I know what it’s like
to feel like my needs do not matter. I remember the heavy weight of obligation
to cater to the needs of others and the punishment inflicted when I failed to
do so. I can still feel the sting of being told I’m selfish whenever I dared to
vocalize a need of my own. I remember being told that my tears of pain and
sadness were fake and manipulative when all I wanted was love. How dare I need
something from someone who claimed to love me?
Although that life is far behind me now, the damage has been
done, and I’m terrified of passing it on to my son.
I never want Quinn to feel like his needs are not important
or inconvenient. I want him to have high expectations of his family, friends
and future partner. I want him to expect people who say they love him to treat him like they love him. I want
Quinn to choose people who will reciprocate his love. I want him to experience
healthy relationships instead of choosing co-dependent ones where he always
gets hurt.
That’s why I hate hearing him cry. Whenever he bumps his
head or gets an obviously minor injury, I’m told not to make a big deal out of
it. If I rush to comfort him, he’ll just cry harder. But if I just brush it off
and say “you’re okay, honey,” he’ll brush it off too and continue playing as
though it never happened. And that’s supposed to be a good thing. But who’s it
good for? The parents or the child?
What if by doing this I’m teaching Quinn to ignore his own
pain? What if I’m teaching him that if he expresses pain, he won’t be the tough
guy that mommy and daddy want him to be, and we’ll be disappointed in him? What
if he’s learning that his need for comfort is bad and makes him weak?
I’m told that I’m supposed to let Quinn cry at night so he
can learn to put himself to sleep. They say it will be rough for a few nights,
but if we can just get through them, he’ll learn to sleep all night long. “Experts”
lead me to believe that I’m a terrible mother who’s denying my child this
important life lesson if I cannot do this.
But what if instead of teaching him to sleep, I’m teaching
him that I don’t’ care? What if instead of learning to self-soothe, he’s
learning that his cries are futile? Maybe he just falls asleep from sadness and
exhaustion and not because he’s learned to soothe himself. Instead of feeling
comfort from his lovey, maybe he feels abandoned and alone.
I recently read a forum on this topic where a child behavior
specialist’s wrote, “I believe allowing a
child to cry when they are throwing a fit to get their way is very different
than letting a baby cry and cry when all s/he wants is comfort from a caregiver...
Babies are in the Trust vs. Mistrust stage of development where they develop
their sense of whether their basic needs will be met in this world and they
will be safe.”
What if Quinn learns that he cannot trust me? If I let him
cry, am I proving to him I am not safe?
These are the thoughts that plague me and break my heart.
But what if I’m swinging the pendulum too far in one
direction, and I’m too focused on his
needs? What if I’m creating a narcissistic monster who thinks his needs are the
only ones that matter, and he inflicts the same pain onto others that I once
felt? What if he grows up to be selfish and insensitive? All because his mommy
raised him to think his needs were the most important thing in the world.
How do I prevent Quinn from becoming like me without turning
him into something worse? There has to be a healthy range in the middle. I just
don’t know how to find it. How do you know if you’ve found it before it’s too
late?
These are the thoughts that plague me and break my heart.
It’s arrogant to think Hubs and I can completely control the
type of man our son grows up to be. But it’s also irresponsible to think that
we do not play critical roles in helping to develop his character.
When these thoughts keep me up awake at night, I try to
remember that Quinn comes from a strong, solid foundation with two parents who
love him madly. When worry and anxiety tighten their grip around my heart, I try
to let go and have faith that Quinn will grow up to be a loving, happy person.
And isn’t that all a mother really wants for her child?
But how do I let go and have faith when no matter what I choose, it
feels like the wrong thing?
