I'm Sorry I Gave You the Worst of Me

Alone with me in the car, my 7-year-old daughter had a confession to make. 

"Sometimes I think my brother is Mr. Grumpy Pants," she said.  

"I think you're right," I told her. "Sometimes he is Mr. Grumpy Pants. And you know what? I think he gets that from me." 

My sweet girl was quick to point out that I am never a Grumpy Pants, and I am in fact the Best Mom in the Whole Entire World. 

While I deeply appreciate her adoration, it's come to my attention that after nearly a decade of parenting, I am less patient, more tired, more prone to raising my voice, and moodier than I was before having children. Motherhood has made a lot of my bad qualities worse. 

Unfortunately, I think my son has inherited almost all of those bad qualities. 

Some days being his mother is as unpleasant as listening to a recording of my own voice set on repeat. The same parts of myself that I get sick of, I also have to manage in him. I know where it comes from, but that doesn't mean I have to like it. 

All these years, I meant to nurture him away from my own less-likeable personality traits: negative, critical, inflexible, and melancholy. I've spent countless hours teaching him to share and take turns, to love his sister deeply, to care for others, to practice empathy and count the things he's thankful for. I tried to train his mind and heart in the ways I wish mine would naturally go, in the hope that his teen and adult life would be easier on those less rocky pathways. 

At the same time, I have worked to temper my own reactions and words, to put a buffer between my children and my feelings. They don't need to scrape against my rough edges. So I try not to complain too often around them. I close my eyes and take deep breaths and attempt not to respond with frustration. I try to be less touchy, saying in my head over and over "I don't have to react to everything." I grumble and I sigh and I fail, but I keep trying. 

I thought I was doing pretty well at projecting the person I wanted to be, even when I didn't feel it. But despite those efforts, I see my personality bubbling up in my son. He has many moments of being a kind, generous, thoughtful, and helpful kid. But he is also, very often, even this morning, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Like everything else he does (especially his unrestrained energy), it goes to Level 11.

Like a life-size Walter puppet, but with more hair and less bow tie.

Every time my son snaps at his sister, growls at me, or complains "why do I have to do everything?" when I ask him to pick up after himself, I correct him gently - while knowing I am guilty of doing the same. When I tell him it's okay to feel grumpy but we can't take our out bad moods on others, I know I need to hear that too. When he lists everything that went wrong during the day and I ask him to tell me one thing that went right, I recognize that I will be doing the same exercise in my head as I fall asleep.

This is the definition of hypocrisy.

So this is my apology to you, my sweet kiddo. For unwittingly giving you the worst parts of my personality. I'm sorry I thought I was being a mostly good role model, but you saw straight through it to my true, disagreeable self and chose to emulate that instead. Maybe, if and when you choose to be a parent, you'll be better at stopping the trickle-down of prickly personality than I was. 

We can always hope.