A good mother should be (a Bad Mom installment)

My fingers tingle the need to type.
That energy tugging, tugging my nerves,
demanding of my brain:  give me the words.

Someone there is in me
that refuses and negates
Shall I keep on hating her, keep getting what I get?
How to love that ugly?
(she is afraid)

Yesterday, my daughter (three and a half) was showing me her giraffe, which she had just discovered. She said "It's mine, it's mine forever."

What is it in me that needed to say to her, "Well, it's yours for as long as it lasts."

She looked up at me seriously.

"But I want to keep it for always. For when I'm a grown up."

And still, I persisted.

"It's not likely to last that long, sweetheart," I said, off-handedly.

Her little eyes welled up with tears.

"But I need to keep him! Forever!"

I could not let it go.

"Nothing lasts forever, sweetie. Everything goes back to the earth or sky or water. Everything."

Her eyeballs were getting red, the corners of her mouth turned down. She shook her head.

"No, not everything. Not me."

"Yes, love. You, me, everything, everyone. Nothing lasts forever."

And suddenly I saw it hit her, and I realized that it was too fast, too brutal a revelation. She understood exactly, precisely what I had said to her. She had not known impermanence until this moment, and I had thrust it on her suddenly and cruelly, carelessly. My heart cracked - I felt it crack. I had inflicted a sacred wound on this innocent spirit, as a mother inevitably will in spite of all.

I swept her up in my arms and carried her from the table, to our spot on the stairs where we talk.

"Oh, it's hard! Don't worry. If you take care of your giraffe, you might have him for a long time. I had a teddy bear when I was a baby, and I took care of him and he slept with me until I was 30!"

"But he didn't last?"

"Oh, sweetie, he did last for a very long time."

"I want my giraffe to last forever."

"I know. Me, too. Wouldn't it be great if everything we love could last forever? And all the stuff we don't like, that stuff can go away, right?"

"Right. But do you know? Mountains last forever."

"That's great thinking, but it just seems like that to us. They do wear away, or get changed when the earth moves."

"No. That's not true."

"You don't have to believe it for it to be."

You see, even then, I couldn't let her have it. She came up with MOUNTAINS in her search for forever, and I barely praised her before telling her she was wrong.

I tried to tell her, "We don't need anything to last forever," but she was wriggling away, already finished with this conversation.

Parenting is certainly a strange and interesting process. I'm learning so much. And I'm sure I'm missing half of it.

(Beliefs I hold: A good mother should be kinder than I am. A good mother should be more patient than I am. A good mother should be more selfless than I am. A good mother should be more present than I am. I am a pretty good mother. It's not good enough for them. I am improving.)

A three year old dilemma

Caught in a temper tantrum, this endless loop of wailing angst about some trivial detail that must be absolutely the way he wants it, now. Too distraught with purest frustration and terrifying anger to bring himself to ask nicely. He shakes with the effort of it, and bellows out against being broken in this unacceptable way. Reviving the flame when he starts to tire, re-investing himself in achieving the detail, fanning the total hysterical devotion. He shakes his head heavily from side to side, his hands are a blur of up and down motion, his face a mask of incredulous misery. Even when he allows himself to be touched or cuddled, he continues sobbing and reviving. At any sign that he’s relenting, I try to touch the point of reason in him, gently, carefully, with cooing sympathy, giving him permission to begin to let it go. But he won’t take it. He recognizes my attempt and insists on his right to be sad. How can I deny that? But what is the reasonable period? Where is the line between learning to console yourself and learning to wallow in the power of the current emotional state despite its destructive effect on your goal?


And after a time, I start to think, No More. I’ve done all that can be reasonably expected, and now it’s your responsibility to find a way out of this. Enough time and energy has been spent, on both our parts, for this particular emotional overload. Now you need to overcome it – that’s your job. You have the capacity, and it’s time. Especially if there’s a reason I want to move forward with the schedule or we’re already pressed for time. So now I find it hard to see through the blur of whether I’ve really provided a reasonable amount of time and support for the level of emotional distress he’s in, regardless of whether the cause seems trivial, or am I simply letting my impatience and agenda colour my thinking?


And after many of these episodes in a relatively short period, I think, Really? Again? I sigh, internally, externally, and my offerings of cooing sympathy peter out more quickly in both length and quantity. My expectations of how easily and efficiently he should be able to overcome his emotional overload become more about my perception that the cause is trivial than about what he needs in the reality of his current perception. My comments are shorter, more clipped, irritation seeping then spilling in. My adrenaline is flowing; I’m starting to feel frustrated and even angry. And as it’s happening, I feel I should be better but just can’t bring myself to it. Like him.


So how many hands to I have? Because on another hand, I ask myself how he will learn not to make mountains out of molehills if I indulge his every tantrum with added loving attention. Will being unwaveringly patient and loving in the face of this monstrous tantrum just encourage him to act unreasonably whenever he wants to take over the agenda? Will I send the message that it’s okay to let yourself lose control of your emotional state just because it’s hard to work through it? Will I unwittingly teach him that it’s someone else’s responsibility to calm you down instead of your own responsibility to come to terms with what you’re experiencing?


How do I teach him loving limits without limiting his ability to feel through his emotions?