I’ve always considered myself to be a good mother. Not perfect, mind you. But good. I deeply care about my children and their wellbeing. I feel as though David and I (and the older kids Dad) have provided them with the best opportunities we could afford. We have loved them all, been involved with every aspect of their lives, cared about their grades, spent quality time with each and every one of them, and tried to instill good Christian values in them.
Unfortunately, there comes a time when they want to think for themselves and consider themselves adults, even when we all still look at them as our babies. I used to think when my older kids were small that it was so stressful. The up all nighters, colic, and sick visits at the Dr. Well, I’m here to tell you that those things are tiny compared to the stress of the teenage years. No matter how many times you’ve drilled into your child’s head your opinions and morals on certain things, in the end all that matters is what they think.
Now that is a hard place for a parent to be.
And I am there.
The crossroad between where my values and wishes for my child are forsaken and her values and wishes are taken forward.
And they clash.
Drastically.
There are some people who slam me for not being more “open minded” about my values. They say I’m going to lose my daughter if I don’t let her do what she wants and try to “understand” her more. Others have told me to look at my parenting style… it MUST be something I have done to cause the behavior (because God forbid a child actually be held accountable for their own actions!). Some even go on to tell me I should do whatever it takes to make her stay.
To do that goes against everything moral in my being.
I love my children, but I expect certain things from them while they live under my roof. Not radical things- just normal requests while they live here and I pay for their costs of living. Such as being respectful, keeping your living area clean, not cursing, calling to tell me when you will be home and where you’ll be, not getting your whole chest tattooed. You know… little things.
I suppose the southern, Bible belt gal (did I seriously just call myself a gal?) in me just can’t step away from the values I was raised on. I’m not perfect like I said, but I’m doing my best. And that’s what I expect of my children. No more, no less.
So tonight, I go to bed and walk past an empty room. Only four of my five kids reside here for the time being. By her choice, not mine.
I sure wish I could flip to page whatever in that Parenting instruction booklet that doesn’t exist so that I’d know where to go from here, because honestly…
I’m at a loss.
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