Surprised Mom Recounts Experience
Surprised Mom Recounts Experience
My fourteen-year-old son, Kenneth, announced one Sunday morning that he was no longer interested in going to church with us. He would be staying home watching the Broncos on TV from now on. “Great. See ya in a couple of hours,” I said as his sister, Maura, and I walked out the door. Ken, now in his thirties, remembers that as a turning point in his life.
In a moment of lunacy, I asked my four (two grown, two teen) children what they thought was good, if anything, about the way they’ve been raised. Long a devoted buyer of science sets and encyclopedias, I thought they would perhaps mention the wonderfully rich intellectual climate I provided—although they basically all did their homework while watching TV and used the science sets in definitely unscientific ways. Maybe they’d be grateful for the health food binges we went on, thereby insuring that for all time they would know which is the tabouli and which is the couscous at a salad bar. As I remembered my blundering attempts to prepare them for the world, all my memories were connected with things done: homework assignments, lawn care, clean rooms, and teeth with no cavities.
And I wasn’t really good at those things. For example, I never could exactly place just where we were with vaccinations. Is it four DPT’s or three? My kids didn’t get to bed at eight—and heaven forbid that they would get up at six before they knew how to turn on cartoons. There were a couple of times our grass was so high! How high was it? Well, you couldn’t see their little knees when they mowed it.
Oddly, and I’m so grateful, these were evidently not the important things.
My eighteen-year-old thought that my best moment came when he was in fifth grade and went through one of those times when no one seems to be a friend. “You were my best friend, Mom, for that whole time. I didn’t feel like I didn’t have any friends because you were there.” He was glad to pass that stage without having to resort to desperate measures, such as being friends with dorks.
My daughter remembers being treated with respect as we discussed family issues and made decisions together. She interpreted my genuine uncertainty as a positive value. Then, as a single parent, family decisions naturally involved everyone.
My sixteen-year-old, under some pressure to perform as the only sibling who isn’t viewing me nostalgically, post high school, sees as my only redeeming value, the fact that, when I used to be a good parent (before now) I was pretty flexible. I never get too upset when things go wrong.
And Kenneth, my non-church going sports fan? He sat in lonely Sunday splendor for two or three weeks. He remembers how good it felt to make up his own mind about church. And other things.
And he just got tired of being at home by himself.
Friendship, respect, discretion, qualities they inspired me to have through their own unexplainable acceptance of me as a mom. Who knew it would be that easy?
My fourteen-year-old son, Kenneth, announced one Sunday morning that he was no longer interested in going to church with us. He would be staying home watching the Broncos on TV from now on. “Great. See ya in a couple of hours,” I said as his sister, Maura, and I walked out the door. Ken, now in his thirties, remembers that as a turning point in his life.
In a moment of lunacy, I asked my four (two grown, two teen) children what they thought was good, if anything, about the way they’ve been raised. Long a devoted buyer of science sets and encyclopedias, I thought they would perhaps mention the wonderfully rich intellectual climate I provided—although they basically all did their homework while watching TV and used the science sets in definitely unscientific ways. Maybe they’d be grateful for the health food binges we went on, thereby insuring that for all time they would know which is the tabouli and which is the couscous at a salad bar. As I remembered my blundering attempts to prepare them for the world, all my memories were connected with things done: homework assignments, lawn care, clean rooms, and teeth with no cavities.
And I wasn’t really good at those things. For example, I never could exactly place just where we were with vaccinations. Is it four DPT’s or three? My kids didn’t get to bed at eight—and heaven forbid that they would get up at six before they knew how to turn on cartoons. There were a couple of times our grass was so high! How high was it? Well, you couldn’t see their little knees when they mowed it.
Oddly, and I’m so grateful, these were evidently not the important things.
My eighteen-year-old thought that my best moment came when he was in fifth grade and went through one of those times when no one seems to be a friend. “You were my best friend, Mom, for that whole time. I didn’t feel like I didn’t have any friends because you were there.” He was glad to pass that stage without having to resort to desperate measures, such as being friends with dorks.
My daughter remembers being treated with respect as we discussed family issues and made decisions together. She interpreted my genuine uncertainty as a positive value. Then, as a single parent, family decisions naturally involved everyone.
My sixteen-year-old, under some pressure to perform as the only sibling who isn’t viewing me nostalgically, post high school, sees as my only redeeming value, the fact that, when I used to be a good parent (before now) I was pretty flexible. I never get too upset when things go wrong.
And Kenneth, my non-church going sports fan? He sat in lonely Sunday splendor for two or three weeks. He remembers how good it felt to make up his own mind about church. And other things.
And he just got tired of being at home by himself.
Friendship, respect, discretion, qualities they inspired me to have through their own unexplainable acceptance of me as a mom. Who knew it would be that easy?
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