Your Turn By Megan Peterman

List, Schmist One Mom Breaks Her Own Rule

It’s pretty safe to say that one thing all of us parents have in common is “The List.” The List of things our parents did while raising us that we swore to ourselves we would not do when we became parents.
Now, I’m sure none of us has this list of infractions in writing anywhere. It’s stored in our minds. Some of us began composing this list early in life, before the thought of becoming a parent was even a blip on our radar screens, and some of us didn’t bother to mentally jot things down until we learned of our happy news.
Number one on my list is: “I will not cry in front of my kids.”
My mother was a crier. As an adult, I can’t say that I blame her; she had seven kids and her husband was Scottish, who, though loving and charming, somehow encompassed every cliché acted out on today’s sketch comedy shows.
Still though, as a child I worried about her when she would cry. I didn’t always know why, and sometimes I was afraid to approach her when she was in tears.
This is why I felt so rotten when I broke down in front of my four-year-old son, Sam.

It was just one of those darned days. A day when nothing specific happened to cause my heavy heart. It was all the little annoying worries that you know will work themselves out, but you still hold on to them, as if turning them over and over in your mind will mold them into something different, yet good
Obsessions about time, my job, my family, feelings of futility, mixed in with a little PMS, and I had myself a worry stew that I dutifully carried around with me all day, like a peasant girl balancing her market wares in a basket atop her head. I took great care not to let its contents spill over.
Were I a childless singleton, I might have ended this particular day with my girlfriends in a restaurant drinking wine, eating rich food and engaging in a whine fest that would end happily in laughter and good cheer. Or, I may have ended the day by 6:30 p.m., the covers over my head, listening to Joni Mitchell or Sara McLaughlin.
These days I don’t have time for such self-absorbed activities. I have a husband, a son, dinner to cook and bedtime stories to read.
My husband and I have an every-other-night rotation on reading and bath time duties. I’m very fortunate to have a 50/50 partner and why I didn’t ask him to take over my shift, I don’t know.

As I lay next to Sam, reading sing-song words about sleepy dinosaurs, my mind was still alive with my concerns. The anxiety in my chest persisted and moved up to my throat, causing my voice to shake. And then, before I could stop it, the tears spilled.
I kept reading and tried to stop the water. The tears kept right on coming.
Sam, being an ever-observant child, said, “Mommy, what’s coming out of your eye? It’s a tear! You all right, Mom?”
His sweetness made me want to cry even more. I tried to pull it together. I smiled and said with as much confidence as I could muster, “Yes, I’m fine. I just got something in my eye.” It didn’t work. The tears kept coming.
Sam’s voice took on a sense of urgency. “Mom! What’s wrong? Are you okay? Huh, Mom? Are you okay?”
I responded with honesty this time. “Yes, honey, I’m okay. I’m just a little bit sad right now, but I’m going to be okay.”
Sam brought the situation down to his level and decided to handle my crying as he might a playground dispute. “Well, please stop crying, okay, Mom? Okay? ’Cause it’s not nice.”
I knew exactly what he meant. It’s not that he thought I was being mean to him by crying, it’s just that he didn’t know how to process the feelings that came to him when he saw his mom cry. I was able to dry it up.

As I kept reading, a snapshot of a memory popped into my mind. I was about 5 years old, sitting at the dining room table of my mother’s best friend who lived across the street. She and my mother were talking.
I have no memory of what the conversation was about, but I do remember that my mother started crying. I immediately hopped down from my chair and went to her side. I felt nervous and scared. “Mom, don’t cry.” She looked at me and said “Honey, it’s okay, Marion is my best friend.”

I don’t think its okay that I cried in front of Sam that night. Now, I’ll concede that certain clearly definable situations can override my rule. For example, the death of a loved one—whether a friend, a family member or the dog—has defined cause-and-effect boundaries that a young child can understand.
I don’t want to raise a kid (especially a boy) who becomes robotic when someone starts to cry or show emotion. But I also don’t want to be the kind of mother whose elicited reactions might be the same if the dog is hit by a car or the air conditioner breaks.
As parents, we often think about and talk about how much we love our children; all lists aside, we know how much our parents loved us. Seldom do we consider how this love is reciprocated. It’s the most pure, bold and excited love in the world. I know first-hand that this love translates into forgiveness.
What I learned in the days after breaking my number one rule is that the best thing I can do for Sam is forgive myself and move on.
I’m sure there will be more rules broken, like, “I will not make my kids try at least one bite of everything on their plates.” Wait—maybe that’s not such a bad thing. I probably need to go back and edit My List.

Megan Peterman lives in Richmond. Since writing this essay she’s learned that quitting your job can do amazing things to alleviate your worry load.

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