Day 2 – Love
by Zoeyjane
Something you love about yourself
It took me a very long time – almost the span of her entire life – for me to realize that yes, I actually am a good mother. Despite my wrong-doings.
I have been cold, I have yelled, I have snarked and told her to leave me alone, that I didn’t want to hug her because I was too mad to show affection. I’ve slapped her hand twice, I’ve been too fast and a little too furious when having an enough is enough moment and depositing her in her room, I’ve allowed her to go to bed without dinner because she refused to eat what she agreed to. I’ve threatened a spanking – though I haven’t raised my palm – and to take away all of her stuffed animals, and to withdraw her from preschool. I’ve told her, point-blank, that I don’t want to be her friend. I’ve been inconsistent, I’ve stayed in bed while she bounced around, I’ve put on movies when I just wanted her to shut up.
Those are my crimes against Zoë. Those are also, on some level, good parenting. I have to tell a story, to explain my meaning.
This woman I was friends with, her daughter had been going through a really aggressive stage – so much so, that Zoë requested to not play with her any more, after getting a few bites. But this mother, she was of the gentle, attachment parenting variety, constantly looking for a specific source of the aggression – usually coming back to her ex’s practices, when her daughter visited, and her daughter’s subsequent separation anxiety – so she wouldn’t have thought to deal with the behaviour in any aggressive way. Time outs were few and talking was the most employed method of ‘treatment’. Her daughter would do something, like bite another kid, and the mom would drop everything – work, dishes, friendships – in order to spend a great deal of time with her daughter after the incident, and for the weeks afterwards, explaining that it seemed like her daughter just needed her so much because X happened. One day, she yelled a little bit at her daughter while I was there. Nothing cruel, nothing violent. A justified That’s Enough in a louder than usual tone.
She felt horrible. She felt that any frustration she felt should be masked. She felt that her daughter shouldn’t see her angry, or even a little out of control – that it would harm her. She said that she’d never seen her mother get mad, and intimated that her assumption was that she was to do the same.
I said, “What, so she can grow up thinking that she’s never allowed to be upset, either? To have the chance to learn to resolve her anger? So she can think that any angry side of her – even when it’s justified – is wrong?”
That’s why the thing I love about myself is that I’m a good mother.
I’m true to myself in the role, and I’m true to Zoë, without trying to sugar-coat life. There’s no such thing in my house as generalizing people, disallowing feelings or tears, being dishonest, being inhumane or cruel. I don’t put things on her little shoulders, but I don’t assume she can’t carry any weight. And if she asks me a question, I’ll give her an honest answer, not dodge around it out of disrespect, seeking comfortability.
I’ve come to know her really well as a person, not just her ability to respond to commands – and I employ that to make our lives easier, yes, but also to allow her to reach as much self-fulfilment as possible. I encourage her to do everything safe, herself, but if I see her truly struggling, I ask if she would like help, because I don’t want to control her, or to instill in her the subconscious thought that I don’t have confidence in her abilities.
Most of all, I respect her. I value her opinion, stories, abilities, hypotheticals, loves, likes and disenchantments. I don’t walk around calling her Daughter, and so, I have no problem with her calling me Terra. When she tells me what she wants to be when she grows up – currently a firefighter – I let her know the physical challenges and that she’ll need to exercise a lot when she’s old enough to go to the gym. I don’t talk down to her, intentionally, and I don’t baby talk. She’s a human being, who is generally better at picking out clothes than I am, quite skilled with a paring knife, and inspires all kinds of not-really-into-kids people to use the L-word in reference to her.
Because of all of these things, because I make an intentioned effort to remain open and honest and true to her and myself, I think, yeah, I may not be a great role model because of my history, but if she’s going to get anything from me, it’ll be authenticity.
Because last week, she said she wants to be a firefighter mommy when she’s a grown up. And she told a friend that it was okay to cry if she was sad. And she stomped to her room to cool off before she came to tell me why she was mad at me. And she treats every stranger she meets – adults, caregivers, babies, toddlers, older kids – with equal amounts of respect, without pre-judgments.
My sister told me that she wants to be a mom like me someday, and why, and it made me almost cry because I actually, for the first time maybe ever, believed a compliment.
I love the result of my parenting, thus far, even if it’s not 100% all me, because my kid? Has such esteem that I can explain to her that I don’t want to be her friend and it won’t affect her negatively, because she knows I’m 100% her mom and she can be 100% herself.
Tomorrow. Something I have to forgive myself for. Shit. Play along at home, y’all.
