Relief came by way of an introduction to the concept of “good enough parenting,” which is apparently not a new concept in child psychology circles, it was just the first time I was reading about it. First triggered by the illumination of my own wounding and then triggered by the prospect that, despite all of my efforts, I had likely similarly wounded my own offspring, I panicked. As I read about the numerous ways in which my parents had either directly or inadvertently harmed me, I became struck by the reality that I had perpetrated many of these “failures” in parenting my own kids. A couple years ago, I read a book called Complex PTSD: From Surviving to Thriving, by Pete Walker. The goal was to get them to adulthood in better shape than I had been in when I reached 18.įor most of my life, I’ve been on a journey to explore and heal my childhood wounds. It’s hard to gauge much from within the eye of the storm and I mostly plowed through. I worried a lot that I was messing up and falling short. Plagued with fear that my children’s childhoods would descend into chaos as mine had and that I wouldn’t be able to protect them, I transitioned from aspiring to win the Best Mom In the World award to simply trying to survive and mitigate any potential damage. Over the years, challenges beyond my control befell our family, a burglary, one son’s battle with chronic health issues, eventually my marriage falling apart, all on top of the normal financial stresses, sibling rivalry, school issues, and extended family dramas. Even after my second son was born and it became explicitly clear I could not make everyone (or sometimes anyone) happy all the time, I still devoted myself whole-heartedly to my parenting mission. As a mother of an infant, I could control most variables. I am responsible for everything.įor a while I was able to manage this dance with my self-imposed ideal. From that point, I approached my role with much more confidence and authority, but like most things in life, balance was difficult to employ and I tipped a bit too far back into perfectionist mode. He meant that I was capable and in charge of how this story would unfold. He said, “write your own book.” To be clear, he didn’t mean that literally. What followed was the best parenting advice I ever received. I asked the doctor if there was a book that tells moms how to mom, because I was just winging it. I wasn’t sure if I was doing anything right. I didn’t understand the color coding of baby poops. What the hell was this? On most days I couldn’t even find time or energy to take a shower. I complained to him that I had no idea what I was doing. He had been my doctor as a teen and knew me quite well. Somewhere in the fog of my postpartum recovery and my son’s colic phase, I had a conversation with our pediatrician. I already perceived myself as having failed in numerous ways. Whatever confidence that conjured was swiftly diminished and replaced with humility, exhaustion, and feelings of ineptitude - all on top of a baseline of the most profound love I’d ever experienced, but that’s beside the point. But perfection? What even is that? I realize now the arrogance and naiveté of my expectations.įrom the moment I held my newborn son, I felt a clarity of purpose I’d never felt prior. As a child I had experienced a bevy of various traumas and almost no supervision as a teenager, so the bar was pretty low. In retrospect, it’s clear that I was seeking to be a perfect parent, unlike my own parents who - in typical 70s fashion - completely dropped the ball. When I found out I was pregnant with my first child, I remember thinking, this is one thing I am going to do 100% and I’m not going to screw it up. In the tired yet blissful haze of new motherhood
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