No More Storms
A few Friday’s ago, I got a call late from another parent in my youngest child’s classroom. I knew something wasn’t right when she started the call by saying my boy was “mostly innocent.” I won’t bore you with the details of all that was said but basically her concern was that my child remained silent when one of their other friends said they weren’t going to be friends with him. I listened as she relayed the story in its entirety and asked her what she wanted me to do to help her resolve the situation. She asked me to get my son’s version of the story. I agreed and we hung up the phone.
I felt so weird. And by weird, I mean I knew I was feeling different than I had ever felt before when my kids have been reported to be anything short of perfect. It took me a second, but ya’ll…..what was missing….like noticeably missing….was the shame storm I’m so very accustomed to. The storm that had been blowing in for the last almost 13 years as a parent and most certainly many years before that any time someone said, “Kathryn, I need to talk to you,” or a parent would say, “your kid ___________.” But that night there was nothing except a commitment to ask my kid what happened the next day. And I slept. I didn’t toss it around in my head and stay awake all night. I didn’t play and replay the scenario that was described to me. I honestly didn’t even think about it until the next morning when I saw my child.
My first 9-10 years of parenting did not look like this, I promise. It looked like a month of anxiety after I received a call ten years ago letting me know my oldest was not going to be able to return to preschool because he was a threat to other children. How I cried for two weeks, ridden with anxiety and convinced that my kid was a psychopath. How I never questioned that there might be a problem with the school. How I never investigated the “BEST” preschool in the city I was living in. I just assumed because everyone said it was the best, it must be. I followed the herd and I jumped as soon as they called me to tell me he was off the 2-year-old wait list. It took me a full year and meeting of other boy moms who had also been kicked out of the same preschool to realize that the teacher at that school had a serious problem with boys. He knocked other kids block towers down with his little trucks and that was considered a “threat to other children” and playing tag on the playground was reported as him grabbing and running into other kids. I just assumed since they were the best and I was clearly not the best, that he had a problem and we were being rejected. A year later when I sat in a much less well- known preschool and the teacher described my kid as a “joy to teach; the smartest in the classroom, and so well-mannered and behaved,” I literally wept at her desk. I needed that validation. I needed someone to tell me that my kid was ok. I needed someone to reassure me he wasn’t going to be a failure in life. Because if he was successful then somehow that meant I was enough. Enough as a mom and basically as a human.
When my middle child was a toddler, he used to have the most intense emotional outbursts. They happened occasionally at home but mostly in public places. He would literally look like a crazy person as he screamed, writhed and tried to say mean things. Once in the checkout line at Wal Mart I refused to buy him a lollipop. I could see the tantrum coming and I didn’t care because I wasn’t going to give in. So proud of myself for standing my ground, I watched as the old lady in front of me turned around to judge the situation. Then she said, “You need to get control of your child. I raised five children and none of them ever behaved like that in public.” I was so angry that I said something mean to her like she was too old to forget how badly her kids acted but inside I was boiling over with shame. Of course, most kids didn’t act like this. Of course, it meant something about MY kids which of course (again!) meant something about me. I couldn’t stop thinking about that woman for months and feeling the storm hit over and over and over again.
I was on a constant merry-go-round of self judgements and interpreting situations in a way that had me wrong and ashamed. I would never tell you how I really felt though because you needed to think I had it all together. You needed to believe that I was enough so I could keep pretending. If I pretended long enough even I would actually start to believe it until the next time a friend said, “man your child is so rough. My kid wants so much to play with him and be that rough, but he doesn’t know how.” And I made it mean that something was wrong with my kid……..and round and round I would go.
So, what happened? It brings to tears to my eyes even as I type because it’s nothing short of a Christmas miracle! The short answer is….I did my work. I healed the parts of myself that were mine and had nothing to do with my kids. I had to go back into my past with the help of a life coach and find the wounds that haunted me as an adult. The kindergarten girl who got spanked in front of her entire class by the teacher for ‘cheating’ even though she in fact, was not cheating. The little girl on the playground who never felt good enough for anyone else because she was so sick with asthma that she couldn’t run across the playground and was constantly being teased. The perpetual ‘new’ girl because her dad got transferred every year or two making sure all my insecurities stayed nice and close to me! Every time my coach walked me through a different angle of my past, a little bit of me healed. With every bit that was healed I found myself able to handle situations differently. Each turn brought about more and more self-confidence and an understanding of my true identity.
Being a mom in our world is a surefire way to bring out all of our “stuff.” It sometimes feels like a playground for all of our baggage as we navigate raising kids with so much of our own childhood ‘trauma.’ I can’t tell you the number of people I have coached or talked to that have bullying in their history. So, guess what hot button gets pushed every time they think their kid is being left out or has no friends? How about being teased? Does that get your blood boiling? Just know that the intensity in which we feel our children’s struggles has more to do with our own struggles than they do our babies.
If you relate to what I have written; if you struggle with any of what I’ve described, and you want to grow out of it? Then it’s time to heal. Time to understand why you are the way you are. It’s time to own every aspect of yourself. Because my healing was not just about owning the shit of the past. In fact, that was a small aspect of it. Mostly my healing was owning the parts of me that are awesome. In owning ALL of me, I became me. I grew into me. I leaned into me.
It’s funny. I used to want you to think I was an amazing mom. I wanted you to see me for all I did and all I was. I needed your validation and your atta-girls. I needed it because I didn’t believe it. Now that I believe it, I don’t need it. When I stopped needing you to tell me who I am, I started being who I am. I’m an incredible mom. I love my kids. I know my kids. I know how amazing they are. I know what little assholes they can be too. We are an authentic household. We love, we fight, we make up, and we talk. I hear my kids’ teachers say all the time what a joy they are to teach and how awesome they are. I smile. I know they are. In all of their imperfections (and mine!) we are a pretty cool bunch. I like to hear it but I don’t need to hear it anymore. And today, I can receive a call about my kid doing something short of perfect and just listen. Be helpful. Hang up the phone and feel nothing related to shame or embarrassment. No more storms to sweep me up and have me miss some of the best times of my kids lives. And my friends, I’m here to tell you, that is true freedom!
Love,
