There is something about trying to parent a 6th
grader that has taken me back to my “junior high” years. Maybe it is all the
angst, or all the excitement that comes with having your toes on the edge of a more adult world. Or maybe it’s the fact
that I have been listening to Classic Rock. But my emotions are swirling in a
way that feels 1977ish.
In 1977, I was a big kid….and I don’t mean just “big-boned”. I mean almost 6 feet tall and overweight. I was clumsy and loud, with skin that seemed to be perpetually broken out and hair that was straight and fine and limp…..during the days of Farrah Fawcett and Charlie’s Angels. Thankfully, I was very smart and made excellent grades because otherwise I would have had nothing noteworthy going on. Also, I had a knack for ingratiating myself with the popular people, either through luck or through cunning. I kept score for the volleyball and softball teams so I knew all the girls who were athletes and their jock boyfriends. I even cheered for a few years because my broad, strong back made me an excellent “base” for the 90 lb girls to build stunts around. In 9th grade I was Vice-President of Beta Club and a Student Council officer, so if you looked at my yearbooks from this era it would appear that I was square in the center of the “It” crowd.
Except I really wasn’t. Most days I felt like I sat just on
the outside of knowing whatever secret it was that all those beautiful people
knew. I studied their casual confidence and hungered for it. I dressed the part
and I talked the talk, but in the darkest recesses of my soul, I felt like a
fraud. Emotionally, it was pure agony. Psychologically, it was the highest highs
and the lowest lows, almost every day. Back then my self-esteem hinged on so
many factors outside myself, that were beyond my control, when what I really wanted
was to feel like I fit in.
Looking back, I am certain that my family bore the brunt of how sad and angry and scared I felt inside. And in all honesty, the distance and tension that exists in our relationships to this day can, in large part, be traced to this period of my life.
Now I watch my oldest going through some of the same emotions
and I am on the receiving end of the confusion and anger. I realize that since
the day each of the tests read “pregnant”, I have been basing my parenting philosophy
primarily on NOT doing anything the way my parents had done it. For years now I
have falsely believed that if I tried to be more involved and tried to be more
focused on my sons’ emotional well-being, then I could help them avoid the
pitfalls that clouded so much of my life then and still occasionally darken my
mood. Unfortunately, I WAS WRONG….about so many things and in so many ways.
For all of my efforts (and those of their Dad), here we are…
dumbfounded by the mood swings and the intensity of the emotions…wondering what
in the hell we are suppose to do now. Even as I type these words I am questioning
whether I should be sharing these thoughts with the cyberworld. Don’t I owe my children more privacy than that? What
if writing is only the selfish act by which I work out my own crap? Truthfully,
I don’t have the answers anymore. I don’t have the energy to pretend that I
have the answers. And obviously, living authentically is going to be more about
the questions than the answers. As my wise Uncle Mickey used to say, “The only
thing that never changes is the fact that things are always changing.”
So apparently, now is going to be the time for me to change
my parenting philosophy. Because as painful as it has been coming to this
point, the reality is that most children are only doing what they need to be doing
at any given moment, so that they can grow in the ways they need to grow. I
believe it is not their behavior or their misbehavior that creates our
difficulties. Rather it is our inability to manage and cope with the behavior
and misbehavior that causes us to lose sleep and spend days with lumps in our
throats and knots in our stomachs. Undoubtedly, our children are the ones sent
from some place more perfect for the purpose of helping us grow into the people we are meant to be. And for the
majority of us, that process involves learning and re-learning lessons related
to patience and self-control, even under the most dire of child-raising
circumstances.
The message that has been resonating through my core and
spilling out in my tears for the last few days is this: I must accept and forgive the circumstances
that shaped me, even if I never fully reach any understanding of them.
Forgiveness is a gift I am being required to give…for my own sake. Only by
doing so will I have the energy to keep growing and changing…to keep living my life to the fullest.
Intent and diligence are the hallmarks of forgiveness, not
necessarily coming to any semblance of understanding. The Universe has also made
it abundantly clear that I will not be able to guide or help anyone…or any one…
until they can feel and trust that I am giving them my acceptance. Paradoxically,
I am going to have to give my sons a level of acceptance that I don’t always
have to give to myself; an acceptance that I most definitely did not feel at
their ages. Apparently, Acceptance precedes Discipline and Guidance, not only
in the Webster’s Dictionary, but also in the Book of Life Lessons for Parents.
I have no idea how to even begin to convince my children
that I can accept them just the way the are and exactly for who they are.
Granted, I have no intention of allowing them to seize the power and call all
of the shots. More likely than not, tough love will always be the foundation upon
which I build as a parent. But fortunately for lots of us who struggle,
children are typically more forgiving and resilient than the adults in their
lives. And their reservoirs of unconditional love are deeper than ours. Simply
put, they will give us lots of opportunities to figure out what it is they want
and need from us. Today, I am guessing that for our boys, it will begin and end
with Acceptance.
