Just over a month ago, I received some heavy criticism about my mothering. It came from a source that I was intending to bring into my inner-circle, that I was hoping would become a safe place for my son to spend time, so it hit me pretty hard. Not just a stranger on the street criticism, a real heart punch.
So I have, as is my way, been reflecting on it quietly for the past weeks, wondering what gift it is bringing me.
I have found it now, it is The Story Behind.
The story behind everyone’s behaviours is something so often missed, not least that of children. I was accused of being controlled by my son and not creating enough boundaries for him. So I have replayed my memories to try and understand how that perspective arose, because it is not one that resonates for me.
I’ll start with the ‘control’. I have learned and am still learning when to change my No’s to Yes’. I very carefully ‘control’ or consider certain aspects of my children’s upbringing, including their nutrition, their education path, their sleep amounts etc; then there are other things that I try to control until I realise that actually it’s my ‘shit’ that I’m trying to enforce and let it go. So when my child asks me for something, quite often I’ll say ‘No’, because I’m too tired, or it feels a bit complicated or anxiety inducing, and then my child will explain to me through their feelings or words how important it is for them and if I can see that it is my ‘shit’ stopping them following their bliss, even if that means allowing my son to bring home another 10 (bloody) sticks, I’m going to do it. And when my son throws a wobbly because I am not standing next to him in an unfamiliar and scary environment, I’m going to try and listen to that wobbly more than whether or not he needs to ‘learn’ independence, because I’m hearing his feelings. So am I controlled by his feelings? When I deem them to be valid and important, which of course is entirely subjective, yes I am and happy to be so. Do I feel controlled by him? Not at all.
But I can see how it might look to someone who doesn’t know my son; I can see that him getting a bit frantic and asking for me might look demanding and ‘controlling’. What, of course, they don’t see is how content and happy he is most of the time, they don’t see the contrast, which is the sign for me to know how he’s feeling. I am, after all, his mother.
Then there are his boundaries, which I perceive to be quite solid, strong and wise (age appropriately of course), so how did another see this completely differently? One example was when he was doing some cutting and he reached up, with the scissors, and mimed cutting at my hair. In the seconds that followed, that always feel like long minutes, two adults came down hard and fast on his actions. They told him he mustn’t, they told him ‘poor mummy and her beautiful hair’ and he buried his head in my lap, shamed and sad. I whispered to him, I told him I knew he was just tricking, I knew he wasn’t really going to cut my hair; I explained that they didn’t know him well enough to know he was being cheeky and funny and they were just worried. I whispered all these things to him to raise him out of being, in his eyes, unfairly judged. I could also see how it was perceived that I wasn’t setting boundaries, that I didn’t ‘back up’ the other adults, except they didn’t know the story behind. They don’t know how that boundary had already been set and that’s how he felt so confident jesting with me, us both clear that he wouldn’t cut my hair ‘for real’.
I see this play out in the world today and I see polarity and hatred following Brexit and Soon-to-be president Trump. I see the split second dive that shames each side rather than the breath, the moment to consider the story behind. No one is born racist, there is a story behind that, no child hits without a reason why. I was judged, as was my family, by the lack of looking for that story.
AND I understand that this will happen, that I can’t protect my children from those that forget to look at the story, or haven’t time, or haven’t patience, or have had a bad day. They will be judged, they are judged, I will be judged and I am judged and I, also, will judge others when all those factors rise for me too. But it’s worth talking about, worth writing about because I know that once we hear another’s story, and I mean REALLY hear it, judgement dies and love comes in.