Caring Too Much
This morning it occurred to me that for the past 9 years I have been constantly bombarded by the negativity of teenage daughters. And it has taken its toll on me. This realization came in the midst of one daughter’s particularly negative phase, after listening for days to complaints of her miserable life. This is a regular part of my life and I hate it with a passion. It has only served to feed the discouragement and sense of failure that has plagued me. I know that it doesn’t matter what I say in response; it will be wrong, and they are sure that I have no idea what it is like to suffer the way they do. Somehow, whatever the problem, I am at least partly to blame and I am supposed to fix it. And I have tried. For too many years, I have attempted to spare my children pain; tried to accomplish their happiness. But I never could; I never can. And actually, it’s not my job.
This is not to say that I don’t care - quite the contrary. I care too much. What my children cannot possibly understand until they are mothers themselves is that every burden they carry is mine as well. Every dissapointment, every fear, every failure, every heartache I carry as if it were my own. I even carry some for them that they do not yet see. And unfortunately, it does not end when they leave home. I believe it is a cross every loving mother carries for her children as long as she lives (no, I do not mean as long as “they” live). I can understand the wisdom in keeping yourself out of the middle of your grown children’s problems. When they are in your care, you often have no choice, but backing off as they grow up might be essential to your sanity. At least it is for a mom like me.
This morning, the unhappiness of my children overwhelmed me and I sobbed with utter grief. I don’t know if my family is typical or not, but my children have experienced a great deal of unhappiness and loneliness in their short lives. The frustration of being powerless to change that has been unbearable to me. I cling like a life raft to my eldest daughter’s newfound peace and happiness. It gives me hope for the others. I know that life can’t always be happy; there are ups and downs. But somehow that is so much easier to accept this for myself than for my children.
As in so many aspects of mothering, I recognize the parallel between my grief for my children and God’s grief for His. How much of my relationship with Him is centered on listening to me complain and gripe about my misery! I know just how He feels. And, though He is not powerless as I am, if He has truly given me a free will, He must allow me to make my choices, good or bad, and live with the consequences, not only of my own choices, but those of others as well. I’m beginning to understand how hard that must be. And there is much to be learned from His style of parenting. I turn to Him in my despair over my own children and He reminds me that they are His children first. I recognize that their wellbeing in life is a load that I cannot handle and I understand that it is not too big for Him. It is His to carry and He doesn’t expect me to try. Once again, I see the need to trust Him; that, as great as my love is for my children, His love is far beyond what I have to offer them. I’ll probably take it back a thousand times, but for now I give my burden to Him. I know that’s where it belongs. That doesn’t make it any easier. They are part of me and they always will be. But I guess He knows that.
Yes, they always will be part of you, and as my own parents used to say, “This is going to hurt me more than it will you.”, is really true.