Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away (and by that I mean not just suburbia, but the heart of Gentile suburbia), a friend offered up words of parenting wisdom I will never forget: "You don't have to like your children; all you have to do is love them."
I was a young mother of only two back then, still living in the city; my friend was a seasoned mom, a veteran, with three kids, a large dog, and something called a mud room. I grew up in an apartment with barely enough room for two kids; if we wanted to run around, we took the stairs instead of the elevator. I had two gerbils, but no dog. My mom could occupy herself for hours picking up lint from the carpet; had there been something called a mud room, she would have burned it.
My friend in Gentile suburbia was my guru on child rearing in post Levittown America. She was older and wiser, the one from whom I often sought guidance, the one in whose presence I often felt grossly inadequate. She embraced chaos, seemed to know how to handle it on her own terms. She was a natural mother, as comfortable with the unpredictability of life with small children as I was uncomfortable on a quiet suburban street about to be festooned with Christmas lights. Still living in the city, with only two childbirths under my belt, I was a bumbling idiot.
In suburbia, as far as I could tell, everything was super sized. The houses, the families, the dogs. Lucas, the slobbery boxer (I think) who was the official greeter at my friend's suburban Shangri-La, could easily eat kibble off the top of my head when standing on his two hind legs. Since I generally did not arrive with kibble on my head, he was content to stand with his massive paws resting on my shoulders and lick my face. I grew up with gerbils. I was unaccustomed to such enthusiastic greetings, and I kind of liked the way Lucas made me feel so welcome.
Lucas liked to make everyone feel welcome, though, including my two and a half year old daughter toddling behind me. Lucas didn't even need to rise up on his hind legs to eat kibble off her head, but Lucas, being a dog, was very much into equal opportunity unconditional affection. Lucas, being a dog, was also not incredibly bright. Which meant that when he rose up on his hind legs to his full height to greet my daughter he found no shoulders to grab onto. He did, however, find a small pair of shoulders to grab onto on his way down, which, much to both dog's and child's surprise, were unable to support the weight of a descending hundred forty pound canine.
The good news was that Lucas could improvise, and he adjusted fairly quickly to licking a face that happened to be staring up at him from the floor. He was unfazed by the screaming, and the salty tears added flavor. Better, as far as he was concerned, than most hostess gifts. The bad news was .... well, you can guess the bad news. So, to make a long story a little less long, my daughter continued to scream, even after Lucas was banished to the place called the mud room, even after my exasperated friend had tried, without success, to explain to my ill-behaved child that poor Lucas had meant well.
The mom part of my brain wanted to turn back time and erase all the pain and suffering that horrid creature had inflicted upon my child. The ever shrinking intelligent part of my brain wanted to politely grab my screaming daughter and my confused son (still hanging precariously from my left arm while I tried desperately to calm his sister with one hand) and leave the land of the giant families and houses and dogs and head back to the comfortably stifling confines of our place in the city. The overbearing pleaser part of my brain, though, chose to stay, to pretend not to notice the writhing and the screaming, to act as if I was as comfortable with the super sized unpredictability of suburbia as my friend was uncomfortable with my inadequacy as a parent.
My annoyed but unflappable friend seized upon the teachable moment, offering up that sage advice that I have always carried with me in the dark recesses of my brain, the part that reserves cold, hard truths for extreme emergencies. I suppose I have called upon those words on occasion, reassuring myself that I did not have to like my children, I only had to love them. And loving them, I have found over the course of over twenty-five years, is the easiest thing in the world to do. We are hard wired to do that, to love each of them with all our heart. Contrary to what children typically believe, that our capacity for love is finite, and our hearts are inevitably divided among them in unequal parts, we (and I think I speak for most of us parents here) love each of them with every cubic centimeter of our heart, totally and unconditionally. And liking them, I have found over the course of over twenty-five years, can be the hardest thing in the world to do sometimes, sometimes even for extended periods.
I was thinking, the other day, about what my wise friend said so long ago. I remember resigning myself, back on that day, to the fact that I was probably destined to dislike my daughter, this rude child who could not accept a dog's friendly hello with grace. Since that day, I have become angry with her and her siblings, even disliked them intensely. But despite those moments (even the lengthy ones), despite my friend's advice, I like them. A lot. They all piss me off from time to time, and will no doubt continue to do so as long as I am still breathing. But I like them all as much as I could like anyone, would choose each of them as a treasured friend if I could.
They are entitled to my love. My like, though, that is something they have earned.
