Guarded

Parenting this week was Hard.  Capital H hard.  There was yelling and eye rolling.  There were tears and accusations.  Awkward silences and dirty looks.  Long letters and heart-to-hearts.  

I don’t like to disclose too much about my kids without their permission- that’s why you don’t read a lot about Bea.  She’s intensely private.  She guards her heart with a formidable wall.  

And sometimes that wall is fortified by a powerful offensive.   There are soldiers perched on the top, shooting daggers at anyone who dares to come too close.  

That’s me. 

 I’m always a little too close.  I’m a little too pushy and a little too affectionate and a little too engaged.  I’m too much of everything that she needs but doesn’t want.  I’ve had the blessing of watching small chunks fall from that façade over the years that she’s been here, but I always want her to be more open, more trusting, more honest and vulnerable than she’s capable of.  

Parenting is hard. Parenting a teenager is harder.  Rumor has it, parenting a teenage girl is hardest.  But parenting a teenage girl who didn’t grow up feeling safe and loved and cared for? A child who hasn’t always been yours, and hasn’t learned to trust or love without holding back?  Someone who doesn’t believe in forever because she’s never seen it?  It’s beyond hard.  It’s heartbreaking.  

This week, after the latest argument, I hit a wall.  I was feeling defeated and sad and helpless.  I kept wondering if I was really doing her any good.  If she hates it here and doesn’t trust me and doesn’t think I care about her, then what am I accomplishing? 

But some advice came at the perfect moment.  A colleague (who happens to be a specialist in human behavior) reminded me that we lash out at the people closest to us.  

She’s not nasty to other people.  She’s grateful and sweet and affectionate.  And I often take that so personally.  WHY is she so good to everyone else?  Why is it that I get the anger and the frustration and the tears from her, when I’m the one who has welcomed her into my family and given her safety and stability and unconditional love?  

And therein lies the answer. 

What am I accomplishing? I’m giving her someone to trust.  I’m the safety net and the sounding board and the receiver of all things awful… not because she doesn’t trust me, but because she does.  

She’s a kid.  She’s a kid who has had a difficult life.  I don’t need anything from her.  I don’t need her adoration or her gratitude or her sweetness.  I’m fine. I’m a grown-ass woman.  

I will insist upon respect. I’m not a martyr.  But if she needs someone to receive all of that hurt and anger; someone who says they’re not going anywhere and keeps their promises; someone strong enough to walk right up to that wall and get hit again and again? 

Well, that’s me, too.