Parenting been challenging lately. That is not to say that things have been crappy because they really haven't but there are just some weeks that Dallas and I vacillate between the desire to choke the shit out of our kids and the instinct to protect them from the harsher bits of life.
For instance, the man-child has really struggled with the concept of personal accountability recently. He dips his toe into the adult pond, deems it inhospitable and retreats back to the comfort of cartoons, limited responsibility and his mantra, "It's not my fault". It is incredibly difficult to remain on the sidelines and watch him make his mistakes. We know that he'll right himself eventually but as he stumbles from one life lesson to another, having a front row seat is a lot like sitting ringside at a boxing match and witnessing your boy take a few hard knocks. You can't help but wince and hope that it will be all over soon.
Lately, I think Dylan has succumbed to the great hormone monster. All of the signs are there: wild mood swings, extra long showers and armpit hair. And while it's all perfectly normal, the onset of his adolescence has me eyeballing the Vicodin left over from my surgery last year. I've always been an avid supporter of the Labrador Retriever method of parenting. You know, dig a big hole and bury your children at the first sign of hormonal havoc and then unearth them years later when they've turned twenty three, graduated from university and become civilized again. I have a photo of Dylan that sits in my office. He is about two, sitting on an old couch in his footed jammies. His hair is wild and his smile is huge. I want to crawl into that picture and give that boy just one more hug because I'm really not ready to let him go.
Being Olivia's mother reminds me on a constant basis that what goes around comes around. She is equal parts sugar and vinegar. On good days, I walk into her room after she is asleep and feel like my heart is full to bursting as I watch her delicate little chest rise and fall. Other days, I walk into her room after she is asleep and feel like my heart is going to blow into smithereens with anxiety because she didn't come with a manual and I'm quite positive I'm failing her. And while Dylan is complex, like a set of blueprints, Olivia is baffling, like quantum physics. She is the roller coaster that takes you to the very edge, hundreds of feet in the air, in the pitch black, only to jerk you back at the last possible minute with a scream trapped in your throat. Upon reflection, you are able to laugh but your legs still shake for the rest of the day. It is safe to say that I DREAD her adolescence and wish I had been a better behaved teenager because that karmic boomerang is a bitch.
On a more positive note, teenage daughter and I have managed to carefully pick our way through the minefield that is a stepmum/stepdaughter relationship (although I despise the whole label of "step" because it seems to connote something less valid) and we have landed in this place of respect and tentative affection. I am surprised to find myself emotionally invested in her. I wouldn't say that we are BFF close and the current state is most definitely fragile but there is measurable progress. In the last month, she has taken control of her sexual health, studied for her learner's permit, embraced her domestic chores without complaint and seriously hunted for a job. This week, she expressed the desire to bake and as we walked through the recipe together, she was clearly eager to learn and even more pleased when she churned out some kick ass cookies. These things might not appear to be a big deal to some but for Dallas and me, it is like watching a flower bloom. Believe me, we are under no illusions as to how long the peace will last. Rather, we are just trying to recognize, savour and be grateful for each new brick that is laid on her path to independence.
So yeah, kids can make you feel as dumb as a box of rocks. I know that I will screw my children up in some way. I mean, every parent does, right? We are imperfect souls. I think our job is kind of like the medical principle, "Primum non nocere" though, in that first we must try to do no harm.
And when we do, we ought to at least spring for the psychotherapy.
