The first time I stepped away from full-time work as a public school teacher and began to learn about other ways of schooling, it was messy. I “flipped my lid” in anger often, and was full of shame about it afterwards. On one of the worst days in memory, I actually said aloud that the whole day felt like a waste. I later explained to Gwyn that this was an exaggeration, and not because of her. I explained that I was deeply disappointed about many things, but it looked much worse than it actually was. I explained a bit about how women’s hormonal journeys can cause us to see the world differently at times. I wanted her to know that there were just things neither of us could control. Our only choice lies in our healthy response–and sometimes even that requires supernatural aid. She immediately asked, “like turning turtle in the ‘Topsy Turvy’ song from Mary Poppins Returns?” I had to laugh. I think she was spot on, but see for yourself. As we rewatched the original Mary Poppins film, I also gained a deeper sympathy for Mr. Banks, whose all-consuming love of work nearly cost him relationship with his family. I had started parenthood intending to fulfill all the idealism of Jane and Michael as they drafted their advertisement for their ideal adult:
If you won’t scold and dominate us / we will never give you cause to hate us…
Yet, somehow, I woke up one day to realize I had instead become… Mr. Banks.
Many times since, while singing Psalm 51, I have had a good cry, which is reassuring. It came to me, shortly after my 35th birthday, that I was in the perfect crucible. Having no job description of working identity was excruciating to me, because I am always my own worst critic. I didn’t have to answer to a boss during this season. Instead, I got to face myself and my own high expectations. I couldn’t hear the truth often enough: that I am a Beloved and broken daughter of the King, even when I am doing nothing, and nothing “right.” So, I got to slow down and face that inner critic, illuminate the wounds that grace pours through with her, and begin to turn her into my greatest encourager.
One practical way this happened was to reflect on my relationship with my first and best encourager (and critic), my mother. The older I got, it seemed to me that she avoided mentorship, and sometimes judged what she was afraid of. I often saw her go it alone and prefer herself in the role of mentor to others, instead. Her strident inner critic became mine. To this day, I can sense her at my shoulder when something isn’t quite clean or good enough. The irony is, she was not obsessed about either of those things! It is simply that my mind hears all criticism from the Mom on my shoulder as valid. Apart from this projection I have of myself onto her, there were times when I saw she lacked deep friendship. I determined as a teen that I would approach both friends and mentors differently, and I did. It’s even possible that I overcorrected, seeking out so many mentors and friends that it wore me out! One thing is clear: as I began to separate my own inner critic from the voice of my mother, I began to sense her presence entering into my conversations with God. As a part of the great cloud of witnesses who have gone before us and finished their races, she reached out to me. I could sense her smiling, content to see me being mentored, tenacious in pursuing both friendship and mentorship, and at peace with her own mishaps and disappointments in that area. I felt her deep approval of the way I was learning to slow down, to grow in intimacy with Christ and others, to make decisions and to apprentice myself to others who could teach me what I wanted to learn, as much as what I needed to learn.
I also became aware of the painful loss of not being able to talk to her now about all of this new insight, or compare notes on my childhood and her own growth. Thinking about her complicated legacy reminded me that I had absolutely no control over how our children remember my parenting. The only thing I could attend to is the emotional integrity of each moment. Perhaps, like my mom, I was sometimes still operating in the illusion that if I controlled the “correctness” of the moment, behaviorally and intellectually, I could control others’ memories, beliefs and outcomes. As parents, we sometimes strike a chord that is emotionally false, to preserve that perceived correctness. We are each just doing our best, until we realize there is a better way.
As I continue to face my own work years later, I also uncover times of health in my mother that I simply did not remember before. Like the handwritten apology she wrote me for overreacting to my lack of room cleaning finesse. I can’t recall her doing that, ever, as I got older. Maybe it got harder for her. This makes me want to practice the art of apologies now, until it becomes second nature with our girls. “Good enough” parenting can admit when I was wrong. I don’t know if it is possible to overdo it. Once, I felt our oldest daughter Gwyn slipping away in the preparations for her joint birthday with little sister Lorraine. There were a lot of moving pieces, as the girls had planned it to include kayaking, a pool-noodle Derby race, and a dinosaur egg hunt. With their birthdays falling between Easter and Derby Day, this should have been simple, but it was not. I feared my impatience was beginning to show through in my tone of voice and word choice. I confessed my unkindness to her, and she said, “Well I didn’t think you were being mean, but I forgive you!” Like a lifeboat moored with provisions, lifejackets, and good paddles, these words were to me.