Letting Go of Control as a Mom

The Demas family had a bad morning getting out of the house the other day. Or, perhaps, it's more accurate to say I had a rough start. 

We were off to a family get-together and the stars were not aligning for a swift exit. Usually, my stellar time management skills make up for the added tasks that a child implies. Bad circumstances, along with poor strategic planning, made this trip different. 

First, Claire decided she absolutely, 100% needed mama's undivided attention. George and I usually attack getting ready by handing off our daughter to one another, like a baton in a relay race. On this day, Claire had other things in mind.

As did the weather, which decided to change seasons overnight. Dividing my attention between Claire and locating new clothes in the hinterlands of the closet was not part of my to-do list.

While working half-brained and one-handed, I thought I might have just entered a sadistic challenge devised for a competition reality show like Survivor (except that I had no chance of winning a million dollars for my multi-tasking efforts). 

What's more, I was shuttling between the bedroom and the kitchen to make the dish we had promised to bring (nothing like waiting 'til the last minute). In general, chopping, mixing, and stirring, while a child hangs on my apron strings, wears me out. Add a deadline to get out the door, and I feel I'm going to boil over like the pot on the stove.

I know what you're thinking: "Couldn't the free-handed husband cook and/or clothe the child?" 

To this query, my martyr self replies, "No. He would have ruined it."

I was actually pulling off most of the shitshow. It's part of my controlling nature, an illness, really -- trying to push myself beyond my own limits to see what I'm capable of doing. I end up feeling sickly proud of myself.

The flip-side of the coin is that I feel exhausted and resentful as well -- bad for me and bad for the people I love. I remind myself of Mussolini, actually. Yes, Mussolini kept the trains running on time...while losing track of humanity altogether.

Sure, we got to our destination like clockwork. My family got left behind, though, metaphorically speaking.

Children have a way of finding your Achilles heel. My obsession with productivity can make me forget that love exists in the doing. I lose faith that the result will follow. I need to remember to slow down, and take my eye off of the proverbial prize.

When I breathe, allow people to help, and let things be less than perfect, that's when the space for relationships opens. I find myself surprised that the present really is enough. Everything seems to start falling into place...or  it doesn't. That's just fine too.

Photo Source: Collins110, Fickr, this photo has been adapted and does not suggest the licenser endorses its uses or this blog.  License

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Welcome to The Sunday Parenting Party, hosted by Dirt and Boogers, Play Activities, Crayon Freckles, Taming the Goblin, The Golden Gleam, Prickly Mom, and The Tao of Poop. The SPP is place for readers to find ideas on nurturing, educating, and caring for children, as well as honest posts about the stresses of being a parent or caregiver. Links to reviews and giveaways are welcome as long as they are relevant to the topic. All parenting philosophies are welcome with one exception: please do not link to posts promoting physical discipline, as this is something we would feel uncomfortable having on our blogs. (P.S. By linking up you agree that your post and photos are Pinterest, Sulia, G+ and FB friendly. We will be showcasing ideas on The Sunday Parenting Party Pinterest board.)

What Makes a Good Role Model?

"Red beer" is what Claire calls my second glass of wine before dinner hits the table.

Until recently, she's seemed blissfully oblivious to my actions. Now that my daughter's talking up a storm, she's gotten herself nice and busy holding up a mirror to my bad habits.

"Red beer" isn't the only one. We settle in for story time at the local library. The librarian barely gets through the title of Five Little Ducks before Claire yells, "I have to check my email," and runs off to the five little computers sitting all in a row.

Yup, technology trumps good old-fashioned human interaction these days. That's the kind of lesson Claire learns in this house.

If I weren't so full of self-loathing, I'd probably be happy that my child sees me as a role model now. I'm also a bit of a perfectionist (probably related to the self-loathing), so I don't want my daughter to be like me, I want her to be a better version of me.

I tell myself that there isn't anything wrong with red beer, and there isn't. Ask the French or Italians. I just have a tendency to want my daughter to think that I am perfect, to believe that I have all the answers and to see me as the patron saint of virtuosity.

I think I'm afraid that if she sees my vulnerabilities she will either worry that I can no longer protect her, or that she will no longer take me seriously. Then, there's my nightmare projection into the future: I see her sitting in an AA meeting or on the therapist's couch talking about how all her mother ever did when she was little was check her email with red beer-stained lips.

But it begs the question, "What makes a good role model?" Of course, I want to teach Claire the virtues of life. However, as much as it may surprise you (joke), I'm not always among the virtuous.

Modeling authenticity is just as important to me for growing a healthy child. I want to be open with Claire about my desires and indulgences, my weaknesses and excesses -- my humanity. I don't want her to believe that she has to live up to an impossible standard, in order to be worthy of anyone's love and approval.

What I learned from my parents was a mixed bag too. Yes, my dad showed me how to drink too much. He also instilled in me a strong work ethic. Sure, my mom taught me how to lose my temper when I was angry. She also showed me how to be a loyal friend.

Some lessons were more virtuous than others. It's been my job to figure out who I am, because of and in spite of my parents' influences. In the course of my life, I have fixed my tendency to be like my dad and drink too much. I am still working on the temper one from my mom (as my husband George can attest).

But that's what I'm talking about, really…I am a work in progress.

Claire is too.

Someday, she will have doubts about herself, waver and falter. She may wonder if she's had too much red beer. I don't want her to think she is alone or bad. I want her to know that she walks along a path that I have also walked (not always in a straight line).

Claire should also know that I have another bad tendency (George will attest). I see the negative in everything -- including the mirror she holds up to me. I will more quickly remember the time when my daughter talks about "Mama's red beer" than when she says, "Mama, Papa, Claire…all together, " as the three of us walk down the street hand in hand.

I am a good influence. Claire knows that she is loved.

Anyway, they say red beer is good for the heart too.



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Photo Source: Paterno, Wine Splash, Flickr