Pushing Too Hard
By
Celeste Palermo, copyright 2004
We are on our way to the zoo. I am pregnant and looking forward to some quality time with Peyton before her little sister arrives. We cruise down the highway, singing together, when I get the brilliant idea to use this time to work on numbers. I know Peyton can count to ten with ease, but struggles to make it to twenty. I can help her! We can be productive! What a great idea!
“Pey, let’s count to twenty.”
“OK,” she chirps from the backseat. “One, two, three, four, five…” She rattles off the numbers through thirteen in perfect succession. Then she stops.
“Fourteen…” I coax.
“Oh yeah, fourteen, fiveteen,”
“Not fiveteen, fifteen.”
“Fifteen,” she repeats, then finishes sixteen to twenty.
“Good,” I say. “Now try without my help.”
Again, she gets hung up. “Fourteen,” I say.
“Fourteen,” she repeats. “Fiveteen.”
I correct her. “Start again. You need to remember what I say.” She starts over, this time counting slowly, hesitant. She stops at twelve. “Peyton, you know this. Start over.” She starts again and forgets number seven. I am irritated. “Peyton! You have done this a million times. Let’s get it right.”
“I don’t want to do this, Mom.”
“Well, you need to know how to count to twenty. If you can’t count to twenty before we get to the zoo, we are not going.”
“No, Mom. I want to go to the zoo. Please, can we do this later?”
“No. Count to twenty or we can’t go.”
The pressure is on. Peyton buckles under my expectation, becoming unsure, hesitant, forgetful. She struggles with numbers one to ten, which she has known for years. As she stumbles, I become more angry and irritated.
“I have a headache, Mom, can I please stop?” she pleads.
“No.” I say. “We may as well go home if you can’t get it right.”
Peyton bursts into heavy sobs. I look at my small daughter in the rearview mirror. I know I am not facilitating learning, that I am completely in the wrong, but I do not stop. I pull off the highway and turn around.
“Are we going home?” she cries.
“Yep,” I snap. “We can go to the zoo when you can count to twenty.”
Peyton’s tears spill in heavy drops. She starts to count again, her voice shaky, a sob between each number. Finally, I break. I pull into a parking lot, bow my head on the steering wheel, and pray. I ask for forgiveness. I ask for a softer heart. But the damage is done. It shames me to tell this; the memory overwhelms me with sadness. It feels like the Titanic has sunk in my chest. This is one of my worst days as a parent.
Perfectionism is not a good parenting partner. While most of the time I am careful to encourage Peyton, nurture her, and let her creativity blossom, I have times when I plant seeds of “that’s not good enough” in her garden. I set the bar too high, expect too much, and get too easily frustrated when she fails to meet impossible standards. I hound her to listen, pick up her toys, and have better manners. Quite honestly, I expect her to perform on my level, often forgetting how young she really is.
For me, the line blurs between discipline and perfectionism. While I want Peyton to be smart, respectful, and well-behaved, sometimes I push too hard. In my zeal to raise a good child, I have communicated an unattainable standard. Now, at the tender age of five, Peyton is a budding perfectionist herself. I already see a critical eye, mirroring my own.
“I hate myself,” she once commented when a sudden bloody nose dripped on a new white dress. Hesitation manifests when she tries something new, especially around me. Usually bubbly and outspoken, she is shy outside her comfort zone.
True to my “Type A” personality, I set goals each year: to be a better mom; to be more gentle, kind, and forgiving; to have more fun, and let my daughter be a child. I’ve bought audio books, taken a parenting class, and resolved to change. Yet, it is only God who can really change my heart.
“Please God, forgive me and teach me your ways. Let me love with the unconditional love you show me. Make me softer, kinder. Help me be the mother you know I can be.”
We do go on to the zoo. I apologize to Peyton and turn the car around. We eat cotton candy and ogle snakes and polar bears. We talk and laugh. On the way home, we stop for some workbooks and a huge box of crayons, to help her learn numbers in a much better fashion. When we get home, she flops on the floor, eager to dive in.
As I learn to let go, I enjoy life, and parenting, much more: dirty clothes and a messy room mean my girls have been playing, exploring the world; a messy face is evidence of a novice tongue unable to lick a mountain of ice cream before it melts. I am learning to see beauty in disorder, to not judge my daughters, or myself, by some ridiculous standard, and recognize kids are forgetful and accidents happen. If dealt with in a loving manner, even these instances can foster learning and love.
In my darkest moments, I sometimes wonder if I am cut out to be a mother and how much therapy my kids may need as adults. I feel inadequate, out of control, angry, even mean. Then a soft inner voice reminds me God can redeem and mend any damage done. It reassures me I have a lot to give, and as a work in progress, I have even more to learn in this all-important role of mom.
While I have days when my ugly obsessions surface, I see a difference. Peyton’s self-confidence is flourishing, her self-esteem on the mend. Morgan, now part of the team, is reaping the benefits. I hope as they get older, I will be more discerning with discipline, communicating love unconditionally, giving both girls a positive environment in which to grow and experience God’s love in abundance.
