I used to say too much, too soon. She’s like me, my first-born and only daughter. She vomits her thoughts and worries out on the people who love her most, and then takes the time to sift through the carnage and decides all is not the gloom and doom she first imagined. I want to clean up the mess, of course, and help my child navigate through adolescence, and now young adulthood.
I said too much. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. Despite my clinician training (listen, listen, listen), I couldn’t just listen. I had to give my two cents, my words of wisdom. I’m the parent, after all. Don’t I know better?
It never ended well. I tried to fix things that weren’t even things to be fixed yet. It took me too long, longer than I’d like to admit, to figure out that letting her vent and moan and complain and worry was what she needed. Then she’d figure things out on her own, and I didn’t have to play the role of mean mom or mom-who-just-doesn’t-understand.
He uses fewer words than his older sister, but they’re in his head, swirling around. I say most of what I think, so it’s tough to parent this kid. He doesn’t need to talk as much as I do, as she does. He’s like his father in that way, and it’s taken the two of us decades to figure out how to communicate in a way that satisfies us both.
I ask too many questions of my son, I repeat things, I bug him. I ask questions because I am interested in his life, I repeat things because he doesn’t always acknowledge he heard me, and I bug him because I am his mother. I can almost see the eye roll as soon as my mouth opens, before I even utter a sound.
I wonder what it will be like when he goes to college in the fall. She and I talk a few times a week, and we send Snapchats daily. Will he even pick up the phone? His texts are usually one or two words, and his rare Snapchats are of the top of his head or the toe of his shoe. Will he discover he misses talking to his annoying mother? As I remind him occasionally, I do actually know things, and he may benefit from that knowledge.
I don’t consider myself a big talker, but clearly I speak too much where my kids are concerned. Less is more, I’ve learned. Although sometimes I just can’t win. “Aren’t you going to say something?” I’ve been asked, when anything I say would be wrong. Most times, though, I can nod and sympathize, or murmur something unintelligible and therefore inoffensive.
I used to say too much, and much of what I said was the wrong thing to say. I’m learning to hold my tongue, and I’m getting the hang of this parenting thing, two decades in.
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