My 2022 Resolution:Parent My Kids the Way I Want to, Not How My Parents Think I Should

In response to Coffee Challenge: Why I want to be a better me in 2022

I was staring at myself in our hotel room bathroom mirror, asking myself how the hell I could do that.

I had slammed the door and put myself in a time-out to get away from my kids to stop myself from yelling more damaging things to them.

We were on vacation together, just the three of us, like we used to do before I got remarried and introduced a stepdad and stepsiblings into their lives 3 years ago. It was truly the best vacation ever to Florida.

We bonded. We laughed. We explored.

And then I lost my mind.

My 11-year-old son is the miniature version of me. We are wired the same way, so we fight the same way. We obsess over details and won’t stop until one of us walks away.

It was time to go home and I had told him several times to pack up his things. He was tired and complaining. Every last thing I asked of him, he would whine about.

The trip was expensive, and after all I had done for them that week, the least he could do would to be not complain that I asked for him to pack his things.

That part I agree with, but the part I don’t agree with was how I lost my temper and started screaming. He had pushed me earlier in the day by complaining about something else, so I was already on the edge.

I was raised in a household where saying, “I love you” was seen as coddling and spoiling your kids. We were yelled at a lot, and I certainly feared my parents.

I know they loved us, but they never seemed to appreciate us or be happy that we were there. As an adult looking back, I can understand they were products of their parents.

But now it’s my turn to hit the pause button and ask myself, “Do I really want to keep this sort of parenting going?”

The answer is a hard and fast NO.

I’ve worked hard to shed the skin I was born in. The skin that tells me hitting, yelling, and instilling fear is the only way to parent.

I talk openly with my kids and laugh endlessly with them. I cherish them and remind them daily how much I love them and I’ve got their backs. I also make them do their own laundry and have daily talks about the importance of being kind and looking outward, so I know I’m not spoiling them.

Most days I am proud of the progress I’ve made to be the parent I craved myself when I was a child.

But some days I slip back into my old skin and the habits that I fight so hard to leave behind. When you witness behavior for nearly 20 years, it becomes engrained in your spirit, and it takes work to train your mind that it’s okay to reject that way and forge a new path.

I have been doing the work.

Sometimes I fail at the work, and my upbringing reappears, reminding me the work is never done.

The words, “You are the worst child ever!” came spewing out of my mouth like venom. As they were coming out I felt in slow motion the desire to breathe them back in before he could hear them.

But he heard them.

He was being so rude and disrespectful to me that I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to stop him in his tracks and remind him I am to be feared, even though I truly don’t want that sort of forced relationship.

In moments like this, it’s as though my parents are sitting on each of my shoulders, telling me, “See? He talks back because you don’t hit and yell. You are failing. Take control!”

And I snap because I start to believe I am failing.

He looked me in the eye, tried to say something, and then ran to a corner and began to cry.

We all packed our suitcases in silence, sniffles the only sound from both of us.

Later that day in the car, I turned around to face him. I started to cry again. I said, “Look, I was super upset up there. I really needed your help, and you refused. But what I said was unacceptable and so far from the truth.”

I am very open with my kids with my struggle to separate myself from the temper of my parents that bubbles below the surface. I tell them it nudges its way back into my mind at times, and I am going to continue to do whatever it takes to make sure they don’t take it to their future kids.

They get it. They see me being imperfect and vulnerable enough to ask for forgiveness without excusing my behavior. They see a side of me I want them to see: an adult who doesn’t have all the answers but wants to do better.

They don’t see a dictator with no emotions.

My parents have openly criticized the way I raise my kids. They say kids need “a good crack on the ass” to be set straight. That’s how I was raised, and I was too scared to be anything more than quiet and numb. Sure, I never misbehaved, but I never showed them my heart.

I want to see my kids’ hearts. I want to hear their laughter. I want them to misbehave to show me they trust me enough to be themselves around me.

I will continue to discipline them in ways like taking away privileges instead of lacerating their confidence by yelling. If I yell, I am telling them this is how adults handle problems, so they’ll do the same one day.

Since that day in Florida a month ago, I’ve noticed a shift in me. I told myself no matter what, I will not yell like that again. I will breathe. I will pause. I will walk away.

And I’ve done it. But I know the work starts over each day because I can cloak myself back in the old skin so easily if I’m tired, stressed, or scared.

My son has misbehaved several times since then, and I haven’t lost it. The other night when I was tucking him in, he quietly said, “I’ve noticed you’ve been different since you yelled at me in Florida. You seem nicer.”

I tried to talk but couldn’t. I finally whispered, “I’m glad you’ve noticed. I prayed that I can be different, and I want to be. I’m sorry that I yelled like that. My parents yelled like that, and I never want to do that to you.”

Going into 2022, I want to stay with this work-filled journey I’m on. It’s an odd journey that requires me to step away from my parents whom I love a lot and admit how they chose to go about parenting is the exact opposite of how I will be conducting business.

It requires me to have the confidence to know raising kids who don’t fear me might mean more work in understanding them and talking to them instead of yelling and hitting to silence them.

Committing to stay on this journey to something better is work I’m proud to do. It means I’m continuing to break a cycle that sometimes has its grips on me until I look it in the eye, grit my teeth and snarl from the depths of my mama-bear soul, “No more.”