I am not nearly as soft or lovey-dovey as I thought I'd be in my mothering role. I have until now bemoaned this fact, rather unkindly overlooking all the squishy affection I offer those ding-dongs on a daily basis, to focus instead on the moments of sharpness, sternness, and short-temperedness that I have guiltily sought to eradicate.
"Path of peace..." I'm always muttering to the children, my face wizened and haggard and the light in my eyes beginning to die. "Make kind choices," I admonish in defeated tones. Because I want peace.
I want the lovey-dovey, the happy, the content, and I so desire serenity in our home and hearts that I will scream at my screaming kids in order to get it.
This push-the-river attempt to end all ludicrous arguments for all time:
"Reine said she won't invite me to her party when she's ten!"
"Well Henry said I can't be in his spy club after school!"
"Would you two STOP this???" I shriek. "Henry doesn't even HAVE a spy club--"
"Yes I do! We're going to sneak out tonight when everyone's sleeping!"
"Henry you are FIVE YEARS OLD there is no WAY you are going to wake up in the middle of the night and walk across town to do your spy club — and Henry, Reine's SEVEN! Why on earth are you two fighting about something that isn't even HAPPENING?? This isn't even REAL!"
It stems from the sweet belief that if the kids stop fighting about stupid shit, or, ideally, just stop fighting altogether, I will be calm and serene and able to be the soft, loving nurturer I always thought I'd be.
But I see the error of my well-intentioned ways. And it occurs to me: what if instead of pushing them to be something that they are not (reasonable adults inside cute little-kid bodies) so that I can be something I want to be but am not (a serene bestower of blessings and affection, gliding almost levitation-like, patting little children's heads with a loving smile) So, Jesus, basically. I've set my parenting bar at Jesus.
What if instead I make peace with what is, and not only accept that I can be a hard-core mom, but celebrate it?
I love this idea. I appreciate the dichotomy present in motherhood, and this is a little bit like that, with its opposition of tenderness and ferocity, but it's also just plain human. More than that — it's universal. As it's stated in The Kybalion, a metaphysical text on the teachings of Hermes (from spy clubs to man-gods; what can I say), "in everything there are two poles, or opposite aspects, and... 'opposites' are really only the two extremes of the same thing, with many varying degrees between them." Love and hate exist on the same spectrum. Softness and hardness are, in nature, the same.
So my being hard-core and assertive is not the absence of softness, but a varied degree on the scale. It's all One. (I've just had the thought to summarize everything I ever say with that line. Like to sound wise, when I really have no idea of what I'm talking about, or to end conversations... "It's all One, really...")
The reason I am contemplating my assertive nature in the rearing of chilluns' is because it is Henry's sixth birthday tomorrow, and we are (who is we? The kids and I? I am) hosting a little backyard party. Last year my 'path of peace' was to outsource his party to a great big expensive play-zone, but this year it felt better to go sweet and simple. Baking cakes and delighting children with party games are not really my forte, and I have been fretting about this supposed-to-be-fun event. (Jesus Lord we're in trouble if it rains. The basement is our Plan B, but neither the spiders nor the dried piles of vomit deposited by our aging barf-cat have been cleaned out of there in months. Sunny day, sunny day, sunny day...)
The cake is currently in the oven, and the balloons are waiting patiently on the table beside me, awaiting the prana with which I will soon be bringing them to life. (Hopefully while watching Netflix.) I am in good position. All is well. It's all One.
But something was bothering me earlier this week concerning the party, and an element of kids' parties that I'm not really all that into: the kids. I am only slightly exaggerating when I say that it turns out I don't like them. Not all children, it turns out, are being raised with manners, respect or consideration for others. Even kindness isn't always a given. This is a topic that I actually feel quite passionate about, given that we're, oh, guiding the future of humanity here, but instructional tips on how not to raise a sociopath might cramp the 'Henry's Birthday!' vibe, so I'll keep it brief. I was worried about how I would handle disobedient, sneaky kids at the party, particularly if their mothers happened to be around. Bite my tongue and hope the moms would speak up? Spend the day in stress-mode, speaking sweetly but braced in fear of breaking glass and stomped-on gardens? Snap and scold and feel awful about it? Get drunk?
No, I decided. (Unfortunately I do not have any wine.)
That ruminating led me to embrace my assertiveness as a strength, rather than a weakness. Sheesh. We are not all meant to be meek and mild. We can't be, any more than we can all be authoritative and commanding. It's a balance, and if I view my ability to speak up as a gift instead of an embarrassment, honouring my leadership abilities rather than resenting my having to use them, then not only am I in greater balance within myself, but the situations in which I am present may be brought into greater balance as well. Know Thyself. (That's more Ancient Greece.)
As for parenting, my kids have themselves an authoritative mom. My dictionary defines authoritative as "commanding and self-confident; able to be respected and obeyed." What a compliment! Yes, please! So I balance the squishy cuddles with the face that says Do not f*ck with me. Gentle and strong. Nice.
For the party-goers tomorrow: we're all good. Just stay the f*ck away from my flower beds.
Previously published at RobinRuel
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