The Safe Place
Jesus, take the wheel. My ten-year-old is testing my patience to infinite degrees. Most nights, when I crawl into bed after tucking him safely into his, I feel tremendous achievement for not murdering him over the course of the day.
I have been passively complaining about this issue for a few years now. Mostly it was about him firing his attitude in my direction, rather than at hubs. As annoying as that is, I am evolved enough to understand that I am the target because I am the safe place. I have spoken with other moms at length about this quibble, only to be told they are all feeling it, too. But lately, man. LATELY. Lately, I am being tested in ways I hadn’t expected.
This blog sums it up:
YOU, mama, are their safe place. YOU are the place they can come to with all of their problems. YOU, dear mama, are a garbage disposal of unpleasant feelings and emotions. If a child’s been holding it together all day, in an unpleasant situation, the second they see you, they know it’s time they can finally let go.
Intellectually, I understand this phenomenon. It’s a development stage. It’s temporary. I hope. It’s frustrating and emotionally draining, but I understand why it’s happening. I am the soft place to land at the end of a long day. But sometimes, I wonder if I’m a bad mom. The voice of doubt creeps into my brain and whispers that this dynamic is my fault - that I have allowed it to happen. The voice speaks to me negatively and it takes all of my strength to shift that narrative. I acknowledge that the voice is correct. I absolutely created this dynamic. I created it with love, and kindness, and patience, and appropriate emotional expression. With evening conversations while Max is in the shower and I am in the bathroom with him as I fold laundry. With snuggles at bed time. With the perfectly curated snacks in the pantry. With hair products he can use to create Tiktok hair. With hours at the kitchen counter trying to remember the order of operations on math worksheets. In doing all of this, I assured Max that when he is with me, he will be loved. He knows that he can bring me his best or his worst and I will love them both the same. Yes, I say with certainty that I created this dynamic.
Child development experts note that this behavior is a sign that I created a safe space for my child, where he feels comfortable and can express his natural emotions or needs. If kids can experience this now, with their mommies, they are likely to also grow up more confident and expressive when they become adults.
So, uh, good? I’m doing a good job then? Insert cringe emoji here.
So what’s a girl to do when:
He calls me “Kim” instead of “Mom?”
He tells me that if I were an animal, I’d be a yappy chihuahua that tries to bite his ankles?
He ignores my call for dinner when it’s on the table and everyone else is seated?
He tries to convince me to let him stay home from school EVERY SINGLE DAY?
He lies about brushing his teeth?
He smacks my butt while I’m bent over + loading the dishwasher?
He applies half a bottle of cologne before getting into the shower?
He tells me to get my own snack after I have cooked his favorite dinner, given him field trip money, and washed his new sweatshirt?
He is constantly poking the bear with a really pointy stick. CONSTANTLY. Sometimes he’s joking. Sometimes he’s giving me attitude. It can be challenging to tell the difference. Both feel like marbles being added to a jar. At some point, the jar overflows. I lose my patience. I dole out consequences. He cries. I console him. He apologizes. Repeat cycle. Anyone have a sense of how long we’ll be playing this game? Anyone? Anyone? Beuller? Beuller?
Sigh.
After reading through this monumental venting session, I worry that my message will be misinterpreted. Am I frustrated by some of Max’s behavior? Absolutely. But does he act this way all the time? No. Most of the time, he’s one of the most magnificent human beings I have ever known. He is kind, and sweet, and sensitive, and funny. He is so clever, and persistent, and thoughtful. He tells me when I look pretty or he likes my outfit. He reads to his baby brother. He offers hugs when he knows I’m stressed. He offers to watch Cobra Kai with me just because he knows it makes me happy.
This guy is the result of the dynamic I have created. The love, and kindness, and patience, and appropriate emotional expression. The evening conversations. The snuggles at bed time. The perfectly curated snacks in the pantry. The hair products he can use to create Tiktok hair. The hours at the kitchen counter trying to remember the order of operations on math worksheets. All of this helped mold Max into the amazing kid that he is.
So will I take a little sass, then? I guess so. It’s probably a taste of my own medicine anyway. But will I complain about it? Also yes.
♥
P.S. Back to the topic of murder. When I say avoiding murder is a real win, I’m exaggerating. A little. Please don’t call the police. I would never actually murder my child. I do, however, fantasize about the consequences of murder. I’d get to go to prison and have my own bed, someone to cook for me, free time, comfy clothes. I could probably work on a PhD. I wouldn’t have to listen to poor descriptions of “hilarious” YouTube videos. It’s like the ultimate girls trip. Honestly, the only down side I see is the limited availability of quality hair products. If conditioner is available at all, it likely won’t be a match for my tangly mane.
P.P.S. Happy St. Patrick’s Day.
