| On Being a Mother | The St. Catharines Standard - June 24, 2000 | |
Daily it seems, television and newspapers report yet another tragedy involving children. High-tech communications being what they are, we hear of the latest horror within moments of it occurring, sometimes before it’s even come to it’s final, tragic conclusion.
A parent could drive himself or herself stark raving mad with worry. Household accidents, motor vehicle collisions, drugs, assault, pedophiles and murder; the causes of pain and injury escalate in my mind. Each day new dangers are added to my cache of concerns. Is it safe for my children to use the internet, walk to school, sit in the sun, drink the water, breathe the air? Once you’re a parent almost every activity brings with it some form of apprehension.
Although we live in a small town, supposedly safe and sheltered from the so-called evils of the big city, I try not to be lulled into a false sense of security. After all, there is no rule that says bad things don’t happen in small towns. Crime and tragedy don’t stop at the city limits. Trouble, whether living among us or just passing through, can still be found here.
When I was a kid, (and I can’t believe I actually used that phrase) children were pretty much free to roam wherever they chose. We took off after breakfast and returned home only when hunger or darkness overtook us. Today my kids know no such freedom.
My worries seem endless, and to my children I’m sure my demand and instructions seem endless too. “Wear your helmet. Be home by curfew. Don’t talk to strangers. Call if you stop somewhere. "Absolutely no _____" ...just fill in the blank with the latest admonition.
Judging by the looks on their faces and the choruses of “Ahhh Mom”, I know my toes have often crept over that fine line between protecting my kids and smothering them. I’d love to be able to just wrap them up in my arms, hold on tight and insulate them from absolutely every awful thing. No scrapes or slivers, no bruised egos or broken hearts.
Better yet, let’s develop an impenetrable, personal force field that’ll guard them against evil and injury, blaring loud warnings whenever danger approaches.
Okay back to the real world, where I know it’s impossible to shield my kids from everything bad that happens in life. There’s no way to hold back an energetic eight year old, never mind a couple of independence-seeking teenagers. Besides, they’d probably “forget” to take their force fields with them and just leave them behind, lying on the garage floor along with all their other protective gear.
I know too, that despite my warnings, they’ll still stop soccer balls with their heads, careen down the road on their rollerblades, climb too high in trees and do a hundred other things that would make their poor mother gasp in horror.
So yes, my kids are allowed some freedom, not enough of course by their standards, but bits of freedom nonetheless. Realistically, every parent knows that children need to go off and try new things, spend time away from home, away from their parents. But always before setting out they get the prerequisite safety lecture.
You see my poor kids are cursed with a mother who has a good imagination. Name a situation and I can conger up images of a zillion things that could go wrong. But, I do realize that I’m a little on the anxious side, so every once in a while I sternly reprimand myself for being too worried, too paranoid. But, it seems just when I’ve convinced myself to ease up on the mothering, another child vanishes, more shots are fired, or a new menace rears its ugly head.
And it doesn’t matter that my kids are growing up. A parent’s list of apprehensions expands right along with the kid’s shoe size. As they age, we simply exchange one set of worries (training wheels and chicken pox) for another (driving, dating and diplomas).
Yes, it’s terrible not to trust, to treat strangers and situations with suspicion. But in my mind when it comes to my kids’ safety, suspicion and caution are better than regret and hindsight. Being a parent is scary stuff. I worry, regardless of all the precautions my family takes and all the safety rules I drone on about.
Someone once said of the rules of parenting, “There are only three: love, limit, and let them be”. The first two are easy enough; it’s that last one I seem to have trouble with.