Let's be honest. I'm not any good at hiding my mistakes. So, when I make them, I find it easier to handle them by making fun of them. Self-deprecating humor is a fail safe for all Strong children. This, however, does not seem to be standard protocol for most people and, in particular, for most parents holed up in the 91011 zip code. More often than not my ramblings and stories of inadequacy are meet with blank, confused stares. The "why is she still talking?" look is a familiar one. So is the self-congratulatory look of "I feel put together compared to her."
I don't really mind the looks or blank stares. What I mind is the controlled impulse parents employ to keep themselves from commiserating, from sharing in my feeling of motherhood inadequacy. Really, what parent doesn't have a few mis-givings about being a parent?
I will readily admit that there may be some lack of confidence psychosis behind my self-deprecating remarks. They do help present the world as though there's nowhere to go but up. And it is easier to build from the bottom than to sustain at the top. Argue what you will about the nature of self-deprecation, I use it to break the ice and cut through the superficial "lets see how my child measures up against yours" crap. My kids never make it very far in that game anyway. What I don't get is why it is so damn important for everyone to stay quiet about their screw-ups when there is clearly a willing and understanding party at the ready to listen? Why am I seemingly the only one admitting to my faults? What is so great about being perfect? It's tiresome, isn't it; always requiring that you keep up appearances? A healthy dose of humor and humble pie might be just what the parent psyche needs.
Granted, playing the part of the lonely class clown is not without mental repercussions. I can only confess my shortcomings for so long before the inevitable sound of followed silence makes my confessions feel like valid concerns. When no one is sharing in your experience of poor parenting choices, you start to worry that you really are making the worst of parenting decisions. My confession of "I let my children eat cereal for dinner" often makes the room go quiet. Where are the like-minded sentiments of "Oh, that's nothing. I skimmed the mold off the cheese last night before feeding it to my children."? That parent, that honest woman there who shared a piece of her life at the risk of sounding like a less than put-together parent, that woman needs to be my friend. Instead, I usually hear the sound of my shared failures echoing through the room like a ship's cannon booming long after it's been fired.
So, yes, eventually those moments of self-deprecating humor turn into self-fulfilling prophesies. By divulging my weaknesses and not hearing any divulged in return, I start to doubt my most basic abilities. I start to believe the things I am revealing about myself for the sake of motherhood bonding are instead revealing valid weaknesses and inabilities. This is why it is important to step away from the social calls if motherhood every once in a while for a little perspective.
That is typically what Vermont has been for me. But this summer, VT was not the oasis it normally is. Too many other projects and not enough time or attention given to the one thing that mattered most: forgiving myself.
Wow, even saying it aloud stops me short and clutches a little too tightly at my chest. All the social expectations of keeping it together and the implications of feeling like I was alone in not being able to do so hit a peak. It was further complicated by Bryan's 2 month absence 2 weeks after Jamen was born. If I thought 3 kids was my breaking point, having 4 threw the world into a tailspin and was cause for total mental meltdown. When I finally sat still in the car from NYC to VT, it was as though someone had hit the pause button after letting me run on fast-forward. I was lost. I knew the appropriate questions to ask: "What comes next? How do we get everyone there? How will they all behave on the way and once we're there? Who will I see? Whose name do I need to remember? Can I remember anything anymore on little sleep and baby brain? Do I really even know what I'm doing anymore? Did I ever know?", but was at a loss as to how to answer any of them. I let the anxiety of the last few months get the better of me. Tears fell uninterrupted from the moment we crossed the GW bridge until we stopped at a Chuckie Cheese outside of Albany, NY. I had nothing left. Six weeks in VT should've been restorative. Instead, it was frustrating and confusing. I got lost in thought. I couldn't forgive myself or Bryan for mistakes made over the past year, for not being the parent I was sure everyone else thought I should be or the parent I thought I should be. I couldn't let go of the angst and enjoy my children being children. And regardless of how frustrated I felt, I always thought that there would come a moment when the switch was thrown and the chaos of my life would settle, when it would find its balance. That was Vermont's intended purpose, wasn't it? It never came. I returned to L.A. feeling just as drained as when I left. Could my broken motherhood confidence bounce back for another year of self-deprecating jabs if I hadn't been allowed to fully recover from the prior year's?
It turns out, forgiving yourself takes far less time than six weeks, but requires constant attention and nourishment. You have to forgive yourself along the way. It cannot be expected to wait until you are good and ready for it to happen. Goodness knows, my mistakes don't wait until I'm good and ready to make them. So, forgiving them shouldn't either. Your confidence and health would be too much at stake. Your ability to parent would be to much at stake. No one knows how to do this job perfectly. And everyone, E..V..E..R..Y..O..N..E has or is going to make mistakes doing it. Part of forgiving yourself is learning to be honest about what you can get done and whether it will get done perfectly. I suffer from no illusions about my parenting perfections. I can't pretend I know what I'm doing when I don't; I don't hide my faults that well. I do wish there were more parents who felt as free to admit the same, but for now, I will settle for hearing the defeaning sound of silence in response to my misguided parenting tales.
Long live self-deprecating humor! May it be a cathartic release of over-anxious thoughts everywhere.
