If I had influence with the good fairy who is supposed to preside over
the christening of all children, I should ask that her gift to each
child in the world would be a sense of wonder so indestructible that
it would last throughout life, as an unfailing antidote against the
boredom and disenchantment of later years, the sterile preoccupation
with things that are artificial, the alienation from the sources of
our strength.
– Rachel Carson
(thank you, HWM, thank you, thank you)
One of my favorite of Lisa Belkin’s blog posts is about how we all airbrush our stories of parenting. She talks about the ugly truths that we keep hidden, either about ourselves as parents or about our doubts about our children. I still think about it, even all of these months later.
When I read this I nod, but, probably more importantly, I think: this is just not me … I particularly loved the last line of her NYT magazine piece: “You often learn who you are by realizing who you are not. ”
I am consistently more honest and consequently more bleak about my children than most parents. (“More honest than the average HBS student,” a business school professor commented of me a few years ago). I am instinctively open about my childrens’ flaws and weaknesses, about their speech therapy and their lice, their brattiness and their defiance. I am also quick to acknowledge my own failures as a parent, my short fuse, my distraction, my inability to sit and just be, my frustration and impatience with many of motherhood’s quotidian tasks. I simply feel no deep urge to protect myself – or them – by smudging with vaseline the lens through which I see parenting. But why, and is this a bad thing?
When there is an altercation on the soccer field or at the bowling alley, my automatic reaction is to assume that somehow Grace or Whit is at fault. When they reveal that a teacher was unhappy with them about something I instinctively take the side of the teacher. What does it mean that I often, basically, assume the worst of them? I don’t know. I do know I don’t believe anything is gained by inaccurately representing myself as a mother; so many do this, and I think it creates feelings of inadequacy in others and immense pressure in the self. I also know I don’t believe in protecting them artificially from the way the world works, both formally (rules) and informally (opinions and judgment).
There are other places I feel asynchronous with many of my peer parents. I’ve written before of my fierce dedication to not overscheduling my kids, and frankly I feel more, not less, guilt and conflict about this as they get older. I’ve also expressed that some of my proudest parenting moments are when my children demonstrate independence and courage. One of my closest friends told me a few years ago that from her vantage point it was clear that I wanted most for my kids was that they be smart and brave. I don’t know that everybody else shares this priority: when Grace flew alone, at the age of 5, I was shocked by how many other mothers actively judged me.
I try very hard not to compare, to feel confident in my parenting, not to allow the winds of judgment and criticism that blow so freely around these parts to buffet me too much. But some days I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I feel different, and most of all about my predilection to share the ugly, the messy, the imperfect. I may have some sense of what I am not, as a mother, but what does that mean I am?
(part of this was originally posted in 2008; it’s clearly still on my mind)
I was very excited about my stay-in-the-dorms plan for Princeton reunions. And it turned out to be great, in many ways. Very convenient, we had our own bathroom (super bonus), and the kids thought it was a huge adventure. The downside? We were literally right over the dance floor, which was rocking until well after 2:00 am. And the light streamed in early (see: aforementioned lack of biblical flooding) so they were up at 6:00. For children who usually get 12 hours of sleep, 4 was a big difference. This is all a long way of saying we drove home on Saturday night after the post-P Rade celebrations rather than spending the night. Whit fell asleep before we hit route 1 and slept until 10am on Sunday.
And then Matt went to the office for most of the day on Sunday and Monday. What to do with a holiday weekend and no plans? I like these unscheduled days, but had not thought ahead to, perhaps, sign us up for trapeze. It was very hot – enough that Whit exclaimed, “I feel like we are still in New Jersey!” when we went outside. So, after some errands, we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean. This was my first installment of the series, I confess, and my primary reaction is who knew mermaids were so terrifying? Yikes.
We got home and the kids had punched the 3D lenses out of their glasses. Grace has not taken them off since. The big entertainment before dinner? Washing the car. And you would think these two went back to Disney for the utter joy that they felt. I cooked dinner, occasionally drifting to the front windows to watch them, and they sprayed each other and the car, scrubbed with kitchen sponges, and giggled. They were soaked and happy when I finally asked them to come in, 45 minutes later.
One of my clear priorities as a parent is that my children are easily delighted. I am proudest of myself as a parent – and of them – in the surprising, unexpected moments of wonder. And this was one.
Last year I wrote a happy birthday post for this guy and received several comments to the effect that people didn’t know I was married. Well, that’s just one of the lines I draw. There’s a lot of personal stuff I’m happy to share, but one of the places I’ve decided is off limits is my husband. From this bloggy world, only Denise has actually spent time with Matt. So, if you have your doubts, she can vouch for his existence. (extra credit: who can name the bff to the right of Matt in this photo?)
But it’s his birthday again, so I think I can break my own rule just for today … Happy, happy, happy birthday, Matt. This is the 13th of your birthdays we’ve celebrated together. That first birthday seems like both yesterday and a lifetime ago.
You continue to be so many wonderful things, to me, to the two short and loud people who live here, and to your family and friends:
– Surprisingly talented hydrangea gardener
– Generous morning latte maker
– Persistently, annoyingly early riser
– Miraculous blizzard-avoider
– Magnanimous eater of the random all-vegetable meals I create from our CSA box
– One of the best skiiers I’ve ever been on a mountain with
– Patient children’s golf and tennis coach
– Enthusiastic runner behind a new two-wheeler biker
– (Mostly) tolerant extrovert husband of an introvert
– Animated bedtime story reader
– Indulgent listener to long, detailed stories about adventures like trapeze (think “one time? at band camp?”)
– Barbecue enthusiast
– Doppelganger of our son – such that Grace saw a picture of you & your brother at 3 and asked, “why are there two Whits?”
– Undeniable Fun One of this particular marital pair (stuck with perma-crying non-fun moi)
– Husband, father, son, brother, identical twin, godfather, uncle, cousin, friend
Happy birthday, Matt. As ever, I’m amazed.
Happy Mother’s Day, Mum.
Thank you for teaching me to write thank you notes, to look people in the eye, to say “may I please,” to treat all people with respect, to use the silver for everyday, to cook casually, to identify puffs of wind by rough spots on the water, to sing even though we’re tone deaf, and to approach life as a grand adventure.
Thank you, more than anything, for showing me the essential truth of your senior yearbook quote and mine: To miss the joy is to miss all. (Robert Louis Stevenson)
I love you.