The Sins of the Mother

Although the theme is a biblical one, it was while reading Ibsen’s play Ghosts that I first learned the concept of “the sins of the father are visited upon the sons.”  At the time, I related the idea to my own father, and the many of his physical and behavior traits that were already ingrained in me.  Now, as a parent of young adults, I see my own weaknesses and characteristics mocking me in the actions of my children.  We do our best for our kids, but there is just no hiding from our family baggage.

When my son was born, I wanted to give him a life beyond anything of which I had dreamed.  I was in love with being a mother, getting caught in the trappings of a baby’s world.  Everything “baby” shouted out at me; nothing was too good for him.  It was a pleasure to be able to spoil him.  I loved to surprise him with things, living for that adorable glint in his eye when he beheld a new toy.  I did not suspect there was a downside, that my son would grow conditioned by impulse.  He became seasoned by my doses of instant gratification, causing us to struggle in later years to learn long-term planning and short-term budget management. 

My daughter was a surprise little girl in a male-dominated family.  I wanted her to have a happy, girlie life.  Whereas I was always made aware of my physical shortcomings (too ugly, too fat, too frizzy, too unlady-like), I wanted my daughter to feel comfortable in her own skin, empowered by her womanhood.  She was always told she was beautiful.  She was allowed to try her hand at anything with unflinching support.  And she was never compared (favorably or unfavorably) to her very different older brother.  Despite my efforts to wage a pre-emptive strike against my own latent traits in her, she would be forced to reckon with a genetic predisposition to hips, a hair-trigger temper, and a mind that is not wired for mainstream thinking.  It still takes me aback when she lobs some of the same sharp rejoinders at me that I once hurled at my own father.

I always used to laugh when Bill Cosby talked about raising children—before I had any of my own.  He would say that the only people certain about how to raise children are the ones who never had any.  Having strict and unrelenting parents, I was hell-bent on doing better for my kids by being the opposite of my parents.  Unfortunately, the more I tried to resist the instincts and impulses that were drummed into me, the more I am certain that I emulated them.  I suppose we can never apologize enough to our children for being the parents we felt compelled to be.  At the very least, I have always tried to do one thing that my parents never did.  I was never afraid to apologize when I was wrong.  I always wanted my children to realize that although we are parents, we are still human beings.  It is more important to me that they understand my passion for protecting their interests than it is to be right.

I will always fear that I have failed my children in some important way.  I am not a good teacher, even of things that I am good at doing myself.  I am not a good wallflower, having the tendency to become involved in the dialogue of my kids own interests.  I make my opinions and tastes abundantly clear, which, no doubt, has shaped those of my children before they have had the opportunity to decide many things for themselves.  As Cosby said, “Parenting will always create bizarre behavior. . .and I’m not talking about the kids.”

So much of parenting serves expedience.  I agree with Cosby when he said, “parenting is not about justice; it’s about peace and quiet.”  As parents, we get tired.  It is a load that we never get to put down.  I used to think that my kids would out-grow my need to worry about them, yet it seems that the older they get, the greater my fears.  The world is a frightening place.  It’s not that I distrust them.  I lack the confidence in my own parenting skills to believe that I have equipped them well for the unknown journey  ahead.

I hope one day my kids will forgive me for my improvisational style of parenting.  I hope that I have exposed them to enough human failings that their experience as my kids will somehow translate into valuable lessons for their own lives.  While I may have botched every test of parenthood, at least my children have never doubted my love for them.  They know that their mother’s love is one thing in this life they can always count on. 

How do I know this with such confidence?  Because they reassure me all the time.