Raising kids is one of life’s purest privileges.
As parents, we have the power to influence how our kids see both themselves and the world.
It’s the words we use, our attitude, how we touch them, which takes the malleable life in front of us and alters it. If we do things often enough one way, it will, over time, mold their personalities that way.
This is the story of how, no matter what you do, showing your kids your imperfection and asking for their forgiveness when you mess up, makes them stronger and just as importantly, it doesn’t make you weaker.
It will bring you closer together because they learn that you are honest with them. And trusting your kids with your imperfections honours them, and that, in turn, raises their self-esteem. The older your kids become, the more concrete this theory.
I have two teenage boys, and they are the source of so much incandescent joy in my day: it’s life’s sweetest drug. I even look forward to them waking up. I love them so much.
They can also drive me crazy, but it’s a good crazy, a fun crazy, an important crazy even. Why? Because as we ping pong off each other, I know they are what’s meaningful in my life, and they feel the same way about their Dad and me.
. . .
My eldest son has always had staff.
My eldest boy has a strong personality. When he was a toddler, we’d call him for dinner, and he’d reply with, “Busy now.”
It’s Lego Mom, deal.
We’d joke that he’s always had staff because he walks through life with this indelible confidence. As a parent, it’s comforting to think your child won’t fall prey to intimidation or bad decision making because they have an innate sense of self. Yet life makes us all stumble. Like most kids, my boy’s 100% confident at home, in complete emotional safety.
His other talent is his extraordinary compassion. He will fight until his last drop of blood to protect those he feels can’t defend themselves. It’s honourable and valiant and will likely become his life’s work in some way. It can also blind him to the full picture of what the world is presenting. Passion without full context tends to cause problems.
This is when I start to worry. I begin to think of the ways he could be taken advantage of or how his stubbornness can limit his possibilities. He’s eighteen. The world is humongous to him, and he’s processing it at fantastic speed. He’s reading, writing, theorizing; he just hasn’t lived yet. Life will alter his iron-clad theories and shake his confidence. I want him to survive those times and come out better.
I can’t save him from hurt, but like every parent, I want to. What I can do is support him. And if I’m honest, I’m a bit militant about it. Not surprisingly, he’s not always on board with my fervour for his cause.
. . .
Family dinner is supposed to be about connecting, not civil war.
Last night we had one of our rare family dinners. Rare because we are in the middle of our personal family destruction. We’re about five weeks away from divorcing and the boys living with us separately. It’s hard. Sadness and anger boiling under the surface and even though I know they’re there, it always surprises me when they manifest themselves. I feel blindsided and guilty almost every day.
It’s the kind of situation that can’t end quickly enough. I try not to contemplate that it also means I won’t see my kids every day.
My ex-husband is worried about our eldest’s future. Jobs during Coronavirus are not as plentiful, and our son has decided to change university majors and defer his post-secondary education for a year. Both are smart decisions in my mind. Choose what you want and go for it. Take time to mature and work for a year. Those weren’t the issues on the table though. My ex suggested my son become an electrician because they make good money, are part of a union, and there’s “always work.”
I lost it. Seems simple to say, but it was nuclear.
Safety in an occupation because you can make a living and its stable spells only one thing: r.e.g.r.e.t. I should know, I’m a writer as a second career in my late forties.
As the rage rose from my stomach, the predictable explosion detonated all over the kitchen.
Our eldest wants to study psychology, after changing from computer science. He loves to talk about radical socialism and SpaceX. He would never be happy running conduit and grounding wire for a living.
I know my ex’s idea is coming from a good place. My rational mind tells me this as it knocks persistently at the door of my rage. But like a spark to kindling, me saying two little words like, “That’s ridiculous,” meant the tender not-so-agreed-to truce my ex and I had, disappeared in the Bermuda triangle of family dysfunction. It was profound, ugly and all in front of our eldest.
In the end, my son took my husband’s side, believing I caused the battle. It felt unfair, and I seethed. I was protecting him — fighting the good fight. I am not the underdog.
I walked away, but I was determined not to let it go. If you’re thinking this usually predicts bad outcomes, you’re right. This time though, I used the walk to calm down, mutter to myself, make a few beds and reframe the next discussion with my son in my head.
. . .
Take a step back and look at what’s important.
My son came upstairs while I was in his room, fussing. I leapt at the opportunity to repair the damage. I apologized for fighting with his Dad in front of him. I never want him to feel he must choose sides, and I realized the fight had inadvertently asked that of him.
It hurt that he chose his Dad’s side, but that was my son’s emotional decision to make. I’m a fighter. If I don’t curb my reactions and get the upper hand on my feelings, I can make things worse. My apology included my nuclear response.
Next, I said I understood where his Dad was coming from, and that his heart is in the right place. He wants you to be safe — economically, and it’s an impulse he’s feeling himself acutely now. I take some responsibility for that, but it’s not the primary or a perfect way to choose your career.
Then I talked about what I believe his gifts and strengths are. The upcoming decisions are his to make, but no matter what, please don’t make them out of fear, either real or imagined.
You see, I’ve known happiness and despair, and both are determined by the decisions we make to either satisfy ourself or others, respectively.
Our job as parents is simple: give our kids every resource, support their dreams, allow them to make mistakes and offer your hard-earned wisdom when appropriate. Which, as you know, has a 50/50 chance of being ignored, ridiculed or both. True fact, we did the same thing to our parents.
Above all, love them, consistently and hard, because it’s never about us. It’s only about them.
My best parenting days are when the boys give me surprise hugs or when I feel their head hit my shoulder on the couch. In the meantime, I ply them with sweet chilli heat corn chips and green juice, and hope they forgive my mistakes and remember my love.
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This post was previously published on A Parent Is Born and is republished here with permission from the author.
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Photo credit: Unsplash
