Dear Parent I Used to be Overly Critical Of:

Dear Parent I Used to be Overly Critical Of,

This is an open letter of apology to you. I have worked with children for over a decade in a variety of venues. I graduated with a degree in social work and disability studies and a passion for early childhood that I previously confused with knowledge. When I first started teaching, I knew everything. After a few years of experience, I knew a thing or two. Now, I am a parent and I know nothing. Absolutely nothing. I mean, sure, there were some things about postpartum that surprised me. Did you know my feet are a half size bigger? (Some other things are also a half size bigger, but let's save that for another conversation.) And Momnesia--that's a real thing. I can tell you what I ate for dinner on a particular night in 1994 but don't ask me to actually finish a sentence once 4:00PM hits. (And for the record, I think "blowy" is a perfectly reasonable and logical way to describe windy conditions outside.) I did not know, however, that when you birth a baby, all of the wisdom and knowledge you once had about being a parent also leaves the body. That one was a real shocker! And what's worse, it isn't rectified by getting new shoes!

But let's get serious. Sure, to your face I was the picture of patience and compassion. You came to me for an opinion or maybe you didn't, but I have a million, so I gave you at least a few. We got creative, we problem solved, we tried and tried again. We were a team but at the end of the day, one thing separated us: biology. And that, my dear fellow parent, is one hell of a powerful thing. And so I am humbly writing today to apologize. I apologize for judging you. For thinking I would handle things differently or even worse, better than you if I were in your position. I apologize for questioning your motives or your logic or assuming that either of those factors were in any way flawed.

To the parent who had poor boundaries and projected every childhood insecurity and anxiety of your own onto your child, I am sorry. You frequently asked for things that were unreasonable or impossible in a classroom setting. You often labeled your child as shy or anxious or sensitive and I argued that these were becoming self fulfilling prophecies. Your child could do no wrong or even worse, at times your child could do no right. I felt impatient with you or dismissed you or found a way to verbally coax your feelings while proceeding with a grain of salt.

To the parent who used a screen as a babysitter, texted from the playground, bribed your child with chocolate or otherwise bought yourself some time, I am sorry. I thought you were using cheap cop outs. I thought you were self indulgent. I thought you were immature. I wondered how hard it could really be to just, you know, be a parent?

To the parent who had the wherewithal to know her child needed extra help or support but did not pursue it, I am sorry. You were a teacher or a psychologist or a social worker or an OT or PT or speech pathologist and your kid has obvious delays. You know that 0-3 are the most formative years of the brain in children and yet you delayed getting Early Intervention. It's free and they come to your house, and yet you delayed. I put it gently, I put it bluntly, I tried every tactic I could think of. Despite your expertise, you knew better. Your kid didn't have a delay, he was defiant or going through a phase or quirky. I questioned how you could miss the obvious or accused you of being in denial. Sometimes I even accused you of being lazy or negligent.


And now, knowledge-less, wisdom-less, and a little worn for the ware, I apologize to you because I am you. I am the neurotic parent who lacks appropriate boundaries.  We brought these little beings into the world who at times seem like mirrors and at times seem completely alien. They contain 50% of our genetic makeup and we know their cries, their scent, their preferences, their quirks. What we don't know as well is where we end and they begin, and how could we? We were part of something absolutely miraculous and uniquiely Divine: creation. And every artist is attached to his work; so too are we attached to ours.

And I am the parent whose infant has seen Arthur and Daniel Tiger's Neighborhood on Netflix because you can only fingerpaint and go on walks and play ball for so many hours before you need some mindless activity of your own. I make phone calls and return emails from the playground or by the sandbox because those are places where my son is engaged enough to not kvetch or attempt to eat the cell phone while I finally get back to the person who might even be my own parent who called three weeks ago. And no, I can't wait until he is napping because the sound of my voice wakes him up in an instant and the sound of the forest playing from the aforementioned cell phone keeps him asleep. And bribery? I've tried Bamba-training my kid to crawl. Yup, you read that right.

And I am the parent who may not have known everything, but knew enough about genetics and early childhood development to notice that my son has low muscle tone but at 12 months old and not crawling, still resisted the idea of seeking therapy or early intervention. And why? Not because I'm ignorant or lazy or even in denial, but because my son is so utterly perfect in my eyes that it breaks my heart to think that he falls short of that by anyone else's standard.

As a teacher, I have a firm and seemingly eclectic belief that children should not be forced to say "I'm sorry." While I do model this skill for children and encourage and assist kids in conflict to repair their relationships in their own appropriate ways, I do not force an apology. For one thing, sometimes we don't feel sorry and saying it in those moments is not genuine nor is it effective in cultivating empathy. Rather, a kid learns from this that he can hit/kick/tease/take a toy and it's OK as long as it's accompanied by an apology. Furthermore, when an apology is genuine and heartfelt, it can bring about enormous opportunity for growth. When we really feel sorry, we are humbled. We are open and vulnerable and there is room to learn and overcome. Today, I am genuine in the humility I feel. Parenthood is the most humbling and vulnerable experience I've had to date--even beyond that of building a marriage. Parenthood strips you down of everything you ever thought you knew while concurrently building you up to superhero status in the eyes of your little one. Thank G-d I don't see myself as even half as perfect as my son sees me, otherwise we'd need a second home just for my ego alone. Nonetheless, I do hope I will continue to grow and strive to earn my superhero cape both as a Mommy and an educator. I hope that rather than projecting my insecurities onto my son, I will allow him to transfer some of his inherent curiosity and wonder onto me. I hope I will always continue to grow (although I wouldn't mind if I could dissuade my feet from taking the same trajectory). I hope I will always be open to falling, failing, dusting myself off and getting on the horse again because I want and expect the same for my son.

And if I can tell you without a doubt that I would run into a burning building for this little boy who is snuggled up asleep right next to me, for sure I can also get through the calls, paperwork, and personal insecurities to advocate for him to get a little extra help and support in his motor development. He can keep being perfect in my eyes because it's natural for me to see him that way. He is my superhero. Heck, if he sprouts another tooth, I'm putting it on his resume. And G-d be willing, I won't have to run into a burning building for this little guy, but if I need to, you know where I'll be. And all of you, Parents I Used to Be Overly Critical Of will be there right beside me.

Sincerely,
Supermom Early Childhood Specialist Only Human