Making a Repair

I have a parenting pattern that I am not entirely proud of, but I want to tell you about it, because I  like the last part. I also like that I am aware of a pattern that I do, because it helps me be mindful about it. Here’s the first part: I clean the house. Somebody makes a mess. I grouch about the mess, and then I clean it up.

Then here is the last part: If the person that made the mess is my daughter, she runs to her room and cries. I go to her room and she is crying hard, not speaking, coming down really hard on herself for whatever happened. I lie down next to her, put my arms around her, and talk softly to her about how the mess is not a big deal to me, how I am not mad anymore, and how everyone makes mistakes, even me, and it’s okay. And I stay there with her talking it out until I know that she knows that I love her, and there is not a single thing she could do that would stop me from loving her. I say it. That’s the part I like.

This pattern played out a couple of times over our holiday break. One of these, I can remember, because it was just such a perfect example of the pattern, and why it is useful for me to be aware of it. I left our best, vintage, embroidered, white tablecloth on the table the day after Thanksgiving. My kids love to draw. You can see where this is going. My kid drew with a Sharpie, that forbidden marker, which I have asked them not to use, but had left sitting out anyway, on drawing paper, appropriately, but it had bled through and left black marks all over the tablecloth. She had not noticed. I was feeling disappointed when I discovered it, cleaning up the papers. I clucked my tongue and said something like, “Ugh, Vivienne, I have asked you not to use Sharpies, and now there are marks all over my best tablecloth. These are not going to come off.” She responded by coming to look, telling me, “I didn’t know that one was a Sharpie”, and then turning around and heading to her room.

Let’s look closer at some of the factors here. First, I can take responsibility for the things that I could have done differently, to create a different outcome. I was the one who left the fancy tablecloth, vulnerable to all manner of stains and misuse, out on the table after I was finished trying to impress people with my best linens. I also left the forbidden but alluring marker sitting out where it could be picked up by a person of a child’s height. I did nothing to prevent this; in fact, I invited this outcome by not doing the simple things that would have prevented it. I have already learned this lesson well. Scissors and glue, for a time, were other things that could not be left sitting out to be used anytime a child had an idea. Kinetic sand, glitter, paint: all projects available by request only, under constant supervision, at my house. Isn’t it nice to have Cottage, where kids can paint themselves and just get cleaned off enough to get home for a bath later? 

I can acknowledge myself for the no-so-bad way that I responded when I saw the mess. I didn’t yell. I didn’t overreact. I didn’t make any big, blanket statements like “you are always ruining my things” or something that sounds like the child is generally bad or the cause of all my problems. And I did not just stew privately, faking not having any negative feelings. I went ahead and expressed my feelings, but responsibly. I’m satisfied with the way that happened. 

I can also acknowledge that my feeling responsible for keeping my house neat is not my children’s fault, but that I may sometimes make it their problem. I do the bulk of the cleaning and housekeeping for my household, and I am not great at delegating or sharing responsibility. Now, there are systemic factors in place that make me, as a woman, likely to serve that role, and I do not claim that it is fair, or healthy, or a great example, that I am the person in charge of these things. I am just stating what is so. Right now, I am the person who is most impacted by any mess. Cleaning up the mess, or the loss of my tablecloth’s neatness, is, therefore, about my feelings, not about the child. Keeping my tablecloth neat is my responsibility to worry about, not hers. It’s not her fault that systemic gender inequality has me so worked up about the appearance of my house, and I am not in love with my passing that on to her. Moreover, she is not responsible for my feelings. My feelings are mine, only. They are not a test for reality. 

My child did a thing that kids do, and should be allowed to do, which is draw. She had no ill intent. Nevertheless, there was a hidden message to me about setting boundaries. Lots of the time there is, and here is a quick distillation of the message: If you don’t want your child to do a thing, prevent them from doing that thing. You cannot count on a child having the insight and forethought to not do a thing just because you told them not to do it. You have to actually make it impossible for them to make a choice that you will be angry about. Or, accept that you allowed the thing to happen. Choosing to be angry about fewer things is also an option. What is patently not useful is to blame a child for using what you made available to them, like markers and a beautifully set table.

So, after a pause for me to calm myself, I came to her room, and I laid down beside her as she cried. I did not try to stop her tears, or hush her. It is okay for her to feel sorry and sad, both for the tablecloth accident, and because her mama scolded her, which can feel scary. I know I am her most important person, together with her dad, and that my anger, mild as it was, is terrifying. What if I stopped loving her? What if she made a mistake so big that I would never love her again, or left her forever because of it? Children don’t know what we know, that that’s not why grownups leave. They don’t have any idea of the depths of our love, so deep our chest aches and ice runs through our veins if we even think about them being hurt. I don’t think I could have guessed at the power of a parent’s love before my own kids showed me. 

I laid there with her, my arms around her, telling her again, “there’s nothing you could do, nothing in the world, that could make me stop loving you”. I am often thinking forward, when I say this, to when my kids are teens and young adults, with much more autonomy, much more room to make choices I won’t always like. My voice will be there, echoing, repeating as the voice in their heads, saying they are loved and lovable, mistakes and all. Repair is everything.