Playing favorites
I have a nervous stomach. I'm jittery all over. I'd like to call it nerves, but the truth is I'm experiencing guilt.
Horrible, unfettered guilt. And I blame it on Time. The magazine's recent piece on favoritism-- namely, that every parent has a favorite child-- has me crawling out of my skin. The article examines several studies of parent-child relationships, all of which point to one conclusive fact: Parents have favorites, and all the kids know it. No parent can hide it entirely, but the better ones deny such favoritism exists and go to lengths to cover it up (much to the health and happiness of the rest of their children).
Initially, when a friend mentioned I should read the article, I bristled. Why would I want to read such a thing? I've lived 41 years, comfortable with my parents' avid denials that they would ever choose a favorite. They loved us all equally, but differently-- because we were all different people. And it made sense. I clung to that sense, even in the face of anything to the contrary.
And yet, when I find myself in my chiropractor's office face-to-face with the piece, I am compelled to read the many-paged article word-for-word, my brain howling in denial the entire time.
But blips and blurbs and shades of truth whispered through the howling. Remember when son number two was born, and how you stared into each others' eyes all night? Remember all the adorable things he would do and say, and how you treasured each moment?
And yet I also see son number one, excelling well-past his learning differences, grabbing life by the collar and floating upward. So much of my time and energy was focused on his needs, his social issues, his anxieties.
And when my daughter arrived, my funny, perky little baby number three-- I worried incessantly about how the older two boys didn't really give two burps about her existence. And out of guilt to them and worry for her, I was constantly seeking balance.
And now I sit pondering this article and how it makes me feel about my oldest in college, my middle a sophomore and my baby in 3rd grade-- as well as the FOUR OTHER KIDS we've added to our family in ensuing years, and I'm rattled.
I guess the guilt I feel-- what this article has done to me and why I am so unraveled-- is derived from the fear that I may have made any of them feel like they weren't loved best. That any one of them is convinced they aren't my favorite, or worse, that they have perceived that someone else is.
The hard truth: I don't have a favorite. I swear I'm not saying this because I want t be one of the "better" parents, nor out of fear of being sacrificed and tortured on the altar of public opinion. (Well, not entirely that.) But the fact is, I honestly believe my parents were right: There isn't a favorite child. Personally, I have many favorite children. All of them, each of them, depending on the day and the situation and the angle of the sun and what particular hair is up my rump that day.
I favor the ones that listen.
I favor the ones that help.
I favor the ones that need my help.
I favor the ones that laugh at my jokes, that share their lives, that come to me for advice or to tell a story.
I favor the ones that love me back. And occasionally, the ones that don't.
I favor them all.
(Hey momma? Okay so seriously, who's your favorite?)
Time passes
Tiny hands, corn niblet toes, wide-eyed kisses with sweet bubbling lips and a tiny exhale. My babies. There are moments when I remember each one's childhood so vividly I physically ache with the longing as I recognize that time has gone by. I'm continually struck by the irreplaceableness of it all.
My sunny-bunny 3-year-old girl and her joy at dancing in the sprinklers.
My daring 4-year-old son, climbing the outside of the jungle gym, dangling like a monkey and roaring like a tiger.
My adventurous 5-year-old in his lanky green snow hat, sword fighting imaginary monsters with a pretzel stick.
Where did they go?
Where are those soft cheeks, the kissing of which I used to have unrestricted access?
The 7-year-old still snuggles me and let's me smooch her cheeks and rub her back and tickle her feet and pet her hair and massage her neck as much as possible ; the 14-year-old allows hugs only and only the occasional smooch on his cheek, but he MUST be grimacing at all times; and my 17-year-old has transitioned to one-armed side-hugs-- he's too tall for me even reach his cheeks anymore, let alone kiss them.
My sweet girl tells me tales of all she is doing in school and rarely misses a detail or any found opportunity to share, and share, and share what she is learning.
My engaging middle boy occasionally admits he attends a school and details of his travails there are delivered sparingly, and only when asked. Then begged. Then cajoled. Conversely, any SCRUBS episode can be and often is recounted ad nauseum, from memory and without request.
And my ever-growing oldest boy, my monosyllabic young man, is filling out college applications.
Time marches on. I watch with awe and surprise as I discover another hunk of gray hair emerge from some heretofore hidden but now completely obvious place on my head. I have no crows feet; just the tracks some overlarge bird left at the corners of my eyes. They're there-- under my glasses.
And one day flows into the next. Right now, while I'm wrenching stinky teens from slumber, pushing them out the door to school, I pause and take a moment to revel in the small arms of my little girl as she wakes to my good morning hug and fills my morning with chatter about her dreams from the previous night. She still needs me, but even better? She still wants me in her life.
And I'm clinging to every little gift each of these moments provide.
The most bitter pill of all
I told you so screams in my head, trapped in my throat.
When my girls’ good friend—let’s call her Becky—started seeing the older man, I warned them with every strong word at my disposal. “Keep her away from that guy; he’ll be the biggest mistake of her life.” My girls shrugged and agreed he was bad news. Nevermind the anger issues. Nevermind that he was almost twice her age. It didn’t take a Phi Beta Kappa to figure out that a guy with Aryan tattoos applied in prison probably wasn’t ideal boyfriend material.
When she continued to see him, I tried again: “Mark my words; this guy is going to manipulate her, use her and she’s going to end up pregnant.” Here they thought I was being a little over the top. “She’ll date him 3 weeks, tops,” they both said, with total certainty. It was her pattern. Trust them, they said. They knew.
I pressed on. “This guy is manipulating her. He’s 35! He was in a prison gang! For the love of gawd-”
“MOM!” they interrupted. “We know. We’ve warned her. In 3 weeks he’ll break her heart and she’ll move on.” They were so convinced.
I set about fuming and seething in my not-so-quiet rage. And we—my husband and I—forbid them to socialize with this girl while her boyfriend was present. And when he wasn’t? “Get her away from that guy,” we warned. “She’s going to end up pregnant or abused. Or both.”
I’m going to be classist here. In fact, I’m going to be racist here. As a white woman, I despise, loathe and repudiate ANYONE who uses my skin color as a justification for racial pride and social superiority. Using the symbols of mass genocide as a marker for some disgusting sense of self inflation? It’s pathological.
And no, crazy person, you can’t defend it to me. “White pride” is horrifying and people with those beliefs shouldn’t breed. They’re an embarrassment to those of us who share their pigmentation. I’m racist like that.
Here you might ask, “How does an intelligent, college-bound young woman meet and come to socialize with a white-supremacist felon?”
Blah blah second chances blah served his time blah friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend blah. If Lifetime Television and the occasional Oprah have taught me anything, it’s that guys that fit this m.o. are predators. He sought her out, separated her from the herd and went in for the kill.
After two weeks, she was in love. By week five, my girls were begging her to ditch this guy. Becky knew it was wrong. Becky knew she shouldn’t be with him. Becky didn’t care. She loved him, he totally got her and they had a connection and even though they had no beliefs in common and she disagreed with everything he stood for, she had to accept him. Because that’s what you do when you’re in love. I wanted to scream in her stupid, stupid face.
And yet when she sat at my kitchen table one Saturday afternoon, drinking coffee and laughing with my daughters, I said nothing. I stared at the elephant in the room, marveled at its size and stench, and I sucked in my bitter words knowing it wasn’t my place to try and save her. I couldn’t save her. I wasn’t her mom.
Ahhhh, yes: The parents. Where are her parents?
Mom is swimming at the bottom of a bottle. Dad is too into his second marriage and family to care. And regardless, nobody in her family knew she was with him—or bothered to ask who the hell she was dating—until he was back in prison on a parole violation.
But see, I knew. I was a parent. Just not hers. Why did I let that stop me?
By this time, our constant conversations with our girls had long ago taken affect. They’d already had the “We love you, but” conversation with her. We love you, but we can’t watch you do this to yourself. We can’t save you. We’ll be here when you end it. As every parent of an addict knows, at some point you have to walk away. My girls were the closest thing she had to responsible adults in her life. Their words bounced off her like rain on an umbrella. Becky was sad, but the words didn’t make a dent.
Bear in mind this conversation took place the weekend before he was sent back to prison. Bear in mind Becky said she’d stand by him, even while he was in prison, even though she secretly wanted and desperately needed therapy.
That was the last we’d heard. Nearly two months passed. She called last night to tell my girls she’s 8-weeks pregnant. It’s his. Adoption and abortion are off the table—she’s keeping the baby.
My daughter delivers the news with a deep sadness in her voice. I stare at the wall.
She’s so lost. It’s not my life; she’s not my daughter. And I can’t stop thinking about her and struggling with a sense of responsibility.
I told you so has the ugliest aftertaste of all.
What I meant to say
Last week I was part of a panel at the Central California Women’s Conference speaking about work-life balance; which is to say, how to balance your work life with your personal life. The panel included the president/CEO for United Way of Fresno County, a vice president of Pelco, a vice president and general manager of Univision Television… and me, that writer lady with the seven kids. Suffice it to say I felt like a total big shot: Have ego, will gloat.
I’m a belt-and-suspenders kind of gal, and so it would come as no surprise that I spent the months leading up to the event planning what I wanted to say. I was, after all, a mother being given the opportunity to speak to WILLING LISTENERS. Not used to this foreign environment, I decided I’d better come prepared.
The very day I was invited to be on the panel, I started envisioning what the questions would be like, and what all-important, life-changing information I’d want to share. And after several months of imagining, crafting, dreaming and planning, the day came, the questions came, and my answers burst forth… including none of the nifty tidbits I had intended to share.
See how the rings overlap?
But the tidbits are too good to keep to myself; and the tidbits, when connected, really make that obvious sort of sense, the kind of facts that everybody already knows but just forgets most of the time.
And my tidbits are backed by scientific research. Which makes them intelligent and worthy of note. Alas, dear readers: I share these bits with you now. And in my mind’s eye, you will enjoy the same “a-ha” moment I did, when I first connected the dots.
AMAZING TIDBIT NUMBER 1: Emotions outlast memories. Researchers at the University of Iowa conducted a test on patients who suffered from amnesia. After viewing a sad, 20-minute movie, participants were quizzed about the film they had just seen. As expected, the amnesiac participants could not remember what they had just watched, nor that they had even watched a film. Yet, when asked about their feelings, participants reported feelings of sadness. The study was repeated with a happy film, and the results were similar, though the feelings of happiness didn’t last quite as long as the feelings of sadness had.
AMAZING TIDBIT NUMBER 2: We learn by seeing, too. You know that saying, “Monkey see, monkey do?” Blame it on mirror neurons-- nerve cells that react when an animal performs an action, and also when that animal observes another performing that same action. Basically, these neurons (which are believed to exist in humans and are behind our ability to empathize) are what allows us to learn by mirroring—imitating—others. The kicker is, these neurons react whether we’re aware of it or not.
So what’s the point? And what does this have to do with balance in your life?
Imagine yourself reading a scary book at bedtime. It’s scary and thrilling but your lids just can’t stay open. Soon you fall into a deep sleep and are bothered by dreams that are related to the book you were just reading. Creepy, scary dreams. When you wake, you can’t remember your dream, but you feel bothered. Angry. Yucky. Negative emotions ooze through you—but you have no idea where the feelings came from.
Now imagine that you walk into your kitchen, grumpy and not knowing why, and your negative output is being viewed by another. Your 8-year-old, perhaps. Or your spouse. Without them knowing it—without you knowing it—their little mirror neurons are busy at work, learning. Imitating. Empathizing. Monkey see, monkey do. And now everyone is in a crummy mood—thanks to you. And no one knows why.
The better news here, though, is how easy it is to flip this on its head. Surrounding yourself with humor or positivity ALSO has an emotional effect that outlasts the memory of its origin; it makes you feel happy beyond the memory of the act itself.
Further, your attitude has an effect on others. Like a water droplet hitting a pool, the ever-widening rings of energy continue to extend outward, bumping up against others, causing reactions all their own. The energy lives on.
Oh yeah, and balance? When we're happy, we experience reduced stress. Reduced stress means we're emotionally in a better place to deal with life's challenges. And dealing with life on an emotionally even keel is how we find balance.
So, monkey: go surround yourself with positive people and watch a funny movie. You’ll feel better, and so will everyone who comes in contact with you.
What does it all mean?
Last night I dreamed I was on the set of a reality TV show.
I found myself in our overfilled living room swollen to the bursting point with production staff and hangers on, when my oldest daughter (who was the star of this show) decided it was time—on national television—to inform me that she was critically worried about the length of my stick-straight arm hair.
The entire room gasped. “It’s just so long,” she continued. “I’m really worried about you, Trace.”
I was mortified. The room exploded in silence and sharp, caustic glares at my daughter’s indiscretion. Murmurs rose. “How could she humiliate her stepmom like that? It was so cruel!” My daughter was not immune to their criticism. Aware of her massive social gaff, she tried to gloss over the incident by apologizing for her ill-timed confession. But the damage was done: Something needed to be done about the ungodly length of the hair on my forearms; and now everybody knew it.
The dream slid away upon waking, and came back full force as I rode my bike into work. I called my daughter and snorted with laughter on her voicemail as I recounted the story: Everyone’s intense seriousness, the overwhelming concern, and the horror of all those who witnessed my mortification over being publicly called out over my arm hair. It was so ridiculous!
Later, and as I often do after such dreams, I tried to put together the meaning of it all. Arm hair? Honestly, where the heck did THAT come from? I even looked at my forearms to verify that I didn’t have any previously undiscovered monkey tufts flurrying about my elbows. I didn’t notice any—but maybe that was the point. Maybe the dream portended that others were worried about me in some other way? Hmm. I let it pass.
I moved on through my morning, enjoying the ride to work, the sunshine and the breeze running through my arm hair as I pedaled along. I love riding my bike; it can be incredibly meditational. My mind ponders and sorts through the various and sundry elements of my day to come. Concerns arise: meetings; am I prepared? Tasks—did I complete them all? Is there anything left out there? And the kids—what do they have going on that I need to address? Laundry. Dinner. Cleaning.
Sometimes I latch onto small things; other times larger ones, and if I allow it, I can become overwhelmed. Larger situations—like qualifying for a mortgage; and taxes; and dreams I’ve begun cultivating but haven’t recently tended to—preoccupy me. It doesn’t take much to cause me to obsess.
A beautiful morning begins to erode under the weight of negativity. And then frustration. Honestly, why do I allow these thoughts stress me out?
And that’s when it hits me: Arm hair.
This makes me smile.
In the big picture of life, how many things merit the amount of grave attention we give them—the stress, the churning thoughts that grow larger and somehow more “real” the more we feed them our attention—and how many things are truly non events; big ado’s over nothing? Simply put, what is real, and what is just arm hair?
I take a deep breath and appreciate the real things of the moment: the scent of the Star Jasmine along the way, and the feel of the morning sun on my face.
And I keep pedaling.
About me….
Perpetually anxious/simultaneously exhausted mom of a blended family of 7 kids & 2 pets. Writer about same. Wife to one amazingly patient husband. Drinker of wine. Columns found via online syndication in 38+ newspapers across the U.S.
Radio segments found here or live weekly on Thursdays at 5:15 p.m. on KYNO 940 AM radio's "The Drive."
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