Parenting : the same but different

Wednesday 7th of May 2014 | Category: Opinion | Written by: Lucas James

I grew up knowing that certain behaviours were unacceptable.

One did not put ones elbows on the table.

One did not wear shoes in the house.

One did not answer back.

My father was violent and abusive, my mother too scared to leave him, not because of his reaction, but because she was terrified of being by herself, terrified of admitting this man she had defied her parents by marrying was, as they had thought, not a good person.

One did not put ones feet on the furniture.

One did not tell ones teacher how one got a black eye.

One did not ask questions.

I was told, often, that I was worthless, unloved, unwanted. My mother looked me in the eye once, perfectly calm, and told me that if she had known how difficult I was before I was born, she would have 'taken care of it'. She looked away, gazing out of the window for a moment, then turned back to me, leant in close and whispered as she looked in my eyes 'You ruined everything. You ruined my life.'

One did not cry.

One did not interupt.

One did not read after bed time.

When I was small my mother would have me near her, while she carried on with whatever jobs needed doing around the house. I remember sitting up to the dining room table and watching her thread her sewing machine. I remember standing next to her as she simmered oranges to make marmalade. I remember sitting on as stool next to her armchair as she knitted another tiny white cardigan for a work colleagues new baby.

One did not answer the front door, or the telephone.

One did not leave any food on ones plate.

One did not say no.

And now I have a daughter. Her name is Petal. She has never been in the same room as the woman who gave birth to me. She has never heard the sound of her voice.

My daughter will put her elbows on the table.

My daughter will slam doors.

My daughter will complain about me to her friends.

I want Petal to know that jam is made of fruit, and that it's not hard to make. Even if she never does it. I want her to have it on that mental list of 'stuff to do one day, maybe'. Along with sewing up a hole in a sock, icing a birthday cake, making a run for a guinea pig, and learning how to waltz.

My daughter will put her feet on the furniture. Often.

My daughter will forget my birthday.

My daughter will accidentally on purpose forget to do her homework.

Petal has watched yarn grow into a blanket over hours on my lap, seen it finished, and snuggled up with it in her bed. She has wrapped it around her on the sofa, and I have told her that every time she holds that blanket around her it's as if my arms are around her, giving her a hug. Soppy I know, but sometimes she catches my eye when she's wrapped up and I know exactly what she's thinking.

My daughter will cry. Cry hot hot tears over the loss of a pet, a boy, a sticker, a girl.

My daughter will lie to me.

My daughter will wear clothes that I don't approve of.

Petal is almost ten. She loves roller coasters, she sings along to the radio, she wants a pet of her own. She will be fifteen, then twenty, then twenty five. She will live a life away from me, full of dreams and smiles and a little bit of heartbreak.

My daughter will answer the front door, and the telephone.

My daughter will make mistakes.

My daughter will know that she is loved. Every second, every minute, every hour, every day.