My kid’s control issues make me uncomfortable
Because I have control issues too
She suggested we do a puppet show but then she wouldn’t let me help. I watched her storm out of the room while taking a deep breath. I hate seeing that. It makes me feel like we’re never going to do things together without having an upset.
Hands on her hips, she looks just like me. We have the same hair, the same pinched place between the eyebrows. Our hair and expressions get tangled by the end of a long day trying to do new things — do everything we want to do.
I want to read a book but I haven’t played with my Little People sets yet since she got home from work.
I want to watch all the singing movies but Mom is tired and she doesn’t want to dance with me. Dad dances more but Mom knows the right way to hum and twirl to the princess songs.
I am so excited to play with her and help her learn the way I do it. I can’t wait to tell her what each character says and does. I love being close to her. She wants more quiet time.
Why is she walking away to take deep breaths? We do this when I can’t calm down. Why is mom not calm about playtime? Is she angry?
I just want to show her how to move the puppets.
There are many things I assumed parenthood would include, especially that my daughter might look like me. I see a lot of her father’s features in her bones but the facial expressions and wild hair are imprints of my own.
What I did not know before motherhood was that the mirror of parenthood was not primarily reflecting miniature versions of our physical selves. That all feels circumstantial.
The real reflection my daughter shows me is the inner child within myself; the girl who once bloomed with enthusiasm and creativity, who stubbornly wanted all things at once despite the limitations. That girl still lives within me, beaten down by life and cursed age; her poems and plays and endless collections of creative hobbies are packed tightly away in a chest labeled “Clutter.”
I will not say that parenting is healing me but that it spurs my desire to heal old wounds I had forgotten about. Sudden memories of children taunting me and adults chastising me blend with the memories of people who showed me love and encouragement.
It is a muddle of paint on my daughter’s paper that whips me into a school art room, where I am unable to do “free art” time because I have not been doing the project the “correct way.” Thou shall not express art unrestrained until thou follows the rules.
Or I hear my daughter suggest a puppet show and a spark lights up within me. “You know, mommy used to put on plays and puppet shows all the time! Let’s do it.”
Only to have her run to my floor stage behind the table to tell me what to do and I — this oversized child we call parent — huff over the perceived creative control.
I doubt her preschool mind would comprehend the shame and frustration that whirled inside of me. Another moment my deep wounds found their way out, and that creative curiosity I sparked is replaced with “mature” regulation.
Sometimes I don’t want to be the regulated one.
I don’t want to capsize the creative flow but that is what I was raised to do. Do not be too much. Do not try too many things. Do not step out of instruction or your creativity will not “succeed.”
Now I can’t play with my child. I am the veteran wearing a weathered storm coat facing a child colored in hot pink from head-to-toe. It’s not her responsibility to save me, but maybe she can show me how to be bright again by example.
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Please consider liking and sharing this post if it moved you in some way. All my love and appreciation,
Chanel.
