Teach Your Children Well

From my earliest moments, I remember my mother telling me that there’s nothing I can’t do if I put my mind to it. I wasn’t entirely sure what she meant at first, but it sounded good. Later, the oversimplification would gall me. Particularly when scraping with math homework that neither she nor my dad could help me untangle. For the most part, however, her programming worked. I’ve never looked at anything and dismissed it as something I couldn’t do. It’s never even occurred to me that my womanhood might stand between me and my goals. If I never climb Everest or become an NFL quarterback, it’s not because I can’t. I simply don’t want to badly enough.

It’s important to note that this progressive – even downright feminist – idea wasn’t coming from a highly educated or advantaged woman. My mom was the youngest of four children. She might have been fourth of five, but her baby sister Mary died very young. Her mother, whom we quietly suspect suffered from some form of emotional disorder, committed suicide soon after Mary’s death. The Great Depression was winding down, but things were still difficult for my mother’s family. Her stoic Irish father worked hard to keep them afloat, but there was little time or patience left for the littlest one at the end of the day. The saddest picture I’ve ever seen was of my mother’s first communion: All the other little girls were so happy and proud of their pretty white gloves and new bibles. Mom was the freckled acorn in the front row with the scuffed shoes looking like she was about to shatter into a million insignificant bits.

Whether through convenience or compassion, she was finally sent to away to live with relatives in a tiny town in northern Wisconsin. Her aunt and uncle worshipped my mother and freely lavished on her as much love as any little girl could want.

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Of course, I didn’t see any of her hard knocks until much later in my own life. She downplayed the more Dickensian aspects of her childhood, and always focused instead on how lucky she was today. She had a flawed, complicated, and wonderful husband, two headstrong and slightly crazy daughters, a comfy home with two cars in the garage, and a neurotic wiener dog. In her eyes, life simply couldn’t be more gratifying than that.

Being so gratified allowed her and my dad the luxury of pride in everything they’d created. When faced with the notion of their child being a musician or artist, a lot of parents might attempt a course correction. Mine showed up at every concert, play, or performance and always clapped the loudest – even when I stunk up the joint. When I decided at age 37 to quit a decent cubicle job and start my own graphic design firm, they clapped even louder.

Naturally, I would never accuse our family of being perfect. My parents made many mistakes over the years, as we all do. Our predominantly sunny core seemed to resent the interference of conflict. Every problem suffered death by suffocation, especially those that might be seen as shameful or embarrassing.

But with all of their faults, and despite deep furrows of pain and loss and fear in both my mother and father, they made a conscious decision that their children’s lives would be better. They instilled in us a kind of light and inner strength. It’s a confidence that has nothing to do with being superior. It only comes with knowing that we are profoundly loved. We are loved even in the face of a tremendous flop or bungled effort or unbelievably stupid choice. We are loved at our best and our most awful. It is a ferocious love for another that asserts itself before any love for one’s self, and there is no substitute.

So, armed with this unique brand of cockeyed optimism I’ve sky dived through the world. I’ve never asked what comes next, or “what if I fail?” With all my heart, I know that the only failure is not trying.

The moral of the story sounds simple enough: Be good to your kids. You brought them here, and you’re utterly responsible for who they are to become. Tell them how marvelous they are, and don’t shrink away from being tough on them when necessary. Arm them with everything they need to be good humans by setting a good example. Perhaps most importantly, don’t flaunt your own pains for the sake of arguing theirs away. Show them that even the worst history can’t stop a beautiful future, if that is what you put your mind to.