I thought she just needed to warm up to the new school year. We were in a new grade, in a new building. Transitions can be challenging. I reasoned that anyone might need a few days to settle in. Then, things quickly escalated. She didn’t want to go to school. The final straw was when I had to go pick her up 2 days in a row because the office called me with her bawling in the background.
Up until that point I thought she was having a little separation anxiety. Which would have been standard. But, it wasn’t that she was crying. It was the way she was crying. The desperation and fear. The way she clung to me let me know that something was very wrong. This was more than separation anxiety. My girl… my effervescent star was losing her shine.
Parenting is hard. I’ve said it in the past. I’m saying it now. And I’m pretty confident I’ll say it many times in the future. Parenting. Is. Hard. Everyone talks about baby showers, beautiful birth stories and funny toddler tales, but no one is discussing, flatly, the difficulty associated with raising children. Why can’t we stop using our children as a measurement of how much better we are than other mothers? Why don’t we all just admit we don’t know what the hell we’re doing and meet at Chili’s for $5 margaritas to discuss strategies and support each other???
Do I ground him for this? How many fruit snacks is too many? Should she be friends with that girl? Why won’t he stop lying? At what age should they date? How many wipes should I use before I give him a bath? How much fast food is too much fast food? Why am I more uncomfortable watching love scenes than violence with them? Is cookie dough really bad for them?
At the present moment I am feeling a little anxious about choices we are making for our children and choices they are making for themselves. This isn’t a positive or negative admission. It’s just me standing in my truth.
Growing up Black is a be seen and not heard kind of existence. In my experience, to find a Black child with the authority to fully BE, in the presence of adults is the exception; not the rule. Control, rules, excellence and respectability are major components of the Black child rearing experience. Black children need to grow up with their shit together. This didn’t happen in a vacuum. It’s a direct result of slavery, Jim Crow, the Civil Rights Era and a post racial America *side eye*. The privilege of speaking about anything at anytime was snatched from us and whipped out of us on slave ships, auction blocks, in the fields and in the big house.
Saying the “wrong” thing or being at the “wrong” place at that time could get an adult or even a child, literally killed— It still can. We have too many examples. Being seen and not heard is not a simplified way to parent; it’s a safety mechanism. Part of the Black experience is simply trying to keep your children alive in a way that it isn’t true for other races. The same is true of how we are steered towards career choices. Careers that are perceived as frivolous, i.e. dancer, artist or musician are not routinely supported.
As usual, the problem occurs when we don’t communicate our feelings. Instead, we go dark. You cannot articulate your feelings and you won’t try because you think it actually sounds kinda petty. We don’t make calls and we don’t take them. Too busy either feeling sorry for ourselves or refusing to give people who love us the benefit of the doubt. Although…. If you’re feeling some time of way the onus is on you to communicate those feelings.
