I’ve turned into my parents. In raising my child, I find myself acting more and more like my own mother and father. I say things I never thought I’d say. I enact punishments I never thought I’d enact. I get angry about things I never thought would anger me (e.g. rolling eyes). But it’s ok. I’ve accepted it.
I am my parents.
I suppose everyone ends up channeling mom and/or dad to some degree if they, too, become parents. Really, it’s inevitable, because all we know of childrearing, we learned from parental figures. Not just biological parents, but anyone who participated in our upbringing—the people who loved us, took care of us, raised us, molded our character, and taught us right from wrong.
I’ve always been about a half-stick of Doublemint and a gabardine pantsuit away from becoming my mom, so that’s no real surprise.
It hurts to be beautiful.
I’m so mad I could spit.
I can’t have nothing.
But lately, in dealing with my child, I find Daddy creeping in there, too.
She got in trouble at school recently, and I talked with her about it. I was going to go with the tried-and-true I’m disappointed in you, but I decided to shake it up a little and went with You reflect on this family instead.
She did not like it. Not one teensy bit.
I pulled her up on the couch and put my arm around her. “Mrs. T and Mrs. H don’t know Mama and Daddy,” I reminded her. “They don’t know what kind of people we are. The only evidence they have of how Mama and Daddy act is you.”
She squirmed.
“So, when you pitch a fit and crawl under the table, they’re going to think that’s how Mama acts when things don’t go her way.” (I will abide no comments from the peanut gallery, thank you very much.)
More squirming.
“And, when you shout, ‘No!’ at your teacher, she will think that Daddy shouts at us. Daddy’s so sweet and pleasant and patient—do you want people to think he’s shouty and mean?”
“Noooooo,” she said, lip trembling.
“When you leave this house, wherever you go, you are representing our family. So it is your responsibility to behave properly. Do you understand?”
“Yes…*sniff*…Ma…*gulp* Ma.”
“All right. I love you. Go play.”
“Great job, Rudolph,” my husband said.
“Shut up. You go with what works. That worked on me.”
A belt worked on me too, but I try to limit that. Not because I don’t believe in it—I most certainly do. But because I prefer to save the corporal punishment for big offenses like lying, mouthing off, deliberate disobedience, and testing me. Otherwise, I’d pretty much be beating ass all day long.
I’m not ashamed to have become my mom and dad. I have exceptional parents. My parents actually parented instead of trying to be my pals. They were strict where it mattered, but lenient enough to foster independence. Punishments were fair, and discipline was born of love. If they ever felt they’d been wrong, they said so. They cultivated a strong work ethic, led by example, and encouraged me to always do my best. And they trusted me fully, unless I gave them a reason not to.
One of my teachers in high school used to say, “Our lives are like beads on a string—they always come back around.”
Thank goodness my parents are pearls.
