The trials of parenting

MAXINE COHEN

The phone rang. It was my daughter, Barbara, calling to ask if she

could spend the night. Her apartment had been painted that day, and

the stench was driving her crazy.

“Sure,” I said. “Come on over. Maggie [the dog] and I would love

to see you.”

I hoped we’d have a nice night together, not always a given. I’d

like to think of Barbara as grown-up; she is 25, but she is not. She

is still very much a teenager -- head-strong and temperamental. She

knows everything and doesn’t want any help or input from anyone,

especially her mother.

I joke that Barbara is my porcupine girl. Not so funny really. The

get-away-from-me quills spike out without a word being spoken.

I was glad the evening went well.

The next morning she came downstairs, dressed for work, to ask if

what she was wearing looked OK.

It really didn’t look OK. It needed a different shirt. Barb

already knew this, which was why she was asking me in the first

place, but she was running late for work and hoping I’d think it was

good enough.

What do I say? She’d only brought a few items of clothing with

her.

I decided to tell her truthfully what I thought -- the shirt was

the problem -- and to offer to let her borrow one of mine.

So, we stood in the kitchen and discussed the shirt. Iron it? Tuck

it in? Wear it out? Roll up the sleeves? I could see she was getting

more and more upset by the second.

She stomped out and went back upstairs to fish through my closet.

I followed her, making helpful suggestions. Or maybe not so helpful,

because she turned to me -- half-naked and with that

I’m-gonna-do-it-my-way energy that I hate -- and barked, “Don’t say

another word. I don’t want your help. Leave me alone.”

Stop. Think. Recognize that your child is having a problem and

control yourself. Do not add to her anxiety by your own need to help

her to fix it. You should have known better than to follow her

upstairs in the first place. Breathe deeply.

I went downstairs.

In a few minutes, Barbara reappeared, wearing a different shirt,

handbag over her shoulder, ready to go. She came down the stairs and

made a hairpin turn, heading directly for the front door, so that I

couldn’t see what the shirt looked like with the rest of the outfit.

Out she went, slamming the door behind her. I heard the car door

slam and the engine start.

Not two minutes later the phone rang.

“Good-bye, Mom. Have a good day. Thanks for letting me spend the

night.” All said in the sweetest voice imaginable.

I figured Barbara knew that her behavior was inappropriate and

excessive, but she couldn’t contain her anxiety well enough to

control herself. So she acted out and then felt remorseful and wanted

to fix it but was not yet mature enough to be able to take

responsibility and just apologize.

It’s a hard thing to do, to contain yourself and behave

appropriately when you feel overwhelmingly anxious. Just like me

following Barbara upstairs into my closet. How hard I struggled to

contain myself, but that is the work at any stage of life or level of

development.

Barbara is the youngest of my three daughters, almost all raised

and out of the nest by now. And it is sometimes too easy for me to go

to the place where I remember the good parts and drop out the ongoing

struggle of the small, and sometimes not so small, annoyances that

made daily life challenging. But this was a good reminder. It keeps

the experience of raising children fresh and alive and keeps me in

the trenches.

And so the next time a mother or father describes to me his or her

pain and frustration with the ongoing trials of parenting, I will nod

knowingly and humbly, with true empathy in my heart.

* MAXINE COHEN is a Corona del Mar resident and marriage and

family therapist practicing in Newport Beach. She can be reached at

maxinecohen @adelphia.net or at (949) 644-6435.