When I was a child, my parental examples were rather limited. My mother was often incapacitated by health issues or caught up in her neat-freak habits or in the funky depths of depression. My father hid himself away in his work, his bedroom, or his sarcasm, not attending my birthday parties, track meets or softball games. From a young age, I determined that, should I have kids, I would do better.
Still, my mom was a tough act to follow. Even with her foul mouth and cargo-hold full of childhood baggage, she was an awesome mother. She sewed, crocheted, gardened and canned. She cooked, volunteered, told stories and wrote books. She was the Brownie leader, the room mother, the softball coach and the D.C. trip chaperone. She organized the yearly beggar's night, took me to dance classes, watched my play rehearsals and made Christmas cookies every year.
She also called me terrible names and beat me when I made her angry. Or when my dad made her angry. Or when a neighbor, friend or television show made her angry.
I have to admit this: I was a very high-spirited, strong-willed kid, coming up with ideas or ideals to which I would hold defiantly. I can remember many times, my mother standing over me, her angry face just inches from mine, my hands and arms wrapped around my head to protect myself from another blow, and I can still hear her saying, "I'm going to make you mind if it kills me! I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me! "
And I did.
I hated how she looked, how she acted, how she talked, how she smelled. Everything about my mother filled me with contempt. Even her good deeds, to me, were like filthy rags. I couldn't stand to see her walk into a room. I knew that, depending on her mood, I would be either the best kid that ever lived, or the little brat who was driving her crazy. She was, in my eyes, self-seeking, pitiful, manipulative and dishonest.
It became my goal in life to prove her wrong and to expose her for the liar and lunatic that she was. When we were in public, I hoped, even tried, to pick out things that she would say that were blatantly wrong. I would look for opportunities to correct her and often triumphantly found them, only to incur her raging wrath once we were alone.
But it was worth it to me, because it proved me right, if even in my own mind. When we were in public, she was bubbly and good-humored. She liked to put on a show for her friends. But when we were alone, she exposed herself to me for who she really was. And I, in her words, was an antagonistic brat whose room was always a pig sty, who was lying and sneaky, and who, she hoped, would have ten kids just like me.
So maybe you can see why I was very strongly motivated to become exactly the opposite of what my mother prophesied over me.
When I say "prophesied," I don't mean to imply that there was any religious guidance in my childhood home. The only mention of God was followed shortly thereafter by the words "damn it." My primary religious influence came from the Holy Rolling mother of my best friend, who lived about a mile down the road. She was the other major influence on me, and her parenting to strategies were to pray...and yell.
Because my parents were very, incredibly overprotective of me, my household and the Holy Rolling household were the only ones I really ever knew. Our house was neat as a pin, always. The Holy Roller house was ever messy. Our house was organized and orderly. The Holy Roller house was virtual chaos with Ernest Angley for background noise.
So, I guess my life just kind of morphed out of both households. I'm chased by my own neat-freak demons, but my house is always virtual chaos (no Ernest Angley, though. Usually Train, or Jars of Clay or Barry Manilow as background noise), I waffle back and forth between being organized and orderly. And I'm a yeller.
And when I was sixteen, I became a Christian because some guy with no shirt and no shoes jumped onto the stage where I, as the local beauty queen, was judge for the small-town talent show. He stood there on stage with his guitar and sang beautiful spiritual songs to me and made me feel like there was hope, that I could be a better person.
I became a better person. Not a perfect person, of course. But a better one.
And I didn't even do it to prove my mom wrong.
Now, with my faith as a guide, I battle with the temptation to draw from my childhood experiences to motivate me as a wife and mother. I fight against my mother's prophesies (or curses?) that were placed over me, against preconceived notions and prejudices of mothers, women, households with many children, homeschoolers, christians.
I try not to compare myself with my parents, but I just can't help it. I spent so many years saying, "I'll be different. I'll do it right. I won't be like them," that I can't easily let go of the desire to rebel against them, even in my parenting. I'm running from the demons of my childhood. I realize, now, that my mother was, too. She was out to prove someone wrong, just like I'm out to prove her wrong. "You are a good mother," I want her to say. But what I hear in my mind instead is, "I hope you have ten brats just like you!"
None of my kids are brats. And I don't have ten just like me.
But I do have one.
I have a child who looks to prove me wrong at every turn, who is filled with anger, rebellion, and spite. I have a child who delights in correcting me and seems to live to humiliate me. This child is stubborn, strong-willed and fearless. When I deal with this child I see, sadly, my mother coming out in me. But I also so see me--the childhood me--staring out through that child's eyes.
And it drives me absolutely wild.
I have actually heard this child say the things that I used to say to my mom, or I can see those scathing, castigating thoughts running through that mind. I have actually heard myself say, "I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me!" I know, in the deepest place in my heart, that this is just not true. Actually, the thought brings me to my knees with tears.
As I mentioned in a prior post, I have read all of the parenting books that seem worth the paper on which they're printed. I have tried to implement the different strategies there. I read the parenting message boards, people who know with certainty that their method works. Their method is the One Right and True Way. I read with a mix of bemusement and discouragement, shaking my head and thinking, "But they don't have MY kid."
With this child, I've tried the James Dobson approach, the Gentle Parenting approach, the Pearl's approach and the Parenting in Jesus' footsteps approach. I'm a little bit of an attachment parent, a little bit of a Dobson parent, and a little bit of a Talk So Your Kids Will Listen parent. I am, with nods to Donna, a parenting mutt.
With this child, this one who is just like me, I have either broken ties that cannot be mended, I'm not doing it right, or I just haven't found the answers yet.
Maybe it's a bit of each.
A few days ago, while I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed and defeated, I found some of the best parenting and family advice I've ever read. It's advice not just for the parent, but also for the child, which, as my regular readers know, is something I've been seeking (Notes are mine) :
(For all) God didn't set us up for an angry rejection, but for salvation by our
Master, Jesus Christ. He died for us, a death that triggered life. Whether we're
awake with the living or asleep with the dead, we're alive with him! So
speak encouraging words to one another. Build up hope so you'll all be together
in this, no one left out, no one left behind. I know you're already doing this;
just keep doing it.
(For the children) And now, friends, we ask you to honor those leaders who work so hard for you, who have been giving the responsibility of urging and guiding you along in your obedience. Overwhelm them with appreciation and love!
(For all) Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is
that you warn the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to
their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to their individual needs.
And be careful that when you get on each other's nerves you don't snap at
each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.~1 Thessalonians 5:12-15
In case you didn't catch that last line, like if you read like me and skip from paragraph to paragraph to find the good stuff, I'll say it again:
Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.
I've spent too long looking for the worst in my children, in myself, and trying to exorcise those demons. What was I thinking??? After all, the Word says:
"Train up a child in the way he should go and in keeping with his
individual gift or bent, and when he is old he will not depart from it." (The Amplified Bible)
Do you see that? In keeping with his INDIVIDUAL GIFT OR BENT! It doesn't say
"Train all of your children to be the same, and train them to be just like every
other good child,"
or even,
"Train up your children so that you constantly tell them which way they shouldn't go."
If you read that same verse as written in The Message, it says,
"Point your kids in the right direction--when they're old, they won't be
lost."
Point them in the RIGHT direction. Tell them what they SHOULD be doing. Seek out the GOOD in them with that child's INDIVIDUAL GIFT in mind!
I've written these words in a place where I can see them, where we all can see them, and I hope to read and re-read them until they're in a place where they will be with me always...
Hidden in my heart.
