I've never been one to buy into the myth of a "normal" childhood. I just don't believe there is any such animal. Everyone I know had some kind of issue to mar what others believe is "normal," be it a parent's divorce, an illness, a sudden move to a new town, family money problems, alcoholism, you name it; life isn't easy.
For me, when I was seven years old (exactly one day before my birthday, as a matter of fact), my parents picked up and left Odessa, then-USSR/now-Ukraine. It wasn't until we were physically sitting on our suitcases on the train that they told me we were going to America (they hadn't told me before because they were afraid I'd tell someone else and we'd be arrested, or at least heckled). For the next four months, we travelle from the outskirts of the USSR to Vienna, Austria to Rome, Italy,
by bus, by train and by car, with periodic escorts by the armed Jewish Defense League because the PLO had vowed to kill us.
We eventually ended up in San Francisco, CA, where I went to school speaking no English. When I finally did learn English, I became a pint-sized translator for my family, escorting my mother and grandparents on visits to the doctor's office, the social security office, making phone calls for them, etc.
So that's my not "normal" childhood story. But I never had a problem with it. I thought, hey - see above - life isn't easy, no one's childhood is normal, all's well that end's well, aren't I lucky I got through it all without any permanent scars, crippling neurosis or post-traumatic stresses?
Or so I thought, anyway. Until my older son got closer and closer to turning seven.
All of a sudden, as he passed the six and a half mark and proudly started telling everyone he was "six and three quarters" I freaked out.
I didn't realize at first that I was freaking out. But I did notice that my reactions to his behavior were mushrooming out of proportion. Suddenly, I found myself refusing to do anything for him - pour him a cup of juice, help him tie his shoes, toast his bagel, look for a lost library book - insisting, practically screaming, that he do it "himself."
"Don't you understand," I finally heard myself pleading with my husband. "He's almost seven years old and he can't take care of himself. How is he going to survive if he can't take care of himself? I'm not always going to be there to do things for him. I have to teach him to be independent. He's almost seven, damn it!"
Ahem.
I didn't know that was in there.
But, apparently, I - or some shadowy part of me -- believes that, from the age of seven, a child has to be ready to take care of themselves, because you never know what might happen.
I wonder where I got that idea.
Alina Adams
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Kyra Davis
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3 comments:
I so get this. I'm the oldest of five, and my daughter (11) is an only child, and I can't understand why she isn't more independent. Of course, by the time I was her age, my parents had been separated for three years, and I had become "responsible" for my siblings until my mother got home from work. I keep telling her that she doesn't know how lucky she is that she doesn't have to be "responsible" for anyone but herself. The funny thing is, that is the reason that she is an only child- I didn't want another child to walk in my shoes, and now I don't understand why she isn't "more responsible". :-)
I must admit that my childhood experience was dramatically different from both yours and Alina's. I am an only child, born and raised by a middle class Californian family. The result? Well just today I had to ask a friend how to steam broccoli if that tells you anything.
It's funny how you have those little things in your head. I haven't had kids yet but whenever I think about the values I want my children to have the number one on the list is independence.
I had an unusual childhood and had to be a support person for my mother who has a mental illness. Hopefully my child will have two parents and a support system that I could never imagine and this sends me in a tailspin about not "spoiling them" and ruining their ability to be fully-functioning adults. I can see this is a struggle that will become even more apparent when I become a parent.
When I hear parents or children talking about kids who I view as spoiled or ungrateful I get so pissed off and I know it's because of sour grapes.
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