Morning routine: “I need more milk!” my 6-year-old declares. “I can get it!” she insists as I instinctively rise to help. I catch myself and settle back down, watching her dash to the kitchen with her cup. She strains to pull the refrigerator door open, knocking over the salad dressing in the process. My hands tighten around the table’s edge, and I feel my anxiety rising.
With determination, she yanks out the nearly full gallon of milk—it seems as heavy as she is. I take deep breaths, recalling all the parenting advice that emphasizes the importance of allowing children to do things for themselves. It’s meant to be educational, but what exactly does it teach? I can’t remember. My eyebrow starts to twitch; I can’t concentrate on anything except her perilously tilting the gallon toward her tiny cup. The tension in my body feels like it could crack a walnut. Suddenly, the milk rushes out, splattering everywhere as her cup tumbles to the floor with a loud clatter.
“Oops!” she exclaims, setting the carton upright, milk still spilling from the top.
“It’s fine,” I reply through gritted teeth, forcing a smile as I hand her a mop. “Accidents happen!”
Once my children head off to school, I make a conscious effort to steer clear of their bedrooms. They do their best to make their beds, which for many moms would be perfectly acceptable. But I’m not just any mom; I’m a recovering control enthusiast. Eventually, I find myself upstairs for something and cup my hands around my eyes, akin to the blinders placed on horses during parades to prevent them from panicking.
“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I murmur to myself, fully aware that the sheets are likely bunched up beneath the comforter, which is probably brushing against the floor.
My urge to oversee every task extends far beyond milk spills and bed-making. I hold back my comments when my daughter descends with an uneven ponytail. I sit on my hands as they painstakingly piece together a jigsaw puzzle, my stomach churning with each slow attempt before they finally find the right fit. The temptation to step in and take over is almost unbearable.
So far, my controlling nature has had its advantages. At work, I ensured tasks were completed correctly and efficiently. My supervisors appreciated my reliability, even if my colleagues found my oversight a bit stifling. My life functioned like a well-oiled machine; my credit score was stellar, and my linens were always neatly arranged. The only downside? Air travel makes me incredibly anxious; I despise being out of control.
“You’ll have to adjust once you have a little one,” my friends would say during my pregnancy, often while I organized their kitchen drawers. “This baby will change everything.”
“Sure, whatever. Do you have a tape measure? I can build something fantastic for you,” I would reply dismissively.
They were right, of course. And while I’m working to alter my ways, old habits die hard. I understand that children need to experience both success and failure to learn. Natural consequences are essential—after all, to learn to walk, you must stumble. The sheets bunched under the comforter won’t hurt anyone. Repeat after me: The sheets bunched under the comforter won’t hurt anyone.
My children are cultivating resilience; they’re learning perseverance. And judging by the pronounced twitch in my eyebrow as they fumble with their shoelaces for twenty minutes each morning, I’m learning right alongside them.
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Summary:
Parenting as a control enthusiast requires a conscious effort to let go. Embracing the messiness of childhood experiences not only fosters independence in kids but also encourages personal growth for parents. Balancing the desire for order with the reality of parenting challenges can lead to valuable life lessons.