Zig Instead of Zag

The following was written on January 23, 1997.

"I hate you!" he said, and if by some slight chance I didn't believe it, he spun around and got right in my face and shouted, "I REEEEAAALLLLY HATE YOU!" He spit out the words with disgust, and the grimace on his face confirmed his feelings. After his verbal assault, he turned back around and stared out of the car window refusing to acknowledge my presence. "Leave. Me. Alone!" he muttered to the glass. Right now he wanted to be somewhere, anywhere else but with me.

So this is what it's like to be a parent.

In my twenties, I had fantasized about finding my prince charming and having his babies. He would adore me, and they would think the sun rose and set in my back pocket. Fast approaching my mid-thirties, I was about to give up on finding my future children's father, when he confidently road into my life sitting atop a big black quarter horse called King.

On April 27, 1981, the chance to love unconditionally, to nurture, to teach, to give just the right amount of discipline, to cherish, and to be cherished back was now a reality and no longer a fantasy. Three days later, it was almost ripped away from me by an Apnea episode that almost stole my long-awaited baby away. He stopped breathing multiple times in ten minutes the doctor said. The thought of losing him was devastating. I had waited thirty-five years for him and now he was leaving me. I was able to hold him so little. I told him I loved him only once. I thought I had more time. I thought I had the rest of my life with him.

"I hate you!" resonated through my mind again and again as I drove toward home. He didn't simply hate me, he reeeeeaaaalllly hated me. How could he hate me? Since the moment he was born, my focus pointed to him. His health, his mental and emotional well-being, his education, his happiness, his future, his everything was primary on my list of importance.

I pulled the car into the garage and waited for him to throw open the door to make his escape. I followed him into the house and went straight to my room. I crawled under the bedcovers, curled up into a fetal position and cried. He'd told me before that he hated me, but never with so much conviction, so much passion. He meant it this time. I repulsed him. I disgusted him. I was a thorn in his side and just because I said "No" when he asked to go out on a school night, the night before semester finals.

Where did I go wrong? Isn't it my responsibility to go to his school ten times a month if that's what it takes to make a difference? Isn't it my responsibility to tell him to put on a coat if it's minus 32 degrees outside? Isn't it my job to punish him when he has done something wrong? Aren't I suppose to establish the rules? Doesn't he realize when he is grounded, I'm grounded? Doesn't he understand that after a long day at work, I'm tired and I don't want to battle when I come home? Doesn't he know that if I didn't care so much, life would be easy for him now, but hard on him later?

I hate you!" was all I could hear as I tried to keep warm under the covers. The heat needed to be turned up, but I didn't have the energy to get out of bed. I wanted to stick my head out from under the covers and shout out loud for him to hear, WELL, I DON'T LIKE YOU, EITHER. HERE, LET ME HELP YOU PACK, YOU UNAPPRECIATIVE BRAT! GO SOMEWHERE ELSE AND DRIVE SOMEONE ELSE CRAZY!"  I wanted to scream that and more, but I didn't because the truth is I love him and I don't want him to leave.

I wish I could find that elusive key that would unlock all the secrets to being a successful parent--the key that would give me the answers I so desperately need. What was that simple formula for mixing unconditional love, nurturing, teaching, cherishing and discipline I'd come up with years ago? If only it could be as easy as choosing a name. What is the recipe for producing happy, well-adjusted, productive children and then presenting them to the world? It seemed so easy back then. Let's face it. The toughest decision I faced was which color to paint the nursery.

Even the child-rearing experts disagree. One expert changed his mind after an entire generation of children was raised by parents with his book on their nightstand. No amount of apologies by this authority on children could turn back the clock and let us start over. "Oops! Never mind. I was wrong. You should have zigged when you zagged." But the truth is it's not his fault. He did his best which is what all conscientious parents are trying to do. The problem is so many of us are doing "seat-of-the-pants" parenting, and this causes anxiety and fear--fear for the future of our children.

My son is fifteen; he is a man in a ten-year-old mind. He jabs, pushes, tugs, pulls, leans, and prods. He also hugs, kisses, and loves. He's a brat and an angel. He's up and he's down. He's hot and he's cold. He's lazy and he's motivated. He's a zigger and a zagger. He's many things but one thing cannot be denied. He's my son and I love him. And so I will continue to love unconditionally, nurture, teach, and discipline. I will cherish him now like I cherished him when he was only three days old and in intensive care, and hope that someday he will realize that he is very special, that he has talents and gifts unique only to him, that he is smart and funny, that he is valued and loved.

Update: A few months ago I was at Jason's home and overheard a conversation he was having on the phone with a friend who was having difficulties with their fifteen-year-old. The advice he gave was incredible and impressive. I was overwhelmed with pride for my son. At one point in the conversation, he looked over at me and said, "Hang in there. If you only knew what I put my mother through when I was fifteen, and I turned out okay."  Yes you certainly did, Jason. You turned out better than okay.

Jason, age 15