When I was a teenager my mother gifted me the book Who Moved My Cheese. She hoped the work would help me navigate my aversion to plan deviations. I don’t like change. I never have. Even when said change is something I orchestrated- an alteration which I desire to occur. I struggle with the process of adjustment. Unfortunately, the book had no impact on this characteristic of my brain chemistry. I like routine. Predictability. Deviations from this consistency cause me discomfort.
So when my handsome offspring announced that he no longer desired to retain his long locks, my whole being momentarily sputtered. My intense need to stave off this tremendous modification to his trusses was at fundamental odds to my foundations as a mother- to honor my child’s bodily autonomy. Respecting my son’s wishes won, without preamble. His palpable excitement in stark contrast to the ache in my chest. I don’t like change.
I tired to reason myself out of the emotional response- my go to coping mechanism. If I find myself feeling a thing I find unreasonable, simply apply logic and shame and expect the emotion to dissipate. This logic never works in my favor, it tends to compound the distress and thrust me into isolation with a tinge of self loathing. Not my best color. In this particular situation, I was not allowed the time and solitude to fully spiral into repugnance at my being, thankfully. I also was caught by the squirrely barnacle that is my tiny human before I could conceal my tears. So instead of falling on the satisfaction of habit, I tried my hand at a teaching moment- maybe for the both of us.
You see, I find intense disquiet in my emotional expression with any form of audience. I much prefer to relieve myself of any sort of impassioned articulation alone. Preferably in the dark. This is not a behavior I wish to imprint on the child. It isn’t healthy. And with that unease with my own emotions comes the tandem unfortunate trait of feeling responsible for the reactions of those around you. I often feel like a snake eating it’s own tail- repressing my own feelings while working to ensure the positive emotive outcomes of those around me. It’s exhausting and unproductive, at best.
So on that fateful afternoon, I let Moose see my tears. I told him I was sad. We would not be a house that hid our feelings- but that my sadness in no way should influence him. He should be excited. He should continue to want his hair cut. That two things can be true simultaneously- he can be ecstatic and I can be sad.
There is the mishmash of a million things that swirled in my brain. This was his first big decision without me. A sign he was growing up. A probable symptom of some playground bullying at school. All evoking the tightness in my chest and the unwanted production of saltwater within my eyes. But mostly, I didn’t want the change. A change- the first of many with this amazing child of mine- that will be out of my control.
I am ashamed to admit that I very briefly considered trying to reason him away from the decision. To chat about the kids at school that taunt him for his “girl hair”. To reason with him about easier methods in caring for his long locks. But as quickly as the thoughts entered my mind, I realized all of that negotiating would be for me. I would be crushing him. Stealing his joy, his independence. So I cried to my inner circle of moms, knowing they would share in my grief.
He got his hair cut. There is really no great reveal there. What surprised me was that my visceral reaction to said change lingered. He looked so different. I wasn’t prepared for how long it would take for the image of him in my brain to catch up to the new reality. That jarring realization of how foreign his trusses felt when I would absentmindedly rub his head in the grocery store line. If he awoke me from a deep sleep, for a split second, I was startled as if gazing at a stranger. A familiar bone structure, but not exactly my son.
Eventually, I adjusted. Never mentioning my momentary maladaption to the kiddo. When he is older- definitely old enough to enjoy a beer with- I will allow him into the full breadth of ridiculousness of the inner turmoil something as mundane as a haircut caused when he was seven years old. He too struggles with change. Transitions are hard. So I think he will give me grace. No, based on the empathetic human he already is, I know he will.
There are going to be so many things that arise over the course of his life that will give me pause- challenge my aversion to change. I am not under any pretense that this is an isolated situation. I am also not going to change my instinct to manage my emotions in solitude overnight- thank God E loves a work in progress. However, my eagerness to give him better tools- healthier perspectives and processes- force me out of my comfort zone. Creates room for conversations where we talk about overwhelm and sensitivity. The need to hugs or patience. Not just his, but mine. I’m not good at it yet, but I am working diligently at being an example and not just a cautionary tale. I may be his parent- his guardian- but he sure is teaching me a hell of a lot. Even if I don’t like change.
Mommyhood Mayhem and Me 