We have been through some wild things as a family in our lives, but none of them have strained us as thoroughly as these past few weeks. They’ve been the hardest for our family’s well-being, the most difficult to parent, and the worst my mental health has been in a long time.
I’ve been struggling not to compare my children with myself in childhood. With the way I would’ve been if I had been going through exactly what my kids are going through.
I was afraid of adults, and my children are not. They feel no particular compulsion to be helpful to someone they are frustrated with. They do not carry the weight of making grown-ups’ lives easier. They certainly don’t feel obligated to be cooperative with things they don’t understand, and despite my best efforts, a lot of things are bigger and more complicated than they can understand.
I have found myself in desperation and exhaustion, both wishing and frustrated with myself for wishing that I could have just a fraction of that fear-based cooperation. Not really because I want to make my children afraid. Just because I want things to be one degree easier. Just because I am so so so tired. Just because I don’t want to have to earn every single glimmer of goodwill. But I spent all the goodwill they had for me on moving our family across the world. There is none left over in them for me having gotten hurt.
Wishing, and frustrated with myself for wishing. How dare I? I know what it’s like to live in my brain. How could I wish that on my kids?
Wishing, and frustrated with myself for wishing. If I reached out for support to the avenues that come easiest, the answer would be that I missed my chance. I should have made sure my children knew they were only safe from me as long as they do what I say; I should have done that when they were one or two years old.
Instead I made sure they knew they were safe all the time. Now they relax in that safety, roll around in it. When everything else in the world feels threatened, at least they know they’re safe with me. They can hurl it against my chest in fists and blows; they can push me away as hard as they can. They know I spring back. They know this is solid.
Except it feels like my spring is broken. The locus is me, not them. I have nothing left to pour. I am scraping dirt at the bottom of a hole already below the ground.
Wishing, and frustrated with myself for wishing.
At the bottom of a hole, I rename my wish.
Even the words that create the wish are stained by the seeds planted deepest within me, but I know how to use language so cleverly now. I look at the plant. I rename the wish.
I stop wishing that I could have fear-based cooperation. I wish that I had collaborative parenting methods modeled for me in my most formative years.
I stop wishing that I could do anything big enough to convince my kids of my power over them. I wish that my brain didn’t grab for power structures to begin with.
I stop wishing my kids would be anyone other than who they are. I wish that I could see into the future, for a solider glimpse at how stellar they will be.
I hold up my wishes and wish them. I count the hours, minutes if I have to.
I wish it was easier, and it’s not.
I wish it was easier, and instead, my kids are safer.
I wish it was easier, and I forgive myself for wishing.
And I rest when I can. And I fight for another glimmer of goodwill when I can.
