There’s something I’ve been thinking a lot about lately, and it started with this thought:
We don’t get to decide what kind of adults our children will be; the only thing we can control is what kind of childhood they will have.
As parents we spend a lot of time worrying about raising our kids “right” and hoping that, if we do, they will “turn out well.” And I think we do have a great amount of influence on our kids, but ultimately they’re going to grow up, and they’re going to become who they want to be. That’s their adventure. Figuring out who they want to be is an important part of their personal journey.
It’s not for us to decide.
At the end of the day, we can only do our best to support them.
But we do have a huge amount of influence over their childhood. And that’s no small thing! It’s the beginning of everything. Their genesis. Their foundation.
When I look back at my own childhood, there were things about it that were pure magic. But, of course, other things were less so. And one of the things that I look back on with a twinge of … not regret, although it feels a bit like regret, but sadness, I guess, is that my parents spent most of my childhood trying to instill in us, what they considered, “good values” and the “right beliefs.”
My mom, in particular, believed very strongly in the Proverb, “Train up your child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it.”
And when I think back, that’s largely what I remember about her. I remember her homeschooling us. I remember morning Bible studies at the kitchen table. I remember memorizing Bible verses since before I could read. I remember her reading to us before bed. I remember her many, many lectures.
She trained us well, and if that sounds tedious, that’s because it mostly was. Some of those things I do remember fondly, like her reading to us before bed. But a lot of it felt just like it sounds, like training.
And, ultimately, it didn’t even work. I departed from her teachings. I grew up and realized I get to decide who I want to be and what I want for my life. And so, sadly, not only were all her efforts in vain, but also I now feel like they were a waste of my time. Like I spent my entire childhood training for adulthood, learning how to be the kind of adult my parents wanted me to be, only to grow up and become the almost complete antithesis of who my parents wanted me to be — career-driven, liberal, and spiritual-but-not-religious. I mean, sure, I’m not a serial killer, but surely the bar isn’t that low.
And now I’m the mom who’s knee-deep in the middle of raising my own little family and trying to figure it all out. Spoiler: it’s hard! It’s so, so hard. So I get it. Most of us are just out here throwing ideas at the wall and hoping beyond hope that we’re doing something right.
Just like my mom, I get caught up in the idea that I’m responsible for my adult children, that they will be a reflection of me and how well I did in raising them. Of course I think that. Society thinks that. And because moms still do the bulk of the childcare (yes, that is a generalization, but statistically it’s still true), we also take the brunt of the blame for how our kids turn out.
But I’ve been reflecting on that idea recently, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that I should take that same energy I’m wasting by worrying about a future I can’t actually control, and instead focus it on trying to give my kids the best damn childhood right now that I’m capable of giving them. Because, truly, it’s the only thing I can do.
avantgardener 