Grading on a curve
I give myself a B for today’s parenting. Breakfast was uneventful (if slightly less than nutritious), the dog was a bit less crazy than usual, lunches got made and we all got out the door with completed homework and full water bottles. Importantly, there were no tears and no yelling. Success.
I try not to grade my parenting daily, but more often than not I end the day feeling inadequate. Some days I feel like an outright failure as a parent - days that begin with a hurried morning to get to an early meeting, a meeting where nothing gets accomplished and that I should have skipped. Days that start with forgotten lunches and misplaced library books lead to an evening where I’m late to drive the soccer carpool and dinner gets on the table at 8:45. Everyone is tired, some of us cry, some of us yell. No one goes to bed happy.
But even on the days I give myself an F, I hug my kids before they go to school. I feed them a healthy dinner and tuck them into bed with a kiss. I ask them about their day, I sign the field trip permission form, I rsvp for the birthday party. Every day they are loved and they know it. No matter what else I might do to mess up my kids (and the billion dollar self-help industry assures me I am messing them up), knowing they are loved has to be the most important thing at the end of the day.
I’m reading Sarah Smarsh’s book Heartland right now and it is riveting. She writes of growing up poor on a farm outside Wichita, Kansas and all the lovely and messy aspects of family that shaped her youth. She writes of longing for affection and love from her mother as a child. She says she remembers her mom holding her only once - when she was about 3 years old and got her ears pierced at the mall and her mom carried her out of the store crying. I’ve permanently destroyed my left hip from carrying my children so often when they were babies and toddlers, and when they were too big to be carried. I often look at Charlie and his now lanky 9-year-old legs and wonder when I carried him last. Whenever it was, I didn’t recognize it for the significant milestone it was when it took place. If I think hard I can still feel them on my hip, legs once too short they stuck out straight, and then so long they wrapped around my waist. Now Izzy’s legs hang down, her feet brushing my knees and making it difficult to walk.
There are kids on the border right now with only the clothes on their back and little food to eat. They sleep where they can, each night a different place, each day a new danger. As we make our Christmas lists, we think of those children who have nothing and wonder how we can help them. Can we send them a toy? Money? I tell myself that if those children go to sleep knowing their parents love them, if they are hugged often, surely they will be ok.
Even on the days I feel I’ve failed, I remind myself how lucky we are. Our problems and worries are simple in the grander scheme of life. I worry about math scores and whether ipads are the best learning tool in second grade. We set impossible standards for ourselves as parents, almost ensuring our failure. How can it matter that I missed the boat on Taylor Swift tickets this year or that I never think ahead to schedule play dates? I didn’t sign Izzy up for Daisies (Brownies?) because I selfishly don’t want to spend the time. We are the only family Charlie knows without a game system. But am I permanently harming them with these perceived slights? I know the answer to that question, of course. I just forget to ask myself in the daily mash up of work, school, and life.
As parents, we shouldn’t try to be some version of perfect. Our children need to see our imperfections, our failures. It helps them know it is ok to fail, too. When I lose my patience and yell, I apologize and ask for forgiveness. On the days I deem I’ve failed, I really should cut myself a break and grade myself on a curve. In my safe, Midwestern, suburban hood where everyone buys organic and children’s birthdays are planned for months, we are all straight A parents.
Life is pretty darn good. The kids will be just fine.
I try not to grade my parenting daily, but more often than not I end the day feeling inadequate. Some days I feel like an outright failure as a parent - days that begin with a hurried morning to get to an early meeting, a meeting where nothing gets accomplished and that I should have skipped. Days that start with forgotten lunches and misplaced library books lead to an evening where I’m late to drive the soccer carpool and dinner gets on the table at 8:45. Everyone is tired, some of us cry, some of us yell. No one goes to bed happy.
But even on the days I give myself an F, I hug my kids before they go to school. I feed them a healthy dinner and tuck them into bed with a kiss. I ask them about their day, I sign the field trip permission form, I rsvp for the birthday party. Every day they are loved and they know it. No matter what else I might do to mess up my kids (and the billion dollar self-help industry assures me I am messing them up), knowing they are loved has to be the most important thing at the end of the day.
I’m reading Sarah Smarsh’s book Heartland right now and it is riveting. She writes of growing up poor on a farm outside Wichita, Kansas and all the lovely and messy aspects of family that shaped her youth. She writes of longing for affection and love from her mother as a child. She says she remembers her mom holding her only once - when she was about 3 years old and got her ears pierced at the mall and her mom carried her out of the store crying. I’ve permanently destroyed my left hip from carrying my children so often when they were babies and toddlers, and when they were too big to be carried. I often look at Charlie and his now lanky 9-year-old legs and wonder when I carried him last. Whenever it was, I didn’t recognize it for the significant milestone it was when it took place. If I think hard I can still feel them on my hip, legs once too short they stuck out straight, and then so long they wrapped around my waist. Now Izzy’s legs hang down, her feet brushing my knees and making it difficult to walk.
There are kids on the border right now with only the clothes on their back and little food to eat. They sleep where they can, each night a different place, each day a new danger. As we make our Christmas lists, we think of those children who have nothing and wonder how we can help them. Can we send them a toy? Money? I tell myself that if those children go to sleep knowing their parents love them, if they are hugged often, surely they will be ok.
Even on the days I feel I’ve failed, I remind myself how lucky we are. Our problems and worries are simple in the grander scheme of life. I worry about math scores and whether ipads are the best learning tool in second grade. We set impossible standards for ourselves as parents, almost ensuring our failure. How can it matter that I missed the boat on Taylor Swift tickets this year or that I never think ahead to schedule play dates? I didn’t sign Izzy up for Daisies (Brownies?) because I selfishly don’t want to spend the time. We are the only family Charlie knows without a game system. But am I permanently harming them with these perceived slights? I know the answer to that question, of course. I just forget to ask myself in the daily mash up of work, school, and life.
As parents, we shouldn’t try to be some version of perfect. Our children need to see our imperfections, our failures. It helps them know it is ok to fail, too. When I lose my patience and yell, I apologize and ask for forgiveness. On the days I deem I’ve failed, I really should cut myself a break and grade myself on a curve. In my safe, Midwestern, suburban hood where everyone buys organic and children’s birthdays are planned for months, we are all straight A parents.
Life is pretty darn good. The kids will be just fine.
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