My Mom asked me to write something for her blog, and while I had many ideas, I kept coming back to the need to honor my Mom for one parenting skill at which she truly excels, emotional consistency in the face of assholery. Dad, you are also a master at this, but you don’t have a blog, so…
My parents like to talk about how easy I was as a baby. Apparently, I was always happy, smiling, slept seven hours the first night they brought me home, etc. Little did they know it was all a ruse to force them to love me unconditionally before the tides shifted and I turned into a demon. The hardest part as a parent, or as anyone who accepts the task of caring for the emotional well being of children, is to actively choose empathy and patience when that little person is throwing all they’ve got at you. Emotional consistency in the face of assholery is a herculean task, but one of the most important.
I remember thinking it would totally work, this Listerine concoction. I poured it on the carpet at the top of the stairs, and then put on my best sick face; I slowly drifted down the stairs to tell my Mom that I had thrown up and clearly couldn’t go to school. I will never forget that, trying so hard to convince my Mom that this blue, minty fresh puddle on the carpet was obviously vomit. Bullshit was called, orders were given to get dressed. I had lost this battle, but was not deterred. I was dedicated when it came to getting out of school. I once hid under the bed in my parents’ room until my Mom was in a sincere panic, thinking that if I just stayed in that dark, soft, secret place I’d be safe. School had changed. The transition from the fun early years into harder academic skills began to illuminate the differences in my wiring, and small shorts were beginning to show. It wasn’t that the current couldn’t get to the same end point eventually, it just took different routes that made it far more difficult for me, and school was becoming a dangerous place that made me painfully aware of my differences.
The scheming hit new levels when the testing started; sitting in weird conference rooms with a stranger asking me all kinds of questions and making me do activity after activity while she jotted down notes I was not allowed to see. Those rooms smelled like fresh paper and pencil shavings. I used to lay my head on my elbow while contouring endless shapes, or trying to solve complex equations because the smell of that crisp graphite calmed my racing brain. My Mom tried to explain that all off this was just so we could find ways to help me learn better, ways to help the school better understand me. I would rest my head against her shoulder, soft and hard all at once, and try to believe her. All I truly remember though was shame and panic. What was wrong with me? Was I stupid? Did the other kids see me go into that room? Did this prove that that one teacher I hated was right about me? Why was I different? My burgeoning identity, which was still so little, so pliable, was being shaped as I grappled with those questions, and I felt exposed in ways that felt dangerous. Even at 8, we are making choices about who we are and how we react to challenge, struggle, discomfort. The emotional lives of children are far more complex than we think or remember, and even when we are at our worst, we need you. What I couldn’t say to my parents in a real way, was that school was horrible. Every day I was presented with a task I couldn’t do the same way, or as easily as others. Adults who chose to shame me, or not accomodate my differences rather than help me. While I had some excellent teachers who helped me flourish, I had many more who made me feel shamed and exposed, or who were indifferent to my clear emotional struggle.
Children are growing into the people they will become every single day, and at a very young age, I decided that vulnerability was not an option. It was not a single event, one person, or one class; it was more like small layers of paint added to cover each slight, each fear, each shame, each insecurity...after a while, the window is so coated in old, shitty paint that you have to fight it open. So much time spent being funny to ensure people would want to hang out with me and to assure the outside world I was fucking bullet proof. Constantly looking to assess the vulnerabilities of others so I had a point of attack should they make me feel exposed. Choosing aggressive assertion and dominance over making space for others or just admitting I didn’t know something. So much energy invested in covering up my ultimate truth; under all the sass and snark there always dwelled an 8 year old in a conference room who felt scared, sad, and incredibly unsteady. Porcupines have spines to protect their soft underbellies, and I was a prickly asshole for a long fucking time. Defense mechanisms take years to create, and they are growing while you’re barely aware and too young to fully understand.
My Mom likes to jokingly share that from about the ages of 9 to 15 she would get nauseous when she knew I was on my way home. It’s a joke now because we are on the other side, but as an adult I know now full well that it’s a joke borne of dark times deep in the trenches. Only now do I realize that my Mom and Dad were dodging a lot of shrapnel as I blew through adolescence, and I know some of it wounded them. However, they never gave up and they never stopped; emotional consistency in the face of my intense assholery was their continual battle. My parents knew full well the pain I was in; they held me when I cried, they motivated me when I needed it, they went out of their way to find experiences for me to excel in that had nothing to do with school to counter my beliefs that I couldn’t be good at anything. When I was at my worst, they loved me, and more importantly, they fought for me. Meeting with teachers, advocating for me in IEP meetings, challenging me to be my better self even in moments of pain. Doing all of this despite the fact that I was a taking all of my pain out on them with careless words, sarcasm, rudeness, and distance.
While they chose to lead with empathy at every turn, which at times had to be incredibly difficult, there was also no room for bullshit; their ability to reflect and act is what I mean when I say that I honor my parents for their skill in maintaining support in the face of my shitty attitudes and behaviors. They confronted my assholery. I called my Mom a bitch to her face, and rightfully so, she paused for about 10 seconds and slapped me. I threatened to run away and my Mom said, “Fine. I will call social services.” In reality, she called the weather channel, but it also sent me a super clear message that my threats and crazy cries for love would always be met with boundaries. When I overstepped and said something shitty to an adult I was quickly reminded of my place. My parents loved me unconditionally, I always knew that, but I also needed constant consequences for my choices. Truly, I must have been exhausting. This dance we were in is what kept me safe, and I’ve only come to realize it in my adult years. My parents were not perfect, nor are they now, no one is. What they are, that has made all the difference, is consistent.
Assholery is learned behavior, and how those around us respond to it predicts so much of our future selves. My road to realizing there was a better path, that vulnerability was actually a virtue was long and winding. My parents traveled that road right along side me, never letting me stray too far. Their consistency paved a parallel path that I didn’t really even know existed until I was ready to change lanes. Everyone is on a journey, and though I fought through many years of struggle with my identity and sense of self, I am fully aware that my struggles pale in comparison to many others. I share this not to lament or convince you that my life was so hard, that truth is that it really wasn’t. I grew up with an amazing family, financial security, and all of my basic needs more than met.
I am sharing my small story to call everyone who spends time with children to remember, as best they can, to choose empathy and consistency. We are so much further along on our journeys than our young people, and they need us, whether they admit it or not. However, our young people also need constant reminders of where the boundaries are. Every moment where you may want to throttle their sweet little necks is also a moment where they are asking you to tell them where the line is. They are on their own paths, and need to make mistakes and have hard moments where they stew in discomfort; they also need someone beside them. Resiliency is a skill, just like any other, and as someone who is on the other side, I am incredibly thankful for the challenges that I had. However, if I had not had parents who chose to get into the trenches with me, I am not so sure I would be as solid as I am these days. I am now a middle school teacher, and that choice is clearly directly related to my own experience. We have an agreed upon cultural narrative that adolescence is supposed to be awful, that middle school and high school are supposed to suck more than they are good. Yes, this is true to some extent, how could it not be when every single adolescent is grappling daily with the task of growing up and all the cognitive load that comes along with that. Every day I repeat my little mantra because it reminds me to remain present in the struggle and dive, headfirst and with vigor, into the trenches. Porcupines have spines because they have soft underbellies. As best you can, choose empathy and consistency. It makes all the difference.
Thank you, Mom and Dad, for constantly confronting my assholery. I love you so.
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