Why do parents have to be saints? Let me live.
And a story about Bruce Springsteen.
Seven years ago, I chased down Bruce Springsteen when I was eight months pregnant.
He was doing a book signing at the Coop in Harvard Square, and we just happened to be in the area. After we heard he left, we left. At a stoplight on dangerous Storrow Drive, a group of men with records jumped from their cars and swarmed a black SUV. I just knew the Boss was in that car.
Because I was only pregnant, not actually a careful parent yet (also still a bit of a paparazzi and a huge Springsteen fan), I joined this speeding caravan to Logan Airport. And when Bruce signed my favorite hat, I felt it was a sign of more adventures to come.
Now that I have a six-year-old, I know that it was not a sign. It was more of a last time for a long time.
Parents of young children are expected to be responsible, safe, and predictable. There’s so much pressure to always do the “right thing” and be the “perfect parent.” But perfect is boring.
I get the desire, there’s a lot at stake. But the truth is, fucking up is part of the job. And the pressures on modern parents — particularly mothers — make raising a kid a nearly impossible anyway. We have to deal with a lack of family and social networks, outrageous childcare costs, a capitalist system geared at keeping us down, and an onslaught of muddled parenting advice, styles, and studies.
I think if we expressed more of our real, flawed selves in front of our kids and other parents, it would make modern parenting a much more enjoyable experience.
We did things the “right way” for a long time. I read every article. I wrote articles. I work from home so that I can be there with my child all the time. I breastfed for 19 months and let my sweatpants become my second skin. But I want to shed my sweatpants skin and so many expectations.
The values I want to teach my child aren’t learned through propriety and perfectionism but through authenticity. I want my son to be kind because he is interested in and cares about other people, not because being kind gives him some social upper hand.
It’s only right to sacrifice to create a stable home for your kids. For some people that sacrifice is welcomed. For me, I struggle with all that I imagine I gave up to be a middle aged suburban mom, something I actually wanted. I, like everyone else, didn’t know how hard it would be to transform into a parent. I’ve felt an incredibly unreconcilable tension between the person I knew for 37 years and the person I am now.
That tension plays out in my parenting. I am a bit of a troublemaker, yet I’m supposed to keep my child from causing any trouble. I am antiauthoritarian, but I am always telling my child what he can’t do. I like to perform sometimes, sure, but I hate performative parenting. And that’s what parenting at home and in public feels like, a performance, especially parenting young kids.
For instance, it’s common practice now that when your kid is having a tantrum, you’re down on your knees, looking them in the eye, talking them through their feelings as they scream in your face.
Like this morning, when I explained that we walk instead of drive to school because it’s better for the environment. My son got angry because he wanted to know, why then do cars exist? Fair question But in his outsized anger, he told me, “You’re not meant to be a mommy.”
I couldn’t argue with him but also didn’t feel like coddling him at that moment. I am not the “world’s best mommy.” I do love him though, do everything for him, and love is the most important part of being a parent.
Also, all of my desire for adventure is expected to be sublimated into planning child-friendly wholesome experiences that do not involve too much sugar or screen time. I have to take all of my bad feelings and shove them, because apparently you can’t make your kid feel responsible for making you feel like shit, as in the above story. If I want to look decent or express my personal style, I can pretty much just give up because it’s dinner again and then bedtime and then up at dawn again and mommy doesn’t need to look good anyway.
Like some my age who have younger kids, I’m also entering perimenopause, yet another major transition. As my ovaries fall to bits, I have even less of a desire to be perfect or saintly. My moods are different my body is changing. I know that I need to continue to be the parent my child needs to grow up somewhat well-adjusted, but I’m now no longer interested in totally ignoring my own personhood in that process.
I often remind myself that stress isn’t trauma. Stress with resolution is quite good for kids. So, I’m adjusting to letting the part of me that is deeply flawed to reveal itself, and maybe it’s not so bad. For instance, my son thinks my moderate road rage is hilarious. And after love, I think a sense of humor is the second most important part of being a parent. It’s also the hardest to regain after dealing with a toddler.
But I can’t and won’t spend every second trying to help him regulate his feelings. I will not move every obstacle from his path. I’m not going to be mentally present all of the time. He needs to figure some shit out on his own.
So, we will have some curse words, embarrassing dancing, times when I’m checked out, when we just cuddle, or I talk to him like he’s an adult. I think he’ll feel safer and more comfortable being himself once I get comfortable letting the real me raise him.
“Now that I have a six-year-old, I know that it was not a sign.” 😂😂😂🤣🤣😂😂🤣
Brilliant. Amen, sister.