“Ready for some therapy?”
I was seated at my mother’s kitchen table and my heart pounded in anticipation of what she’d say. There were things she’d held inside for 20 years and more. I was much older now. Our relationship was stronger now. It was safe to divulge all the secrets she had been keeping…
When I arrived home after giving birth, I had no idea what to do with my daughter. I laid her down in her new crib in a spotless master bedroom. “What should we do with her?” I asked my husband.
“I don’t know. Wait until she cries or poops.” He shrugged and went to empty my hospital bag. I dutifully sat on the edge of the bed and stared at a brand new human who never existed before. She was so small, so cocooned and comfortable as she squirmed in her sleep. I waited and watched. It was a surreal moment when I had borne the abdominal trauma of an unplanned Caesarean section. Now I was scared of stretching too much and remained hunched on the bed.
Maybe I sat there for a few minutes. I can’t remember. But I finally got up to use the bathroom. Just as I carefully lowered myself onto the toilet, she started crying.
“Laaaaaa!!!”
We are never ready to be parents and there is never a good time to become one. Almost half of pregnancies are unplanned, so many are unprepared for the challenges ahead. Passed the baby bottles and tummy time is the real stuff, the child rearing. It’s the part where you impart your morals and values. It’s when you say that we live on stolen land and impress upon them the importance of telling the truth. It’s when you explain death and divorce. These are the most difficult parts, which is why I never worried about much about the machinations before then.
I recognize now all my mother must have gone through. I realize she might have been depressed about her job, relationships, or health, just as I am, but still needed to make dinner. There was no vacation or pause. Life chugged along sure and straight whether she wanted it to or not.
At her kitchen table that day, my mother told me her story. Some of it I already knew, but there were revelations that filled in gaps I never could. She told me about how I lifted her out of depression. I saw someone who faced so many challenges and struggled to just make it. I saw a vulnerable person who did not have it figured out, but who made the best choices she could and protected me. My mother came out the other side of that time in her life at peace. There was no bitterness in her heart and she freed herself of the final burdens of the past right there that Sunday afternoon.
I want to tell you something about your parents: they didn’t always know what to do.
Barring extremes of neglect or forms of directed abuse, parents are no more equipped to handle the many issues they face with children and life as anyone else. There is a delicate balancing act that in the moment, feels like groping and stumbling through a thick fog. It’s hard to be objective about your circumstance as you experience it. Sometimes parents lash out when there is no other emotional resource, or rule with their egos, and the children of those parents spend their lives compensating for feeling like a bother. It’s unfortunate and can be difficult to prevent. As parents, we may never recognize those impactful moments.
I have countless tools gathered from therapy, but one is to choose my words. I know that children can build up so much anxiety and shame at a young age. They remember how you make them feel. They hear what you don’t think you’re saying. Parenting as a flawed person is more than knowing how to raise the unique child you have instead of the one you want. It’s knowing that as you deal with trauma, you are still raising that child. Unconsciously, you can be consumed by those traumas and trigger some different malady in your children. How do you keep your dirt off their clothes? How vulnerable should you be? I am in a mad rush to correct my own behavior before I give my first born a complex. Trauma will not be her inheritance.
I know that children don’t forget. Moments change their lives and I spiral in the obsession of guarding my children’s memories. I don’t want to set in motion, something that will change them for decades. I try to stop, be patient, and have empathy. I am the permissive one trying to weight discipline with mercy. In the process, however, I have protected my daugther from her father’s admonishments as if I were protecting myself at 8 years old… when my worst memories began.
You see, I am both my mother and my daughter. I am resolving my own past to create a new future. It is a temporal paradox of my own design and I am hard pressed to find an exit. Part of me believes this is the heart of genuinely good parents who struggle. We are forever caught in a loop of making up for what we lacked, managing the difficult lives we have, and raising impressionable humans looking to us for guidance. The most we can do is be honest about how the world affects our ability to provide that guidance. We are in still search of our own clarity. We can only hope the kids will be alright.
The most potent truth revealed that Sunday was implicit: the person I knew as my mother was someone reacting to incredible trauma. That revelation broke a spell. I had been conditioned on a false premise, and having discovered it, no longer needed the compensatory mechanisms I had built up. The relief was palpable and I could feel our relationship deepen in that moment. Who I sat across was the real her, the person I now had the pleasure of getting to discover. Her face was soft and remorseful. Mine welled with forgiveness.
“Was it too much?”
“No, Mom. I needed to hear this,” I said through tears. “I’m glad you told me.