I am a mother of two: a 14-year-old in a corresponding body and an [insert age from 10 to 14] in my 37-year-old body. Let me explain.

Yesterday I was spending the evening in a group of amazingly inspiring and growth motivated women, and the question of re-parenting oneself as a therapy strategy/technique came up in the conversation. People were wondering how one can parent oneself, if by definition it means none of us have experienced good parenting or any parenting at all in our lives. There was no modeling, no example, no embodied experience. That question stuck with me, and I am writing now to see if I can tell my story coherently enough to tackle the question.

I became a mother at 23. The baby was born, and I remember not feeling a thing besides a great relief that she is finally out of my body. I counted fingers and toes, noticed how cute she was (unusual for a newborn, just saying), and started caring for her: very matter-of-factly and research-based, very responsibly, like any sensible adult would. 

At 23, I had a very clear idea about what a good mother should look like, what her baby should look like, what they both should behave like, and I stuck to that idea. I fought Mexican pediatricians for breastfeeding her, I used cloth diapers and organic food, I read her baby books and had her do finger-painting as early as 5-6 months old. I was going to be a good mother.

For a few years I thought I was a good mother: taking my kid to parks and zoos, reading books to her, buying educational toys and pretty dresses, making her eat until I was satisfied with the amounts, making her sleep when the clock was at a certain number, making her put on clothes when I felt it was cold, sacrificing my needs to make sure she looks presentable. 

In the summer of 2014, wearing a coordinating outfit and tightly braided hair, my 4-year-old arrived at the place of my birth with me to visit and meet family for the first time in person. I was a good mother. 

And here the story starts. At some point of our trip we were staying at my aunt’s for a few days.

My Aunt Nadya is the middle sister of my dad’s. He was the youngest of three and the only boy in my grandma’s family. Since I was little, I remember grandma giving me money for ice cream, making waffles that I loved, and just being a regular old lady, like any other grandmother you know. That made it especially confusing to me that all three of her children showed little to no tolerance of anything she did or said, however innocent or neutral. My dad avoided speaking to her on the phone at all costs, and when he had to, he always sounded irritated and in a hurry to end the conversation. His older sister was and still is the loudest one, and I never could understand that as a child and disliked her. She would always get defensive and start yelling out of nowhere and right away. My aunt Nadya became religious at some point of her life, and appeared to be the most tolerant out of the three, but still there was palpable tension that felt like an overstretched string and was ready to bust.

My Aunt Nadya did not have any children, and she always was nice to me as a child, so I really liked her. And that time with my toddler I stayed with her over staying with my mom, because of reasons to which I will dedicate another chapter. 

I was putting Anna down for a nap. And she wasn’t having it. And I needed her to nap. I needed a break. So I got upset, but restrained, became rigid and distant, and coldly ignored any and all attempts of my 4-year-old to cry, to beg, to talk, to be funny, to cry again, and finally tortured and exhausted, she gave up and fell asleep.

After I finally left my daughter napping, I joined Aunt Nadya in the kitchen for some tea and cookies. “You are with Anna just like your grandma used to be with us. It is interesting how this happens,” thoughtfully said my aunt. Something made me stop. My brain was going through all the memories of conflicts and yelling between the adults, and obvious disrespect of my grandma I witnessed all the time and questioned as a child. I asked what she meant.

“We called her “the General” behind her back growing up. She was very strict with us, and it always was her way or highway. None of us dared to misbehave or say much back to her face, because then we were punished severely. But we did grow up to be good people.”

Feverishly, my brain was drawing parallels and conclusions. I would not be an old lady my grown child yells at, can’t stand to be close and ditches my phone calls. At that kitchen table I decided to change everything, to set all my raising my child priorities to “I want to always have a relationship with her.”

When Anna woke up from her nap and wanted to have her hair down, I let her. I never let her do that before, besides holidays and birthdays: she had long hair, down to her waist, and it usually got all tangled and dirty when she played. And her hair looked like “I was a bad mother that does not take care of the girl”. When the next day she wanted to wear mismatched leggings and a top in clashing colors, I let her. I never let her choose her clothes like this before. She had to look like a cute model girl from a magazine cover, so that everyone who saw her knew that her mother takes care of her appearance. I stopped making her eat more when she said she was full; I stopped making her put warm clothes on when she said she was hot; I stopped treating her like she knew nothing and I knew everything.

I started asking questions and was amazed at how much my kid already was aware about the world, her place in it, her dreams, her desires, people and the relationships between. I started listening, and she started trusting me with her own questions. And I promised to always only tell the truth. 

It took me a few years and cosmic amounts of energy, but once I got over my eye twitching at the mope-headed Anna wearing bright pink shirts with orange leggings, and toys not being neatly put away the second she stopped playing, things got easier.

For a second.

And then puberty hit me like a train.

(Parenting topic to be continued)