First, don’t criticize.
Second, don’t criticize.
Hmm, and what’s the third one again?
Oh yeah. Don’t criticize.
As a child, I was reprimanded almost constantly and rather than developing an impervious skin to harsh words I became a raw, sunburned soul stung by every ray of disapproval. Still, as an adult, I now see the need and benefits of honest, constructive criticism.
Although I am a master of self-doubt, I lack the ability to see my abilities and down falls clearly. I depend on a few people to lend me clarity. My friends at girl night offer specific advice for improvement on my decorating skills. Occasionally I’ll talk someone into helping with one of my skaters programs. And there’s no end of self-help books for my woes. But the soul wrenching, life altering words come from God, my mom and a few friends. Discipline is a divine responsibility of all parents, but it’s far too easy for teaching to lead to preaching and finally screeching. Just as my son wouldn’t benefit from me saying – “Oh you don’t need cleaning skills." (My future daughter-in-law would hate me!) – I gain no advantage from a parent who says, “You are lovely and perfect in every way.”
My poor mom has gained plenty of practice in constructive criticism teaching me (with limited success) to not take myself so seriously, and to put her curse on me to "have children who are just like me". In return she was willing to make changes of her own. Like living with less stuff. She has had two yard sales in the past two months and is having another one next weekend. I have been trying to decide just how to get rid of some of my own "stuff" over the past few weeks. Should I sell it online? Donate it to D.I.? Have a yard sale? Really, friends. It’s exhausting owning all this stuff. I know you all agree with me. And yet we all keep buying it . . . then losing it or breaking it or getting tired of it and then spending a tremendous amount of energy (not to mention those other precious commodities called “time” and “money”) trying to find it or fix it or sell it so we can be “happy” again. I tell you, it’s enough to make me want to live on the plains like a pioneer. But then I remember that pioneers were probably pretty put out when their butter churn busted a handle, and even after they fixed it. They still had to churn their own butter, which they obtained from milk they squeezed from the teats of cows — large, expensive, smelly ones that were just as likely to succumb to a virus as my computer.
It is usually only in close relationships that criticism is effective. Few accept condemnation from friends and it’s nearly universal to bristle at strangers offering disparagement. Yet, I’ve had a few occasions where the words of a friend swiveled my heart into just the right place. That place where my mom loves me. And for that I am grateful.
Did I forget this? Did I forget that my mom was just a girl like me — new to the parenting thing—and doing her best? Or was I just doing something inherent to our relationship by questioning?
I very recently read Sister Beck's story about her own mother visiting a dairy farm, talking to a farmer, who relayed this to her: “The goal is to have every mother cow raise a superior daughter.” To which her mother replied, “That’s the goal of every mother.”
Even my mother. Even though she told me to never get married, or have any kids, today, as I was leaving her house, she told me that she was glad that she had me. And so I strive to be like a cow, to raise a better couple of calves and in the process, not forget that maybe this should include acceptance and conditional love.
Because my mom wasn’t perfect.
My mom—and my kids—know I'm not perfect either.
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| {My mom holding me ~ 3 months old} |
