A few years ago, someone I didn't know very well said, "You're oddly confident." He became even more bewildered when I burst out laughing, I was genuinely tickled. To this day, it remains one of my favorite compliments, handily defeating "Based on your emails, I thought you were a guy," and "Is that your real hair?"
The fact is, over the years, I HAVE become oddly confident. If I can't change something or fix it, it's really not in my nature to dwell on it. I'm secure in my career, in my marriage, in myself for the most part. And even my hair entertains me in its own erratic way. I'm not a sociopath or a robot, I do have doubts now and again.
But never ever ever so many as related to how I am doing as a mother.
I am constantly paranoid that I'm doing it wrong. Alllll wrong. Maybe my kids are going to grow up resenting the choices I've made on their behalves. Or one day, when they're adult and independent, the thought of having to spend time with me will give them mini panic attacks because I didn't do it right. Perhaps I'll sweep the medals when they play Whose Mom is the Worst? at future social occasions, two small shots of Jagermeister proving to be an aniseed-and-regret-flavored serum of truth.
And I'm not normally given over to envy, but I see friends who seem to thrive as mothers. They don't view their kids as chores and checklists, but even from their babies' early ages, they recognize the essence of their children and cherish them. They're effusive with emotion. I won't lie, I both find it fascinating and frightening. What is it like to experience that ardency of affection all the time? Am I... am I doing it wrong?
I have one friend, a meaningful member of my Village, who epitomizes this kind of mothering. Not only is she lovely, but also I love her. And God knows my kids do, being with her is probably like falling into a pool of fresh spring water after trudging through an affectionately-arid desert for a week. She literally has a Doctorate in Nurturing, she's a PhD in Occupational Psychology and has spent her life counseling children and taking care of animals and basically kicking ass, solicitously. If you squint just so in the sun, you can picture her floating along the grass with a radiant halo of hummingbirds and wholesomeness and the occasional butterfly. She's the anti-Jaye.
Anyway, DH and I were hosting a dinner party and the 5yo was in charge of writing out place cards for guests. Supermom clocked him doing his task, his job, his CHORE for the party and she was absolutely effusive in lavishing praise on him, "5yo, I can see you are working so hard! LOOK AT ALL YOUR LITTLE CHECKMARKS NEXT TO ALL THOSE NAMES, WOW!" 5yo grinned at her, used to her sugar, but I told her to lay off, that he was going to think he was going to get exclamation marks all the time for doing his assigned tasks. She laughingly suggested that maybe my kids would like a few more compliments now and again.
I repeat, I'm not normally wishy-washy, but I respect this woman and her work, and it really made me think. Do my kids need more compliments? I brought up my doubts with DH in bed that night, but I concluded with, "I bet if I do this, they're going to think I'm mocking them." But I was going to give it a try, dammit.
First I tried it with the 10yo. I was very specific in my compliment, I wasn't just shellacking on the syrup, but he put his hands on my shoulders, furrowed his beautiful light-brown brow, and asked me, very concerned, "Why are you talking to me like I'm an idiot?"
Errr... so maybe I waited too long to try it on the 10yo, I'll give it a go with the 5yo. Again, I gave a very specific, growth mindset-mindful compliment to him, "You did so-and-so really well, I can tell you've been working hard!" The 5yo stilled, cocked his head, and said, "I know I'm doing well. Why are you being so weird?"
I have no idea what the lesson is here. My kids flourish when they spend time with Supermom and other parents who bestow kindly benedictions on them. I've seen it. But I think they know that I think they're pretty great. Man I hope they do. Because I tell you what, they can totally flipping tell when I'm trying to do something that doesn't come naturally to me. So they may need therapy in about three seconds, but at least they excel in being able to read me. Hopefully that extends to being able to read other tricky biscuits. Along with writing out place cards, this facet of emotional intelligence is a life skill, right? RIGHT?! OH MY GOD AM I DOING IT ALL WRONG?! Only time and massive therapy bills will tell.
The fact is, over the years, I HAVE become oddly confident. If I can't change something or fix it, it's really not in my nature to dwell on it. I'm secure in my career, in my marriage, in myself for the most part. And even my hair entertains me in its own erratic way. I'm not a sociopath or a robot, I do have doubts now and again.
But never ever ever so many as related to how I am doing as a mother.
I am constantly paranoid that I'm doing it wrong. Alllll wrong. Maybe my kids are going to grow up resenting the choices I've made on their behalves. Or one day, when they're adult and independent, the thought of having to spend time with me will give them mini panic attacks because I didn't do it right. Perhaps I'll sweep the medals when they play Whose Mom is the Worst? at future social occasions, two small shots of Jagermeister proving to be an aniseed-and-regret-flavored serum of truth.
And I'm not normally given over to envy, but I see friends who seem to thrive as mothers. They don't view their kids as chores and checklists, but even from their babies' early ages, they recognize the essence of their children and cherish them. They're effusive with emotion. I won't lie, I both find it fascinating and frightening. What is it like to experience that ardency of affection all the time? Am I... am I doing it wrong?
I have one friend, a meaningful member of my Village, who epitomizes this kind of mothering. Not only is she lovely, but also I love her. And God knows my kids do, being with her is probably like falling into a pool of fresh spring water after trudging through an affectionately-arid desert for a week. She literally has a Doctorate in Nurturing, she's a PhD in Occupational Psychology and has spent her life counseling children and taking care of animals and basically kicking ass, solicitously. If you squint just so in the sun, you can picture her floating along the grass with a radiant halo of hummingbirds and wholesomeness and the occasional butterfly. She's the anti-Jaye.
Anyway, DH and I were hosting a dinner party and the 5yo was in charge of writing out place cards for guests. Supermom clocked him doing his task, his job, his CHORE for the party and she was absolutely effusive in lavishing praise on him, "5yo, I can see you are working so hard! LOOK AT ALL YOUR LITTLE CHECKMARKS NEXT TO ALL THOSE NAMES, WOW!" 5yo grinned at her, used to her sugar, but I told her to lay off, that he was going to think he was going to get exclamation marks all the time for doing his assigned tasks. She laughingly suggested that maybe my kids would like a few more compliments now and again.
I repeat, I'm not normally wishy-washy, but I respect this woman and her work, and it really made me think. Do my kids need more compliments? I brought up my doubts with DH in bed that night, but I concluded with, "I bet if I do this, they're going to think I'm mocking them." But I was going to give it a try, dammit.
First I tried it with the 10yo. I was very specific in my compliment, I wasn't just shellacking on the syrup, but he put his hands on my shoulders, furrowed his beautiful light-brown brow, and asked me, very concerned, "Why are you talking to me like I'm an idiot?"
Errr... so maybe I waited too long to try it on the 10yo, I'll give it a go with the 5yo. Again, I gave a very specific, growth mindset-mindful compliment to him, "You did so-and-so really well, I can tell you've been working hard!" The 5yo stilled, cocked his head, and said, "I know I'm doing well. Why are you being so weird?"
I have no idea what the lesson is here. My kids flourish when they spend time with Supermom and other parents who bestow kindly benedictions on them. I've seen it. But I think they know that I think they're pretty great. Man I hope they do. Because I tell you what, they can totally flipping tell when I'm trying to do something that doesn't come naturally to me. So they may need therapy in about three seconds, but at least they excel in being able to read me. Hopefully that extends to being able to read other tricky biscuits. Along with writing out place cards, this facet of emotional intelligence is a life skill, right? RIGHT?! OH MY GOD AM I DOING IT ALL WRONG?! Only time and massive therapy bills will tell.
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