Two separate, unrelated events occurred yesterday, which resulted in me having an epiphany at 3:30 in the morning when I can't sleep (there's a baby doing a jig in my uterus).
Event 1: My son (18 mo) and I went to a park yesterday in the hopes of meeting up with a like-minded parenting group. No one else showed up, but we were at a park, it was a mostly lovely day, so why not play... Shortly after two other moms left (both of whom were very authoritative, controlling, etc and I am sorry to say I was pleased they left), another mom with her 3.5 yo daughter came to play as well. At first, she seemed a bit closer to my parenting, so I was glad to have some company.
However, at several points during their visit, the mom would say something that rubbed me the wrong way. Things like, "you should run around more to get your energy out" or "why don't you go do [xyz]" or "you're not playing the way I wanted you to."
These bugged me for a variety of reasons. I didn't say anything unless I felt it would diffuse the tension (ie, at one point I did offer the use of a towel when it was clear the little girl wanted to play in some water but the mom didn't want her to get wet), but it did exhaust me to hear/be around it.
Event 2: At night, my husband is home. He starts trying to engage in a particular type of play that I don't usually enjoy. I told him I didn't want to play, but he kept trying. And trying. And trying. We finally had a bit of a tiff about it, after my son fell asleep and we were laying in bed reading/talking, and he said that sometimes it feels like I won't play purely on principle. I didn't respond for a little while, except to say I don't know what to say yet. I went back to reading, but continued to process what he said.
I came back to it, and said I'm sorry I don't always want to play. I feel like there are situations where I can't say No to the play, or I'll be faced with continued attempts, guilting, etc, to get me to play. So yes, I do say No somewhat on a principle, but the principle is that if it's not *truly* free, then it's *not play*. I say No because I feel like I *can't* say no.
3 am Epiphany: That's how I can imagine it feels for a young child to be in the position I observed today (this is not to assume the young girl *did* feel this way, because we didn't have a heart-to-heart, just that I can imagine it could feel such).
That saying No to play is not an option. To be told - subtly or explicitly - that the way you are playing is not "right". That there is a goal to the play (In the girl's case, that she would get tired out for her nap). That your play does not meet the expectations of a loved one. That you have *failed* at playing.
A child is not often in the position to assert him/herself in the same way I was able to - either because the parent won't listen or because the child is developmentally too young to articulate - and so their only recourse is to lash out in other ways (they themselves may not even know why), by "throwing a tantrum," calling names, generally resisting, etc.
I will admit - I often take my son to the park because I make a reasonable hypothesis that yes, he'll run around like a maniac (he is 18 mo, after all), and afterward, he'll be totally ready for a nap. But if he doesn't run around like a maniac, whatever he does do, is still him playing. It's still him doing what he needs to do, and that's awesome. And if when we get home, he doesn't want to nap, then we'll find something else to do. There is no goal to his play, though there are reasonable hypotheses based on past experience.
But there is so often a goal to the play of young children. That they'll get tired out and nap easier, that they'll learn xyz, that whatever. And the issue I have is, when there's a goal to play, it's no longer play. It's work, which usually means receiving compensation of some kind. But the only compensation I see in their future is not getting yelled at, shamed, guilted, punished, etc for *not playing right*.
And wow... apparently I'm quite loquacious at 3/4 am. To make a long story short (hah... not sure if that's possible here...), this is one of the reasons I'm so glad I found WLU (and other respectful parenting models). That I can break out of the box and not just do what the other parents do because "that's what you do" but actually give my child power and freedom in his life. I take a lot of pride in the fact that my son isn't forced to play in any particular way. And I have a lot of respect for everyone here for trying to do similar, because I know it's hard. It's hard to see everyone around you doing the opposite, to hear from people you love and/or respect that you shouldn't do it the way you do. To face resistance to your parenting in so many tiny ways. It feels sometimes like an uphill battle with bees.
Looking back, now, 2.5 years or more later, and I still see this. The level of control, of manipulation, from parents and caregivers. The denial of freedom to just be. Constantly. And it wears me down. I don't mean to judge, I really try hard not to, but the constant manipulation and control literally exhausts me. I feel the pressure, and I'm not even the child. Anymore, at least.
Perhaps the reason it is so hard for is that growing up, I felt very little control over my life. I was sick, often, so didn't have control of my own body; I know I often had battles with my mom over what I could control. What I could wear, what I could do, etc. I don't honestly remember much of them, but I've heard references frequently throughout my life. References to the time when I was two and picked the table in the restaurant, and the waiter told my mom, "Well, I know who runs the show in this family," and how that was indicative of how manipulative and controlling I was. And maybe I was, I don't know. I don't remember why I wanted that table over the one initially offered to us. I do know that I felt so powerless by the time I was 8 years old that I literally stopped eating, in an attempt to control *something.* I felt so powerless by the time I was 10 that I swallowed an earring to see if it would tear my insides apart. I felt so powerless by the time that I was 12 that I swallowed half a bottle of Excedrin, just so I wouldn't have to go on a week-long school field trip with an army bag as my suitcase but no one heard me when I told them how horrified I was, so my only option seemed to be death. When I realized the Excedrin wouldn't kill me, only make me puke for about one day in gut-wrenching spasms, I continued doing it in an attempt to control my weight. I'd tell myself I'd never do it again, only to break my promise. Again, I felt so powerless in my life, that I turned to controlling my weight. Again and again, I turned to self harm, in an attempt to have power. If I was going to be in pain, then at least I could be the one that caused it; if I didn't have power over my own life, then I could have power over my death. I drove nails through my arm, I ripped my legs to shreds with screws, I cut my arm open like a piece of paper with a pair of scissors. I never meant to manipulate anyone. I never meant to hurt anyone, aside from myself. I know I did hurt a lot of people. My sister. My parents. My best friend. I never meant to, I was in so much pain that I couldn't stop the spread. I couldn't keep it inside, so I painted my body in cuts, to show the world how much I hurt.
So, yes. My personal history might be why I feel so strongly, when I see the controlling nature of most parents and guardians I observe. Little daggers through my heart, every time I hear something like, "No, that's not how you're supposed to play." The daycare worker that insists, "You have to get on the swing now, it's time to swing," to the young boy engrossed in the box elder beetles my son is showing him instead of the prescribed play he *should* be engaging in. The little boy who is yelled at for jumping on the sidewalk, instead of the grass, because he might fall and scrape a knee. The young girl who is told, "there's only my way, there's no high way, there's no plea bargaining," when she asks to go to a different side of the park. I remember all these, and I remember the times that I do it to my children, too. I am no saint. I am far from perfect. I refused to let my son use his scooter on our walk home from the park because I was too lazy to put his helmet on, when it was a 60 second walk over. When he sat down in the middle of the parking lot and refused to walk, I yelled at him, asked him why he's putting himself in danger. I should have known better. I have done the same. I forgot. Now that I remember, it hurts. What I did and said to him hurts me now, and it probably hurt him. Possibly more than I can fathom, though I do think I have a high ability to imagine what others feel. It might be why he wouldn't cuddle with me tonight, on his path to sleep; why he was so disregulated (that also might be because I personally was disregulated all day, hurt from things said to me. My pain again spread out, in ways I didn't want, until I hurt the people that matter most to me. I wish I could find a way to stop spreading my pain; even if I don't mean to, I am hurting people still).
I think that might be the point I want to make, though; because there should probably be a point somewhere in all this rambling. All of the control we exert over other people is, in my opinion, usually an extension of how much pain we are in. The more control you exert, the more pain you are in. At least, it is true for me. I exert more control over my children and my life when I am hurting, but I often don't know that I'm hurting. I can't tell, whether it's physical or emotional, I don't usually know I'm hurting until I've already hurt someone else. Usually my son, because he is my wild one. The one that won't be controlled, that won't listen to reason if it goes against what he wants or believes, the one that will refuse candy if you tell him he has to eat it. He's also the one that usually picks up on my hurt, sometimes even before I do, and before I have a chance to do much he spreads it further. The spread of pain happens so quickly, so easily, from my perspective, and it overwhelms me to the point that I want to hole up, hide away, so I don't have to see the tendrils of pain spreading out from everyone, including me.
