The fundamental fiction of my parenting

It is 2:30 in the afternoon. The house is quiet.  My oldest is at preschool, my youngest is asleep in my bed.

And I?  Am filled with dread.

Any minute now, I need to go wake up my toddler to pick .up her sister.  After a shortened nap for one and an afternoon of school for the other, they are likely to both be overtired.  The  crankiness is haunting me.  I can think of nothing else as my brain shifts into doing mode, fix it mode.

I wonder if stopping at the playground will make it better or worse.

This is the fundamental fiction that defines my life: I can control the moods of my children.

If I could just get the formula right.  More exercise.  No, more rest.  More choices.  More limits.  More something.

This approach would work very well if it weren't for one little problem.  These children?  Are people.

If a train is leaving for Meltdownville at 99 miles per hour, and someone else is driving it, why in the hell am I even bothering to do calculations?

Of course, the first. problem with this fiction is that it doesn't work.  There's no formula for the perfect day.  There's no way to ensure that my children are happy and pleasant and socially appropriate all the time.  And really, even if there were, would I really want those Stepford children in my life?

The other part of the problem, though, is this.  If I have the power to control their moods with my parenting, then I am RESPONSIBLE for all their worst moments.  Because clearly every misbehavior or tantrum is a sign that I am in some way inherently lacking in my role as parent.  That I'm doing it wrong and am therefore letting them down.

And this leads to shame, which is when I lose my temper.  It's why I could discipline a class of 20 high school kids (err, well, at least mostly), but I can't handle my two without spinning out of control.  Because when those kids weren't mine, it wasn't my fault.

But of course it isn't my fault anyway.  So how do I learn to create that distance?  To absolve myself of that power and responsibility?  To just see all the ups and downs and react to them appropriately without making grand judgments about the course and importance of my life?  To do all the right things without expecting those things. to "do anything" ... so that when they don't, I can do them all again tomorrow anyway instead of giving up and disappearing into my couch?

How do I begin to redefine my story?

Approval

I miss writing.  Part of me has been waiting for lightning to strike, for a good idea to come to me.

But that's backwards, isn't it? Because the lightning comes from writing.

I've been thinking I don't have anything to say, but really I haven't been writing and posting because I'm afraid. Because once I post, all I can do is wait to see how people respond. And how people respond defines me. It shouldn't. It does.

Other people's approval is everything to me. Is the only way I know how to define my worth. The risk of putting "bad" writing out there is real.

Because if I'm rejected or criticized? I am nothing.

So instead, I disappear.

I don't think that's better.

But I don't know what else to do.

I don't like my approval seeking. I'm embarrassed of it. I'm afraid it means I'm doing something wrong, it in and of itself makes me less worthy.

So, here I am. Writing. Good or bad. Sending it out into the world.

It's all I can do.

Quicksand

It starts small.
Little mistakes, errors in judgment
Missed opportunities
Disappointed looks that melt the thin veneer
of control in which I've been masking terror.

Changes weigh down
as I trudge forward
keeping my head up
enough to choke on the rain a little.

The trudging slows.
I start to sink.
Until I can't remember how to move anymore
And all I see
are looks of disappointment.