Doesn’t it sting when parenting reveals your least loveable self? It’s especially hard to bump up against my limits because I so desperately want to be a fabulous parent for my very deserving and beloved children.
Yesterday I had a rather gentle lesson in growth that has stayed with me since. My older son was working on a school project — of the sort that involves tea-dyeing paper, drawing maps, and hand writing a bazillion pages — that prompted him to begin complaining on the drive home from school Friday afternoon and to return to his loud lamenting regularly for the next two days. The injustice of weekend homework was too much for my activist sixth grader to accept without vigorous protest.
(I decided this was not the time to point out that he was going to have to do hours of weekend homework in the coming years if he hopes to graduate college. Generally, we choose to focus on the madcap hijinks of dorm life at this point, in order to motivate our kids academically. We can break the rest of the story to them once they’ve fully bought in on the deal.)
Anyway, by Sunday afternoon my big boy was in full rant. He sat at the table loudly getting nothing done for a while, wrote a single sentence on the page in front of him, dramatically threw his exhausted self on the couch, then repeated the cycle several times.
I firmly reminded him that time was running out, criticized him for working at a snail’s pace, demanded that he get off the couch and back to the table, then repeated the cycle several times.
The household atmosphere of despair and complaint was re-stimulating the feelings of dread I would have while procrastinating through high school and college assignments. I managed to earn several diplomas before I was finally able to rest into the knowledge that I would NEVER have to do homework again.
Last night, I just wanted my son to suffer in silence so I wouldn’t have to relive the misery.
At some point in the drama, I walked out of the room and managed to get a little perspective. That was my kid in there, having such a hard time. Maybe I could try to help in some new way — since my other methods were, mysteriously, completely failing.
So I made him a cup of chamomile tea, stirred in some honey, and walked back into the room with it. I felt better already, like you do when you have a sweet little surprise to present. Ta-dah! I set it down on the table.
My son did an actual double take. “Is that for me?” he asked, in a genuinely shocked tone.
“Yup. For you.” I must admit, I felt kind of saint-like in that moment. (In my head I was saying, “Yes, dear son, I saw your suffering, and thinking ONLY of YOU, I did prepare this offering of tea and honey, to soothe your sorrow. Thank me not, for your relief is thanks enough.”) I like playing the role of calm, patient, loving mother. I know this is potentially problematic — maybe extremely so — but it’s true. In this instance, I would like to believe it was harmless.
And that was that. The beast was tamed. In less than thirty minutes, my lovely sixth grader was finished with his work.
And I was schooled.
I realized that all those years I struggled with homework, I never learned how to make peace with the task. My inner drill sergeant would berate and threaten until I succumbed to the pressure and did the job, feeling miserable all the while.
Why didn’t I ever make tea for myself?
I see this pattern in many aspects of my life — believing that the hardest experiences must be endured when they can no longer be avoided. I face challenges believing that suffering in silence, bearing the discomfort, and just getting it over with is the best I can aspire to.
It is only because I love my boy so much that I could consider the possibility of another paradigm. His complaining finally broke through to a better part of me — a part that knows that even the most difficult day can be made easier if I am willing to be radically gentle with myself.
Compassion comes easier for me when I am feeling happy, but I really need compassion when I’m feeling (and acting) beastly. Sounds obvious, but I learned this in a real-life way last night.
My obnoxious, complain-y, desperate and overwhelmed self does not need a drill sergeant. She needs a hot cup of honeyed chamomile.
I wish my kids didn’t have to serve as my guinea pigs, but since they do, at least they won’t get the placebo treatment.
They will get tea.
