Counselor's Corner 20.05.2022 Update

There is no harder job than being a parent. We worry about our little ones (and our not so little) ones. 

We worry that someone will say something unkind to them or that they will feel left out or excluded.We worry that they won’t find a true friend that they can be themselves with. We worry that their feelings will get hurt. We worry that we aren’t doing things right. So, it was refreshing to read this article on 12 mothers who each wrote about one thing that they feel they ARE doing right. After reading the article I wanted to share with all of you some of the stories that impacted me the most. I think each one of us as a parent is doing at least one thing right and we need to give ourselves credit for that.

12 Moms on Their Secret Strengths

By The New York Times; Janet Mac

Moms spend a lot of time cataloging their failures. Below are some stories of mothers that focus on something they feel they are doing right.

Giving My Children Confidence

By Priyanka Mattoo

My mother is a small person with a tall personality, which she owes to her near-delusional confidence. It would be properly delusional if she didn’t spectacularly live up to it. She’s so charming, her brain so zippy, that even in a high school snit, furious and scribbling down a list of her flaws, I still revered her. I knew that if we were not related, and I met her at some kind of imaginary teen/mom party, I’d want to be her friend.

Fortunately, she replicated her confidence in me. We moved too many times to count; I entered too many rooms full of hostile children. But the force field she built around me — her firm pep talks, when she told my brother and me that we had more to offer than any other kids in the world — was the protection I needed to navigate them.

I’m the first to point out there is no basis for my confidence. I haven’t cured any diseases or won a single award. But Mum was always careful to repeat that liking myself wasn’t about what I’d done, it was about who I was: a good, reliable, curious person, even if a little strange. Strange is interesting, she said. And who wanted to be boring?

Now I look my own two children in the eye every day and repeat it all. I loudly marvel at my luck: The greatest kids in the world ended up in my house! What are the chances? My son rolls his eyes, and because I am as relentless as my mother, I say, “But I’m right.”

Knowing that women need even more padding, I double down with our toddler daughter. “You must be so proud!” I say now, instead of “I’m so proud of you,” This refrain follows her around as she sits on the potty, pours water from a glass into a smaller glass, and eats yogurt without getting it in her hair. I wonder if any of it gets through. But then she tears down the hall screaming, apropos of absolutely nothing, “I’M THE BEST BABY IN THE WORLD!!!!”

I try to high five myself, but even delusional confidence has its bounds. That is simply not possible. So I clap.

Feigning Interest in Minecraft

By Kate Baer

My kids love Minecraft. They live for Minecraft. If they were given a choice between one million dollars and five more minutes playing Minecraft, they would choose the one that does not assist me with their orthodontist bills. And as much as it pains me to admit it, they’ve had plenty of time to get better at it during the pandemic while they’ve run wild and their bewildered parents have had to work from home.

This means that when we are together, the conversation often turns to what is happening in their respective worlds — the place where they build shelters, craft tools, and try to “survive.” My son, for example, might tell me that earlier he used “redstone dust” to make armor to defend against “the creepers.” Or my daughter may recall that she spent the afternoon building a “safe room” in her mansion basement to protect her pet ocelot from wolves.

Now, I don’t know what redstone dust is or why my 7-year-old is using her wild and precious life to protect a pixelated cat, but this is when my superpower shines. I smile! I nod! I force my face into the same arrangement I use to discuss sports or my neighbor’s new kitchen backsplash. Wow! I say. Fascinating.

Wrestling As a Family

By Mira Ptacin

You’d think that, a year into the pandemic, my family and I didn’t need to be any closer. In a home with one bathroom, four humans, two dogs and a bunny all smooshed into less than 1,000 square feet, physical distance away from one another would be what we craved most of all. But rather, each night, before we all roll up the stairs and plop into our beds, we get even closer, bodies twisted into conjoining pretzels, cradles, half nelsons, single leg takedowns and double arm bars.

Which is to say, we wrestle. Each person gets in their corner on our rubber play mat, and there is a countdown: 5-4-3-2-1. The goal: Pin someone down for three seconds, and if you get pinned, you have to sit out and count to 30. (This is how my youngest learned to count to 30.)

As a pacifist, I never thought this would be my jam or something I’d encourage my kids to do (“Give him the half nelson!”) but there are so many benefits to wrestling: each person moving their body in tactical ways, the kids teaming up together and learning how to really defend themselves. When we wrestle, we vent our frustrations and get out our yayas, and more than anything, we laugh together, rather than everyone staring at a screen in different zones of our home.

Wrestling dissolves any taboos about physicality among the family, but also it teaches rules and boundaries and consent. It is a healthy way to channel aggression. Our little pandemic pastime also shows my family that I, their mother, am not just a woman in an apron or hunched over a computer all day. I’m also physically strong and playful, and at times I cannot be beat.

Keeping Calm in a Crisis

By Jancee Dunn

Since I’ve  become a parent, I’ve developed an almost eerie ability to conceal panic. If, say, my daughter, Sylvie, rushes toward me with blood jetting from her finger, I immediately go reptile-still. Internally, I’m screaming, but in a pleasantly businesslike tone, I’ll say: “Huh, look at that. Why don’t we head to urgent care? They have good lollipops, if I remember right.”

Panic is contagious, especially with kids. So I’ve honed my acting skills — perhaps drawing on my experience of coolly lying to my parents as a teen — and can somehow redirect the energy from my spiraling fear into a flawless performance.

When a boy broke his arm on the playground and I saw its unnatural bent as we awaited paramedics, I began to feel woozy. I could sense Sylvie eyeing me uneasily, so I quickly sat on a park bench, set my bag on the ground and put my head between my legs as I pretended to rummage through it. “Now, where did I put my keys?” I said blandly, while surreptitiously taking deep gulps of air.

Our cat once brought a large, struggling mouse into Sylvie’s bedroom as she woke from a nap. “You had a good sleep, honey,” I said evenly, while blocking the view of my husband as he wrestled the cat and its prize out of the room.

While I’m feigning “I’ve got this,” I always think about how I’m a nervous flyer. If the airplane hits turbulence, I carefully watch the flight attendants as they take a seat. If they’re idly leafing through Us magazine as the plane shakes and dips, I relax, too.

Similarly, Sylvie trusts what she sees, so when she’s fearful I tell her: “Do you see me freaking out? No. Then you shouldn’t, either.” Although one day she’ll hug me, feel my hammering heart, and the show will be over.