What Price Freedom?
Shorty's report card came today, and I'll just say it was more than disappointing. For the most part, his grades were unchanged (so much for better schools leading to better grades). His grade in math dropped from a C- to a D (not a surprise given last week's episode). Not entirely surprisingly, his grade in reading (his best core subject) dropped from an A- to a B. I was livid, but I managed to just feel itchy (since my rash hasn't gone away) instead of exploding. I asked him what happened and he said, "I just didn't want to do more work." To keep from killing him, I did the unthinkable and went to the store.
I bought a pack of clove cigarettes (and the olive oil I needed to cook dinner), all the while turning into an amalgam of all that I hated in my parents. I exploded as he read his report card to me, cornered him into explaining why he wasn't on the honor roll, compared him to his NHS cousin (my 15 year old middle child nephew of my older sister who's been doing everything right to get positive attention from his parents), and finally closed with the mandatory "parent of a pre-teen" lecture. I caught myself saying most of the same things my parents said to me when I wouldn't "get it" and stopped. If it didn't work for my parents, why would it work for me? I decided to break away from crazy (doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result) and try something my parents hadn't tried with me.
"What do you want from me that you're not getting?" I asked him. "I don't know!" he sheepishly replied. "Seriously Shorty, what is it you need from me that you're not getting? Obviously me changing my entire life, giving up every friend I had in LA to get you in better schools and foregoing warm weather and comfort isn't enough! What is it you want from me that you're not getting? Is it attention?" I asked, thinking I hadn't been spending enough time with him while trying to secure myself in my new position. "Sometimes," he whined. "This isn't going to work if you don't tell me the truth," I said flatly. "I've changed everything I know how to change and you're still doing everything you did before we moved. I've given you everything I have to give. What else do you want?" I inquired. "I don't know!" he tearfully replied.
"Something needs to change, and only you know what it is. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine, go outside, and smoke a cigarette. That usually takes me about 10 minutes. While I'm out there [in single digit degree January IA weather, I might add] , I want you to think about what it is that you've been feeling that you haven't said to me. Whatever it is, ugly, scary, sad, whatever, I want you to tell me the truth when I come in. Just know that whatever you have to say, whatever you've been feeling, I want to hear it. No matter how bad it is, now matter how much you think it might hurt me, no matter how ugly it is...I won't get angry and I won't yell at you. Otherwise, this isn't going to work." I then proceeded to pour myself a glass of wine and went outside to smoke a clove cigarette. All the while I was thinking he'd tell me what I'd been telling myself: "You drink too much, I hate that you smoke, and why can't you love yourself?!" I finished half of the cigarette (I never have been one for smoking a whole one, never mind inhaling) and braced myself for what my 11 year old had to say.
I walked into the kitchen and asked him, "So what do you have to say?"
"I feel like I'm living in a prison sometimes," he tearfully said. "Why?" I calmly asked. "Because, I don't feel like I have any freedom," he confessed. "What freedoms do you wish you had that you don't feel you have?" I squarely asked. "I can't stay up as late as I want and I can't watch as much t.v. as I want and I can't play video games as much as I want and you tell me what to eat," he honestly said. "What else? What other freedom do you wish you had?" I quietly asked. "I'd like to have more choices in books," he plainly said.
I then looked Shorty straight in his green eyes and said, "You and I are more alike than you think. When I was your age," I started, and then wandered off into the parent lecture finally telling him the old, "I felt the same way when I was your age. I'm a free spirit, so I understand about wanting freedom. I afford you a lot more freedom than my parents gave me when I was your age!" I then listed all the ways I give him choices I didn't have when I was growing up. "You feel like you're living in a prison because I put restrictions on the things you like to do! I only do that because I love you," I said as I could feel the mother angels in heaven pinning me with my mother of a pre-teen badge.
"If I didn't love you, I wouldn't bother!" Was that a gold star for "mothers of a pre-teen" I felt being pinned to my chest?! "You feel like you live in a prison, well you don't. You're free to leave at any time. You just tell me you're ready to go and I'll help you pack your bags and take you any where you want to go...but as long as you live in my house, you'll live by my rules," I said with a loving, but free-spirited mother tone.
I then proceeded to negotiate with my 11 and 3/4 year old son (oh God, he is a tween!). I told him that once he'd finished doing his time for lying to me, he was free to stay up as late as he wants on weekends, watch as much t.v. as he wants on weekends, and play video games as muc as he wants on weekends...but only if his grades came up. The look on his face was one of hope. "So, if after the next week is up, if I pull my grades up I can stay up as late as I want on the weekends?" he inquired, unsure of what I was offering him. "Yes," I firmly replied, "but only if you're grades improve. And don't think I'm not going to know if they don't since I get a weekly email progress report from your teachers." "So, the weekend means Friday and Saturday night?" he asked for clarification. "Yes," I said. "On any non-school night you'll be able to stay up as late as you want if you pull your grades up in the next two weeks." He smiled and trotted off to complete his chores & get ready for bed.
I sighed as I finished my glass of wine thinking to myself, "Here I thought he'd want more money for his grades when all he wanted was more freedom!" I could understand his desire to differentiate himself from me and his father. I could understand him wanting to set his own limits. Hell, I'm still searching for my own limits! I've decided to give him a reasonable amount of space to find his own fence which is (I think) diametrically the opposite of what my parents did with me (hold her close so she'll never get hurt). I just keep coming back to one question: "What price freedom?" How much is it going to cost him to find out where his limits are? I already know the answer to the antithesis: "What price excessive restriction?" If my parents had known the answer to the latter, they might have done a few things differently. Not necessarily right, but differently, and Shorty wouldn't be here as he is today.
I bought a pack of clove cigarettes (and the olive oil I needed to cook dinner), all the while turning into an amalgam of all that I hated in my parents. I exploded as he read his report card to me, cornered him into explaining why he wasn't on the honor roll, compared him to his NHS cousin (my 15 year old middle child nephew of my older sister who's been doing everything right to get positive attention from his parents), and finally closed with the mandatory "parent of a pre-teen" lecture. I caught myself saying most of the same things my parents said to me when I wouldn't "get it" and stopped. If it didn't work for my parents, why would it work for me? I decided to break away from crazy (doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different result) and try something my parents hadn't tried with me.
"What do you want from me that you're not getting?" I asked him. "I don't know!" he sheepishly replied. "Seriously Shorty, what is it you need from me that you're not getting? Obviously me changing my entire life, giving up every friend I had in LA to get you in better schools and foregoing warm weather and comfort isn't enough! What is it you want from me that you're not getting? Is it attention?" I asked, thinking I hadn't been spending enough time with him while trying to secure myself in my new position. "Sometimes," he whined. "This isn't going to work if you don't tell me the truth," I said flatly. "I've changed everything I know how to change and you're still doing everything you did before we moved. I've given you everything I have to give. What else do you want?" I inquired. "I don't know!" he tearfully replied.
"Something needs to change, and only you know what it is. So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to pour myself a glass of wine, go outside, and smoke a cigarette. That usually takes me about 10 minutes. While I'm out there [in single digit degree January IA weather, I might add] , I want you to think about what it is that you've been feeling that you haven't said to me. Whatever it is, ugly, scary, sad, whatever, I want you to tell me the truth when I come in. Just know that whatever you have to say, whatever you've been feeling, I want to hear it. No matter how bad it is, now matter how much you think it might hurt me, no matter how ugly it is...I won't get angry and I won't yell at you. Otherwise, this isn't going to work." I then proceeded to pour myself a glass of wine and went outside to smoke a clove cigarette. All the while I was thinking he'd tell me what I'd been telling myself: "You drink too much, I hate that you smoke, and why can't you love yourself?!" I finished half of the cigarette (I never have been one for smoking a whole one, never mind inhaling) and braced myself for what my 11 year old had to say.
I walked into the kitchen and asked him, "So what do you have to say?"
"I feel like I'm living in a prison sometimes," he tearfully said. "Why?" I calmly asked. "Because, I don't feel like I have any freedom," he confessed. "What freedoms do you wish you had that you don't feel you have?" I squarely asked. "I can't stay up as late as I want and I can't watch as much t.v. as I want and I can't play video games as much as I want and you tell me what to eat," he honestly said. "What else? What other freedom do you wish you had?" I quietly asked. "I'd like to have more choices in books," he plainly said.
I then looked Shorty straight in his green eyes and said, "You and I are more alike than you think. When I was your age," I started, and then wandered off into the parent lecture finally telling him the old, "I felt the same way when I was your age. I'm a free spirit, so I understand about wanting freedom. I afford you a lot more freedom than my parents gave me when I was your age!" I then listed all the ways I give him choices I didn't have when I was growing up. "You feel like you're living in a prison because I put restrictions on the things you like to do! I only do that because I love you," I said as I could feel the mother angels in heaven pinning me with my mother of a pre-teen badge.
"If I didn't love you, I wouldn't bother!" Was that a gold star for "mothers of a pre-teen" I felt being pinned to my chest?! "You feel like you live in a prison, well you don't. You're free to leave at any time. You just tell me you're ready to go and I'll help you pack your bags and take you any where you want to go...but as long as you live in my house, you'll live by my rules," I said with a loving, but free-spirited mother tone.
I then proceeded to negotiate with my 11 and 3/4 year old son (oh God, he is a tween!). I told him that once he'd finished doing his time for lying to me, he was free to stay up as late as he wants on weekends, watch as much t.v. as he wants on weekends, and play video games as muc as he wants on weekends...but only if his grades came up. The look on his face was one of hope. "So, if after the next week is up, if I pull my grades up I can stay up as late as I want on the weekends?" he inquired, unsure of what I was offering him. "Yes," I firmly replied, "but only if you're grades improve. And don't think I'm not going to know if they don't since I get a weekly email progress report from your teachers." "So, the weekend means Friday and Saturday night?" he asked for clarification. "Yes," I said. "On any non-school night you'll be able to stay up as late as you want if you pull your grades up in the next two weeks." He smiled and trotted off to complete his chores & get ready for bed.
I sighed as I finished my glass of wine thinking to myself, "Here I thought he'd want more money for his grades when all he wanted was more freedom!" I could understand his desire to differentiate himself from me and his father. I could understand him wanting to set his own limits. Hell, I'm still searching for my own limits! I've decided to give him a reasonable amount of space to find his own fence which is (I think) diametrically the opposite of what my parents did with me (hold her close so she'll never get hurt). I just keep coming back to one question: "What price freedom?" How much is it going to cost him to find out where his limits are? I already know the answer to the antithesis: "What price excessive restriction?" If my parents had known the answer to the latter, they might have done a few things differently. Not necessarily right, but differently, and Shorty wouldn't be here as he is today.
posted by N'j at 8:50 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home