I was one of those 90’s parents, conditioned to believing you could never give a child enough love. And because I had so many challenges bringing baby Kate into the world, when she finally arrived, I spent the first 12 years of her life doing everything I possibly could to shower her with affection, protect her from harm, and over-function to the point of peril for us both.
It all came to light one day when I was vomit-sick with the flu, prostrate on the couch, pre-teen hovering over me to ask if we had milk in the fridge. It was a simple request, yet enlighteningly apparent she didn’t understand she could answer her own question without involving help from her suffering mom.
This was a face-slap-awakening that made me realize, perhaps there is a line where giving too much love should never cross. I spent the next few years letting her do things for herself, to include failing, getting into trouble, learning responsibility for her hygiene, and trying not to behave like the sky was falling when her path to these lessons didn’t intersect mine. It was fear and shame-based for me, obviously still needing to learn my own lessons on value and self-worth.
This is why the recent celebrity college-admission scandals were particularly disturbing for me. As Julia Roberts so concisely put it, “It’s sad, the messaging of parents who didn’t believe in their children.” I always believed in my daughter.
Had I pulled myself off of the couch that day and somehow made a Hollywood fortune in life, I could have written a fat check to a Harvard admission grantor too, and labelled it under the category of “loving my kid,” the dark side of 90’s affirmational parenting, complete with self-esteem trophies and “Everyone’s a Winner” posters. But the teachings of hard-knocks-living bear very different fruits.
It’s gravitationally challenging to let your children make mistakes, especially the larger scale fuck-ups, yet without them, they never grow, and you never get the chance to see what they are capable of doing without your intervention.
I did help my daughter with college essays, critiquing themes and substituting her words for mine in cases where I thought they needed more punch. I also helped her study for tests, took her to craft stores to buy crap for class projects, and visited a number of campuses with her. The scandal made me reflect on my efforts, wondering if participation, even at this level, was too much. Was this my fear? Did I create a student who wouldn’t be capable of graduation without me? Would my own self-esteem survive such thing? Was I the poorer person’s version of Felicity Huffman?
I could say with 100% certainty when she left home, she knew her education mattered to me, but I was not responsible for capturing it. I intuited this after completing a lot of couch time for myself. I believe she understood each lesson learned was an opportunity for self-esteem to improve, but did she know I loved her no matter what, including failure? I had to learn to love myself that way first. Did she know I would love her through all of life’s trials, no matter how her happiness was defined? I think it took me nearly 48 years to claim my own.
If I could wind the clock back, I would have started much earlier than her 12th year, allowing help around the house, letting more outdoor adventures claim her. I said no too often and thank the Gods of irony for waking me up during “Milk-gate.” There is a fine line between supporting your kids and stunting them. I’d love to think I’ve balanced it, but here again, another wake-up call.
I believe in you, Kate. It’s instinctive to offer help as the first impulse over trust, the age-old maternal tick. But this is where I promise to stretch myself, lean in to letting go, face of my own fears and let you check the fridge yourself. You’ve got this.
