In anticipation of Pamela Whyte’s Inviting the Whole Child presentation in Seattle coming up this Sunday, I’ve been planning to write about invitation. I confess, though, that it’s taken me three starts at this post to turn off the judgmental nag in my head who’s peering over my shoulder as I type.
“You lost it yesterday when the girls were slamming the microwave door open and shut, remember?” she says. “That wasn’t exactly inviting the whole child.”
Ironically, the more my inner voice critiques me, the less I listen. After all, if I yearn to invite all that is within my children, I also need to invite all that is within me – including my own emotions that surface after a build up of the day’s frustrations get the best of me. It’s the same thing I strive for with my daughters as I aim to make room for all of their emotions.
My nag can be quick to find fault, looking through the lens of “You’re not a good enough parent.” But if I’m blaming myself as a ‘bad’ parent, I’m only making myself more and more frustrated … and it’s that much sooner that I’m full of frustration the next time, or, to alleviate my guilt, starting to see my kids as bad.
Either way, it’s a vicious loop. It’s much easier for everyone if I let in the sadness of not being a perfect pillar of maturity, fess up to losing it, and bridge the emotional separation that my snappy tone may have caused.
“Okay, yes,” I tell the nag. “The way I handled that microwave incident was not one of my better parenting moments. And… I repaired. My integration came right back and I let my kids know that it was about me, not about them. I assured them that our relationship was still okay, that we can handle it.”
Interestingly, it’s not only inviting my emotions, but also my nag. Because the more I try to defend myself, the louder she gets.
“Hmmmpf,” she snorts. “You sure apologize and bridge a lot, if you ask me.”
I wasn’t asking her. But I invite my nag’s presence, anyway, knowing she has to stick around. Despite her critical eyes, her existence is necessary. As Dr. Gordon Neufeld says, guilt is a natural part of the territory when you’re the providing adult. “As a parent, you have to be prepared to live with chronic guilt,” he has said. It’s what moves us to care, and to take responsibility. Assured by this, I listen to my nag… but I don’t always believe every word she says.
It helps having something more solid to believe in – evidence that my invitation is helping create the culture I yearn for in our home. The other day, I heard my daughter incorporating my language into her play.
“It’s okay, Little One,” she said to her ‘daughter’ during her daily ‘Baby Game.’ “Mommy’s pricklies are out today. It’s not about you.”
Another day, my youngest was quite upset, telling me about how another adult had snapped at her. My eldest daughter interrupted the story to comfort her sister. “Oh, but you know he didn’t mean that, right? That was just his frustration talking.”
When I invite all that’s within me, my girls grow up seeing an authentic range of human emotions modeled – which in turn gives them room for all that’s within them. They’re comfortable with what emotions look like in their many forms – and know their emotions are welcome, too. Not to mention, when I can both invite and take responsibility for my own feelings, they’re also growing up knowing they’re not responsible for them.
It’s impossible as a parent not to feel frustrated, just as it isn’t realistic to act from a place of maturity 24/7. Just as for our children, there will be moments when the frustrations feel like too much, when there’s no time to feel the sadness of all the things we cannot change before the frustrations come out in ways we wish they wouldn’t. Accepting and inviting human emotions in ourselves, as much as we accept and invite them in our children, helps create a culture of invitation that will ultimately help our children thrive and mature.
© Sara Easterly. All rights reserved.
This essay was first published as an editorial by the Seattle Neufeld Community.
