Why my kids use napkins, cry over ripped jeans, and do the chores because I said so (shh! don’t remind them I served ice cream for breakfast last Saturday)

I have two separate text documents on my computer filled with attempts at explaining my reaction to Jen’s post from yesterday. It’s important for me to respond to her even though I’ve been having some trouble finding all the words. She has spun a stimulating thread here. I have read and reread the insightful comments from our dedicated readers, and it is obvious that her words have inspired a wealth of thoughts and emotions about our roles as parents. How we foster independence in our children. How much or little we intervene with their choices. How accepting we are of their failures and flaws.

But I need to respond. To how these truths she has exposed relate to my own concepts of parenting and the control I have or don’t have, want or don’t want, over my own three children. I have to admit that I was caught up in the last few lines and, quite specifically, the word “behaviors.”

As a mother, it is not my job to control my children’s behaviors and choices. It’s my job to steer them in safe directions and let them make their own choices. And on the way to encourage them to take the paths that will make them realize their true worth. To themselves, to each other and to their peers.

After first reading this paragraph I laid in bed with my phone in hand pausing on its complexity. Was Jen saying that she doesn’t take responsibility for the behaviors and choices of her children? That there is only so much she can do and she is comfortable leaving the rest up to them? To figure it out? To know when they’ve made poor choices? To know when their behavior is unacceptable? To right their own wrongs?

I just couldn’t absorb it all in the moment. And I told Jen as such when my phone buzzed with an Instant Message.

“Reading?” she asked.

“Just read,” I wrote. “Trying to absorb.”

“Ah. Absorb.”

I tried to explain why I was having trouble grasping her post. I did a poor job, and only partially due to the fact that I was typing with my thumbs on my mobile device.

“Understand?” I asked.

“Not really,” she wrote.

I never ever get a “not really” from Jen. We click. We finish each others’ sentences. When we IM we hit enter to send the exact same words to each other at the exact same time. We call it “Same Brain.” It’s actually kind of freaky, especially since we are different in so many ways, but it’s a testament to the fact that our basic thoughts are flowing downstream together, and we often are in tune.

“I’ll respond tomorrow, OK? I’ll try to explain myself better.”

“K. Battery’s gonna die. G’night.”

“Night.“

I drifted to sleep pondering these questions. I asked myself what control I exert over my children, or think I do. I was still focusing on behaviors and not choices, though the two certainly go hand in hand. I was thinking about those times that my kids embarrass me with their behaviors. Thinking about the things I expect from them. To always respect, listen to, and respond to adults. To be courteous. To have good manners. To be compassionate. To keep their bodily sounds to themselves when we are out of the house. To show me they love me and each other by giving hugs, and giving kisses, and finding joy in the time spent together as a family.

But at what age can we really expect our kids to do all of this on their own? Are there age-appropriate markers for the levels of responsibility that they must take for their own lives and actions? I think so. But how do we figure out what they are? And how do we convey this to our kids so that they understand? How do we expect them to right their own wrongs when we have trouble with it ourselves from time to time?

The comments to Jen’s post helped me see past the connection to behavior alone. Helped me realize that I didn’t truly believe my original questions and assumptions. The comments helped me see that the real question for me is how much control we as parents are willing to learn to let go. And how we can come to accept that, in the end, we really don’t have much control anyway. If we push our kids in a direction they aren’t willing to go, they will push back. So we teach them what we feel they must know to make the decisions that we believe will bring them a happy, full life.

And the teaching never ends. I am still the child of my parents. One dead, one alive. And I am still learning from both of them. From the history of my father’s words and actions. From the presence of my mother’s thoughts and worries, laughter and sadness. My life has been shaped by who they were and are as individuals, their roles as parents, and their admittance that it wasn’t always a perfect kid they were raising. If they hadn’t let me fall down, I would never have gotten back up. And, I think, if they had had more control over my choices, I would be even more flawed than I am now. I have made many mistakes in my life. Mistakes that I am now able to see were exactly what they needed to be to bring me to who I am right now.

In this very moment.

The co-creator of a blog that is more than just a blog. For Jen and me it is a conversation that we don’t have the time to engage in in real time. Our conversations consist of 10-minute clips between dead zones on the drive to and from work. It is our only time alone with each other. We are otherwise surrounded by children, spouses or other shoppers at the grocery store. And our minds are generally scattering through all that needs immediate doing, and all that is on the list for the rest of the day, and tomorrow and even next month.

During our 10 minutes of quiet alone time on the phone we are always anticipating getting cut off, so we tend to stray from the more complex topics. Not always, but often. Instead we will start by talking about Momalom—certain comments we loved, our plans for next week, who’s day it is to post and what ideas are at half-mast just waiting to sprout. We sprinkle this with tidbits about the kids. Who’s sick. Who’s giving us the biggest headache these days. Who’s having trouble in school. Success at home. Vice versa. And then the connection gets fuzzy, and we both start swearing and we both say “Seriously? Already?” And it happens.every.day. Twice.

So it’s posts like this one of Jen’s that bring me back to the original reason for starting this blog together. That remind me that in this place we cannot get cut off. That connections can only grow stronger.

We are mothers. And we write. And we naturally deconstruct our lives. And we have come to a place—prompted by SIX kids and the very same realities that landed in both of our very different lives when we each welcomed our third child—where we need to make sense of all the thinking we do. Or maybe we need to have a place that deserves clear and focused thought, when so much of our daily lives is about getting through the present moment and anticipating the next.

These words today, like my mistakes, are nothing like what I planned. Nothing like the two documents that sit open and stare at me from the second monitor. I meant to say more about my own perspectives on developing a child’s sense of awareness, my own methods of building both self-esteem and humility. In short, I am a woman constantly wrestling with control. Over myself and over my children. Over their behaviors and their choices and over my own. I am not afraid to let my children stumble, fall or fail. I pass them my courage and watch them stand tall and firm again.

What I am most afraid of is the people they will become. And ultimately, this is something I cannot control. But if my own life is any indication, failure is reversible. Mistakes mean eventual success. And it is strength of character that gives us more esteem than most anything else. You can bet your ass my house is overflowing with character, personality and love. Lots and lots of love.

Read More in motherhood, Sarah Writes, sisters, three kids