, “My child is
not giving me a hard time. My child
is having
a hard time.”
What a simple statement of absolute truth.
Oh it sounds simple.
“It’s not about you. The world doesn’t revolve around you,” my mom used to say. Interesting that she would say that to me,
but then her entire world revolved around me and my brother. Everything that we did wrong was somehow her
fault.
I remember, for example, one of
my biggest faux pas. As a teen, my church youth group went
to a weekend Jesus retreat. It was going
to be outdoors at a great camp with lots of open space to explore and commune with nature. To be with God.
What better place to bring alcohol? Yup… we brought along a bottle of vodka (I
think it was vodka although I seem to recall that slo gin was normally our
bottle of choice). After a day of Bible
and prayer and reflection, we proceeded to sneak out of our cabins late at
night and congregate in the nearby woods. There we drank ourselves silly. Except for Steve. He drank himself into unconsciousness. And we were scared. Really scared. In our drunken panic, we went to our Youth
Group leader. I don’t remember what
exactly transpired after that, but whatever he did revived Steve without any
flashing lights or trips to the hospital. I seem to remember it consisted of simply
waking him up and then everyone sleeping it off. However, what I do remember with more clarity than
Sharpie on a Solo Cup is my mom’s words… “How could you do this to me?”
It was more sobering than a hard slap to a cold face.
How could I explain it had nothing to do with her. In fact, my mom was the furthest thing from
my mind when we concocted our transgression.
It was Wisconsin. It was the
70s. We were only 1 or 2 short years
from the (then) legal drinking age of 18.
It was a retreat. An escape. We wanted only to retreat. To escape.
Not our parents. Not even the
world. We simply wanted to escape being
kids and be adults. And vodka seemed to
be the most immediate way.
But my mom didn’t see that connection. Instead, she connected the dots between our
foray into alcoholism and Mother’s Day and immediately labeled my actions being
about her. She was a bad mom. She didn’t measure up. She was a failure. She was embarrassed.
And in true penitent Christian fashion, she took that
embarrassment to a whole other level on the Sunday when we evildoers had to
stand in front of the congregation and admit our iniquities. Ask for forgiveness, not from Jesus who
proved he understood the value of a good drink at Canaan, but worse. We had to beg forgiveness from the elders of
the church who wore white gloves and mink stoles and looked over their glasses
as they sucked their teeth. And while we
may have been eventually absolved, my mother never was.
I learned that from her.
To take things my kids do personally.
And now, as the mom of young adults, I am unlearning it.
My kids love me unconditionally. They would do anything for me. Anything. Yet when they mess up, get jacked up and even
fuck up, it’s not about me. It’s all
about them.
It’s about them feeling for the boundaries in the dark. It’s about them looking for their place at
the table in a packed dining hall when they’ve arrived a tad late. It’s about them finding 1000 ways that won’t work
on their quest for the one that will.
As a mom, I remember when they learned to walk. With my first, Andrew, I tried to remove
everything dangerous from his path- to clear the way. Yet I couldn’t keep him from wandering into a
pool and nearly drowning.* With my
second, Jordan, I swore I would follow around behind her ready to catch her at
the first wobble. But she had other
ideas and went from sitting on her own to standing and walking long before that
milestone was supposed to be in sight. Derek started
running behind the first two with reckless abandon before I even seemed to
notice. And the youngest? With three
older siblings and a mom who was trying to be more perfect with every child, he
didn’t have to walk. Everything he
needed/wanted/desired was simply brought to him in eager anticipation. So by the time he took his first steps, I was
simply relieved.
Were these four approaches a reflection of me? Were they a measure of my momhood?
No. They were four
kids reacting to their worlds in a way that was purely theirs.
And today, when I take the time to look, each continues to
navigate their world in similar fashion.
The way each learned to move through their world as babies is much the
way they move through the world today.
It is about them. Their view. Their speed. Their path. Their road. Them.
It’s not about me at all.
The lesson my mom taught me, my kids untaught me. I must stop being afraid my kids might embarrass me in front of a judgmental world and instead, watch them
maneuver through life. Whether they go from ditch to ditch, before I think they are ready, with reckless abandon or so slowly I am simply relieved when they hit their own stride, I stand on the side cheering them on. Ready to pick them up, dust them off, plant a
kiss on the boo boo, and send them back on their way.
My child is not having a hard time. My children are living their own time.
And nothing makes me prouder.
* I wrote about this in my blog post of December 2016.
