I spent the morning climbing back up to the top of my cliff. I fell off and landed on a ledge about 10 feet below. I laid there for a long time trying to decide what to do. Part of me wanted to get up and start back to the top, but an old familiar part of me fought back. It wanted me to move to the edge and, oh so slowly so no one would notice, roll over just enough so that gravity would take over and pull me back into the black abyss of me (if it’s still down there in the boat). Then I could claim no responsibility for falling, and I could hide out in those deep dark secrets acting out in my old ways of being…completely out of control, living the vida loca powered by my very own personal hericane.
It took three hours, six minutes, and thirty-seven seconds to climb the 10 feet that I fell from back up to the top of the cliff. And, in taking in that larger perspective at the top with fresh eyes, I noticed a tendency I have had since my son entered early adolescence (coincidentally just about the time I started to lose control of his every waking second). It happened again today, I feel into the trap. Maybe those of you who are parents and caretakers get this.
My son blew me off my cliff with a look, or a gesture, or was it the mere hint of a whisper? I don’t remember. All I remember is that we had an unpleasant interaction, and the next thing I knew I was falling backwards.
I know what you’re going to say…”He’s a teenager. What do you expect? He’s angry, fearful, and more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute least he can get away with. That’s being an adolescent.”
I know what you’re going to say…”You’re a single mom. What does he expect? You’re angry, fearful, and, more often than you probably like, focused on doing the absolute most you can get away with. That’s being a parent.”
Sometimes my son doesn’t “get it” the way I think he should. He is an only child and although he did not grow up in a house with money to burn, I (when his dad and I were together) gave him absolutely everything we could of the non-material kind. Being an only child, he never had to share attention, praise, or love with a sibling, compare his report card or his playing ability or his handwriting to a brother, yell “Front seat near the door, I call it” before his sibling had the chance to utter a syllable, or give in and go to The Little Mermaid because it was his stinkin’ baby sister’s “turn” to pick the family activity.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be pretty good.
On the other hand, getting all the focus had its own set of problems. We always knew “who did it;” there is no other body of the sibling variety to provide interference or share the humiliation when the glaring trumpets of parental disappointment sound loud and clear; and there is no one share a bedroom with, lay in bed and commiserate about how much dad and mom suck as parents.
Let’s face it…for an only child, life can be a little too much like nano-scopic surgery.
Sometimes his dad and I don’t “get it” because we both grew up in homes where the giving of love, attention, or anything other than our basic physical needs was overshadowed by other priorities.
Let’s face it…for any child, growing up can be pretty tough.
So maybe we overdid it. Maybe we fell into an all too familiar trap. And, maybe our over-giving, our over-involvement, our big fat overdoing of just about everything related to our son is an attempt to give to him of course, but maybe it is just as much about giving all of that to our inner under-nourished, under-attended, under-loved younger selves.
Maybe all along, all we are doing is trying to re-parent ourselves, fill the gaps, feel the reciprocity of a functional family gifting and receiving love.
Maybe that’s all any of us parents can ever do.
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