Previously, my monthly newsletter had a section called "Your Monthly Baby" where I showcased a picture of my growing son. Now that he is not a baby, I write something about parenting instead, which I am posting retroactively here now. Subscribe to receive next month's essay along with book and music recommendations.
Three is a complicated age. I was already bracing for it—every parent I know seems to be haunted by their time in the proverbial trenches—but I was also bracing for the "terrible twos" and comparatively those weren't so terrible (for anyone just joining: I had a VERY difficult infant who is still a horrific sleeper), so it was hard to know what to expect going in. I do, after all, want my son to achieve full sentience and personhood, and that comes with the pitfalls of honoring his bad opinions when he wants to wear his ice cream pajamas to school again.
The whole "threenager" thing is definitely applicable; hard to explain what's different between the ages of two and three except to say that one is about tantrums and the other is an overall anarchical vibe. He is a lot more social now, much more interested in other people, which is lovely to see. But he also will only do things on his timeline, per his specific desires. My efficiency and happiness relies almost solely on his benevolence in any particular moment, and I skate precariously at all times on the razor-like possibility that when it comes to threats, he will likely call my bluff.
I was always pretty nervous about the possibility I'd irreconcilably fuck up my kid. I mean, I've often said that I wrote THE ATLAS SIX because I felt I was making an unethical choice to have a child in the first place and needed to write my way through it. And that's definitely in the zeitgeist—aren't all the articles these days about parental anxiety? I read something recently about how the concept of "family culture" has stepped in where religious faith or cultural tradition used to be, and that's definitely how I feel—I have an image in my head of what kind of parent I'd like to be and the atmosphere I'd like to curate inside my own home, which is shaped by my priorities and whims rather than tradition for tradition's sake. But that means I worry a lot about doing everything right. I think it goes without saying that I'm trying to get an A in parenting, and that means thinking constantly about designing the exact right consequence, having the exact right reaction, and above all, not making any mistakes that will eternally traumatize my kid, or otherwise shaping the adult he turns out to be around my own personal failings.
Losing my temper sucks because 1) I know it's not accomplishing anything for anyone, and 2) I can see my parental GPA suffering. I guess I'm kind of a mantra person, because I often have to fall back on something my therapist told me: that when it comes to relationships with other people, especially with your children, "it's not in the rupture, but in the repair." Meaning, it's not about what you do wrong—you'll do things wrong; you're only human—but trauma doesn't necessarilycome from error. It comes from repeated error, and more significantly, a refusal to apologize, make amends, or change.
My best friend has a similar, perhaps more simplified mantra when it comes to relationships: "Sometimes, loving someone means letting them be shitty." Meaning yeah, occasionally people have their stuff and act in a way that's dumb or insensitive or hurtful, but relationships are living things, and forgiveness is something we can do for each other just as much as we can try to avoid and mitigate harm. Which means that when I snap and yell, I can apologize for my shittiness and do better, and hopefully not ask forgiveness too often. But I can still ask for it, and be worthy of it. And that isn't ruining my son—it's teaching him something I'm still trying to learn.
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