I have oft-lamented, in my intrapsychic head-banging way, the toll my crappy divorce has taken on my son, Luca. I do think Luca came into the world wired to have certain issues, but growing up in a spectacularly bad divorce was the equivalent of resting those issues on a nice soft blankie in a petri dish and singing lullabyes to them.
Maybe I screwed Franny up really badly and I just don’t know it. She did, after all, succumb to Girl Drama earlier in the year that prompted her teacher to strongly suggest (in other words, mandate) that we get her some therapy. Maybe I’m just used to a whole lot of Hard and so my Easy Bar is set really high.
But some events have transpired in the past several days since she’s returned from sleepaway camp to make me marvel at how flexible she is. And how, miraculously, I haven’t done anything to screw this up. At least not much.
#1 Piece of Evidence that I Have Not Screwed Up My Kid
This is the conversation I had with Franny in the car last weekend when I picked her up from sleepaway camp.
After our burritos, Franny and I walk to the ice cream place.
Me: Since we don’t have a new sitter yet, I have to put you in day camp next week.
Franny: Which one?
Me: You haven’t been there before. It’s near where I work.
Franny: What do you do there?
Me: Day camp things. Run around. Make lanyards.
Franny: How long does it last?
Me: All day. I have to leave you in aftercare till I get off work.
Franny: I think I’m going to try the mint chocolate chip.
#4 Piece of Evidence That I Have Not Screwed Up My Kid
The first day of camp, Franny sits on a bench while I fill out registration forms. It’s about 100 degrees. It takes forever to pay. There’s a line, the camp’s credit card machine is broken, I have to write a check. We are told Franny has to change into a special camp shirt. There are none in her size, so she wears one that’s too small.
I pick her up at 5:30, after work. She’s been in aftercare for an hour and a half. When I walk into the gym, she’s sitting on the floor laughing with another girl. She runs over to me, fresh as a daisy.
“That was really fun!” she says.
She grabs my hand as we walk to the door. She tells me about her new friends: Dylan, who’s great in gymnastics; Sophie, who tried to get someone to touch a brown recluse; Cleo, who has freckles like she does.
I remember what happened when I put Luca in a day camp at this age. The struggles to get him in and out of the car. The anger that dripped off him when we got to camp, the loud remarks about how everyone looked “stupid.” The limp-dishrag expression of the counselor when I went to pick up Luca, the counselor who told me, unconvincingly, that “he had a rough start but seemed to come around a little by the end of the day.”
I remember what happened when my parents put me in day camp, how heart-poundingly queasy I felt being dropped off in a group full of kids I didn’t know, how everyone else seemed excited about macrame but me, how freezing cold the lake was, the lake that gave me swimmer’s ear, at which point I dug in my seven-year-old heels and refused to go.
Atticus thinks I don’t acknowledge the conflict the divorce has caused, and that the ambient tension has made Franny anxious. He thinks I need to tell Franny — who shuts down whenever I have brought up the divorce and refuses to talk about it — that we have to talk about it. And if I can’t do that I should take her to therapy so the therapist can get her to talk about it.
Maybe it’s all the years I spent in therapy, or maybe it’s the years I’ve spent as a therapist — whatever the reason, I have come to believe that talking isn’t always what it’s cracked up to be. Some people really don’t get a lot of benefit out talk therapy.
Franny, like her mother, seems to benefit from retail and pedicure therapy.
And in hanging out with people she likes. Which at this point still includes me.
Atticus is on a father-son trip with Kevin for a few days, so Franny and I have plans. Movie night. The nail salon. Sleeping in my bed — a rare treat when Atticus is out of town.
This morning I gazed at her sweet freckled face when she opened her eyes, her long auburn hair spread out on the pillow next to me.
“How’d you sleep?” I asked.
“Good,” she said, then bounded out of bed to start her day.
A day that will not be screwed up by the divorce or me. At least not much.
she’s a cutie! — prob gets that from her mom
Great post, Pauline! Your daughter sounds very adaptable and able to handle change. This will serve her well over the years. A little strife makes our kids stronger
Lovely post, Pauline. And, I agree with you on therapy. Sometimes talk therapy isn’t the answer and talking is not the cure.
I do believe that our kids are born with innate traits that no amount of life – good or bad – can change. Your daughter obviously has a sunny and optimistic disposition. How wonderful for her – and for you! My daughter has always been that way – and at 22, she is still the same.
It’s interesting how different kids are. My parents had a very badly handled divorce and my sister (who is younger) could never let go. I was much more easy-going. That said, I think it did affect both of our romantic relationships, so counseling is probably not a bad idea.
However, I dated one psychologically abusive older guy, starting when I was 17, but was smart enough to FINALLY end it when he shoved me (and started to say stuff like, “If I can’t have you, no one will.”) I do feel like I resolved all my daddy issues in that one horrible relationship. However, not sure my sister will ever have a “permanent” relationship. She doesn’t seem to care, so maybe it really isn’t a big deal.
Don’t say this to scare you. Just say it because my mom says she wishes she had gotten us both counseling when we were young.
I can attest to kids’ overall resilience which is attributed, I imagine, to just plain old personality. My two sons respond entirely differently to stress — and are comforted/helped in entirely different ways. When I begin to worry about either of them — and the effects of having a disabled sibling — I reassure myself that their journey in life is unique and that there are limits to how much I can mold and even guide them. That sounds awfully trite, but I don’t know how else to say it. I think the key word is resilience, and from what I’ve read and understand, most children who are loved have an extraordinary capacity to be so.
I have a kid just like Franny and one that tends to fret about most things. I am not divorced, and as far as I can remember, have not treated them differently. The fretful son was like that from infancy. Cried whenever I put him down, refused to go to sleep, cried every day at preschool. The other child slept like a rock, rarely cried and goes about his day taking whatever comes his way. Different people from the beginning. Sounds like you are doing a good job with both kids.
I too have a very resilient daughter, who appears relatively unscathed by divorce. I also feel that she was sort of born this way. Sometimes you get lucky.
On the journey of parenting, take one very big gold star and enjoy it. Until it bursts into gold confetti when the teacher calls again. But today, BIG GOLD STAR!
They’re born the way they are. All I can do as a parent is to help them make the best of the good that’s in them, and give them some ways they can handle the tougher characteristics. Boy, it took me YEARS to learn that
First of all, you didn’t screw up any of your kids so cut that out. We’re all screwed up because that’s what life does– screws with you and sees what happens.
Franny sounds like is really good at internalizing things while Luca is a pro externalizer. Neither is wrong, they’re just different that’s all. Externalizers might be harder on a person on a day to day basis but when internalizers lose their cool? Look out world! My baby brother is just like that. Cool as a cucumber and you think he’s the bendiest person in the world, going with the flow all the time, adapting. And then…
Yeah.
No one is immune to the psychosis that is life. People just deal differently.
And again, neither of your kids are screwed up. They’re just dealing.
Ditto to mutant. We are all a little crazy. I didn’t grow up in a divorced family but I was definitely screwy about what I thought was important in a marriage based on what my parents taught me. I should’ve not listened to them and stuck with what my gut was telling me. Oh well…now I’m the divorced one with kids, but with a stronger sense of self and a determination to be true to myself above all else. This is by far the better version of me to be a model for my children than the weak woman I used to be when I was married to their father and his overbearing family.
Interesting, MammaBling. Your comment makes me think about the idea that we should be able to “fix” ourselves in a dysfunctional marriage. It would be great if we could, but sometimes I think the only way to grow up is to get out, especially if you’re in a system that demands you stay crippled, or less than you could be.