You do it, I do it, most of us mere mortals do it. We judge, and the results are not pleasant for the judged or the judges.
Let’s be charitable. Let’s say, for the sake of argument, that the impetus for judging other people is concern. We are worried that their actions will cause harm to themselves, or to us, or to people around them. In the case of parents, we worry for their children.
When we talk amongst ourselves (or in our own heads) about the egregious offenses of other parents it is because we are worried, and we want to make sure we are not the only ones. We want to reinforce whatever tentative rule was being flouted with agreement between friends, that yes it is sooooooooooo inappropriate for preschoolers to wear skirts and tackle the monkey bars sans underwear. Get a clue, Dad. (BTW it is the sans underwear bit that was odd; I feel very strongly that preschoolers – boys or girls – should be able to wear skirts whilst battling gravity on the monkey bars, if they so desire.)
And oh yes, on a less charitable note, when I judge you it is also because I am better than you.
When you judge me, on the other hand, whatever triggered the condemnation was simply an error or lapse in judgement. I admit it. I forgot the no-peanut rule and sent my children to daycare with peanut butter sandwiches and nutty granola bars. I was appropriately shamed.
[Side note: One of the great un-asked for but truly appreciated blessings in my life is the conglomerate of thirteen allergy-free children at our new daycare. Oh thank you thank you thank you, great peanut-god.]
I am a mother of very little ones, so I am on intimate terms with judging. It is a world of hurt that we Imperial Mamas inflict on ourselves and on each other.
This is not to say that you should just turn a blind eye to bad parenting. I am certainly not saying that you should suspend the ability to think critically and run, don’t walk, to your nearest meadow to look for leprachauns and unicorns.
If something doesn’t feel right, say so. If you are genuinely uncomfortable or worried about how someone is raising their children, by all means raise the issue. There may be a child who desperately needs some adult, somewhere, to say what she cannot. I just think that there are more constructive ways than judging and snipping and backbiting to accomplish that end.
So how do we stop judging? The antidote to judging, the habit you can substitute in its place, is encouragement.
If you want to help a child, encourage her parent. Encourage that faulty, imperfect, oblivious, woefully inadequate parent (especially if that parent is you) who is clearly getting it all wrong.
Look, when it comes to parenting, few of us – if any – know what we’re doing. I am both a tender, loving mama and an eternally confused newbie figuring it out as I go along. Just when I get the hang of raising a four year old and all of her associated quirks, milestones and evil notions, she changes up the game. She goes and turns five with no regard – except possibly malicious glee – for the fact that it took me an entire year just to figure out four. Every single year, I am a rookie all over again. A little encouragement goes a long way with me.
I promise you, the single greatest thing you can do to help a child is encourage her parents. I absolutely know this to be true.
Recently, the owner of my girls’ daycare told me that she loved the way that I talk to my girls with respect and kindness and care. My eyes welled up. This, of course, is not always true. But hearing those words, receiving that kindness, made me want to try harder to make it more consistently true. Since then, I have been so much more conscious of my tone of voice and the way I speak to my children. I do a good job, most of the time, but I appreciated the enouragement. I need encouragement. We all do. It makes us better.
Cheesy beast that I am, I took this lesson of love and encouragement and paid it forward.
Last weekend, I was having coffee in Fort Langley with a very hot date – the weekend Globe and Mail – while sitting outside on the patio next to two women and a young boy. The child was restless. He was trying to behave, sort of, but bees were buzzing, wind was blowing, and the conversation was boring (to him – to me, it was fascinating).
The child’s mother was a gorgeous woman with impossibly perfect waist length ringlets. I mean, they were amazing. I wanted to touch those curls. I wanted to bathe in them. I wanted to wind them around my naked body while riding a white horse through the town and inspiring chocolatiers to name their bon-bons after me. I could not take my eyes off this freak-of-nature fabulous hair.
While I was inconspicuously (sure!) leaning back in my chair to try and see if those astonishing curls were firmly follicularly rooted or purchased (weave, and a really, really good one), her son almost invisibly sort-of nearly bumped me with his bike. The hooligan.
The coffee shop Godiva instructed her son to apologize to me ‘for getting in her personal space’.
Now, I could have given her a baleful glare and then gone home and kvetched about the hyperactive so-and-so riding his bike around the coffee shop patio, spilling my coffee all over my newspaper (didn’t happen, but you know how these stories go), and clearly destined for a life of crime. That’s the judgey-judgerson Imperial Mama approach.
Instead, here’s what went down.
Me: “It’s okay. I have a five year old. I have no personal space.”
[This is not an exaggeration. My youngest daughter's greeting of choice is this: "Hi ________. I sleep on Mama's head!"]
Her: “Thanks, but I am just trying to teach him that his behaviour has consequences.”
Me: “And you’re doing a really great job. I love how you speak to him.” (See any pattern here?)
Then we peacefully went about our business. The women returned to their conversation, and I returned to eavesdropping on their conversation.
When she left, she stopped in front of me and we had another brief conversation.
Her: “Thank you for your kindness. You have a five year old? Boy or girl?”
Me: “Girl”
Her: “Oh they are whole other species…”
Me: “Oh she’s crazy.”
Her: “I love you!”
The two stories have something in common.
The daycare leader found a way to be sweet to me, and in parenting terms, tried to catch me doing something right. This unexpected kindness and support touched my heart, and made me resolve to keep on keeping on.
Then I did the same for another mama – and I am sure our kids are happier for it. The coffee shop Godiva did not have to go home and wrestle her son into the naughty corner, and I am more conscious of my tone of voice and kindness, love and respect it can convey. I am trying a little harder to consistently be the mother that people think I am, and to support other parents in that same endeavour.
Wow. I like this so much better than telling bitchy stories.
In fact, I liked it so much I blogged about it. Happy Mama Monday.
Everyone has a moment… Yesterday at the park Tristan had to pee so he pulled his shorts down and was about to pee on a tree… like it was a normal thing for him!! I stopped him, but there were 2 girls playing, probably 7yrs old, and they were a little traumatized… luckily for me their careless “too busy to play with my kids” parents weren’t around to see Tristan’s display.
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