Struggle

It is my nature to worry, and I do it well. When my kids were really young, I used to stress about things like childcare and cloth-versus-disposable diapers. As a working mom, I wondered if I was spending enough time with them and if the time we spent together was of sufficient quality. I worried about keeping them safe and whether we had done enough reading with them so that they would be able to keep up in school.

My dad, an experienced parent, had no appreciation for the depth of my concern. When I would vent to him about my worries, he would smile a little smile and shake his head ever so slightly. “Little children, little problems. Big children, big problems,” he’d say.

I may have been frustrated that he was a little dismissive of my bundle of worries, but I understood what he was saying. Sort of. I also imagined that if I did my work well when my kids were little, that would carry them through to adulthood, and our big kids would not provide me with big problems to worry about.

And it has worked out that way. Sort of. Not a day goes by when one of my kids doesn’t astound me with a profound bit of wisdom, an achievement, or an act of deep compassion that makes my maternal heart swell with joy. They are learning, growing, becoming.

It is just as true that on any given day my kids will say or do something that astounds me with the depth of their stupidity, immaturity, and selfishness. As painful as these things are, I hope, and I pray, and I try to believe that they are learning, growing, becoming through these experiences. But I have my doubts.

In a really old episode of Law and Order (my favorite show), Detectives Curtis and Brisco were investigating the murder of a young woman. Raised by loving parents, she got into modeling as a teen, which led to a world of money, celebrities, and drugs. Curtis, who had young daughters, was bewildered and judgmental: he figured if he raised his girls right, they would avoid any kind of problems.

We all know loving, close-knit families where the kids have been raised right but still make mistakes—lots of mistakes, huge mistakes, stupid mistakes that can’t be ignored. It is the nature of young adults to test limits, and sometimes kids get caught. Others, for whatever reason, are able to avoid the dire consequences of their recklessness. It doesn’t seem to have anything to do with parenting, but more with dumb luck.

Some days I really, really want to return my kids to the bubble of childhood, where I could control them and protect them and attempt to bend them to my will. I want my kids to avoid mistakes and heartache and pain. When I’m honest, see that part of the reason for this is because I believe that their bad choices, bad behavior, and mistakes reflect poorly on me and my parenting.

I miss those days when my biggest concerns were their bizarre clothing combinations, bad table manners, or failed spelling tests. I hope that when I scolded them for these things, they understood that I was trying to teach them about bigger things: about being polite, getting along with others, diligence and hard work, and that small things matter. I hope that these are the lessons that will carry them forward in life.

They say that, during childbirth, it’s important for the child to struggle through the birth canal; it’s a healthy thing for the baby, and part of nature’s design. Perhaps it is the same as these kids become birthed as adults; struggle is healthier for the adult in the long run, but it sure is painful for the mother.

Advice columnist Ann Landers said, “It is not what you do for your children, but what you have taught them to do for themselves, that will make them successful human beings.”  Even now, when the law says three of my kids are adults, the jury is still out on what I’ve taught them, or rather, what they’ve learned from me. Whatever it is, there’s still a whole bunch of stuff they will have to learn for themselves.  May God give them, and me, strength and wisdom for the journey.