Not So Perfect

I think I have this parenting thing all wrong. I blame myself for the deceptive theories of what a good parent is as opposed to a bad one, primarily relying heavily on how my parents raised me. Though their intentions were good and their effort sincere, I believe they too adopted principles towards rearing as though as if their children turned out to be strays, it would all be their fault. I think it’s somewhat narcissistic in nature to presume that a human is capable of yielding that much power or influence over another. The most appalling thought that parents may inadvertently pass down to their children, is that in exchange for the schooling, the nurturing and the hard work parents invest in their offspring, is that somehow the children owe them something in return.

I am happy to say that is at least one thing I do not expect for my children. Payback. I believe we somehow resigned to the notion that parenting was somehow shedding a piece of the imperfect pieces of ourselves, forgetting that all the intricate, even the jagged pieces of our mosaic make up is what comprises who we are.

What I do expect from my children however, is a bit of respect and the only way I can earn that…yes, “earn” it, is in my actions and behavior as an adult. That is why my recent divorce, poor decision-making and ultimately discombobulating my children’s notion of a family unit are all haunting to me. I have been blaming myself since all of the turmoil, wallowing in “what if” and “should have” rather than securing the reins of being a good mother and rising to the occasion with compassion for the loose cracks in the pavement I’ve helped etch underneath once solid footing. Though I know my children will bloom with colorful bursts of personality and resonance, I fear that I have robbed them of the security of a mother and a father. Granted, the father is a part of the demise for the destabilization: both of us making short sighted decisions. The notion that children of divorce are resilient is one that adults conjured up to rationalize their own selfish behavior in lieu of the reality that divorce does imply failure and that children will be among the carcass of what turns out to be usually a bitter dispute.

Until recently, I had resented parenting and it’s grueling boot camp approach: Finish your homework. Brush your teeth. Put that away. Stop making so much noise; Don’t back talk.

 I was never among those women that saw carrying a life in my womb as a seed of promise nor did I radiate with the natural changes of the body: bulging thighs, swollen hands, protruding belly, distorted emotions, and reduced libido. I scowled at the women glistening in the sweat of labor and marking this new period of motherhood as an end to the carefree,  jetsetter I was: a woman void of responsibility. Whoever started this theory that motherhood was somewhat a “chore” or bureden, set a precedence for women like me to mourn my youth, instead of being seduced by the tender hand that wrapped its fist around my fingers. I wish I savored those moments, those sweet inhalations rather than reside in the womb of lament or the loss of the younger me.

I think with maturity comes accountability. The work involved with raising a relatively healthy family is based on realistic expectations from yourself as a parent and what you expect of your child. Sure, we have to set precedence for moral behavior, just actions and empathy but other than that, how our children turn out in the future is ultimately their responsibility thus reducing the pressure of the boiling pot of damnation often associated with parenting. Provided a foundation of love and support is given to the children,  generally you hope that the rest unfolds gracefully. If we approach parenting in this manner absent of the fallacy that there is “perfect”, we are more likely to bask in our roles and give without expecting anything in return other than a bright constellation of the humans we have helped create on earth.