Over the years, I also learned to let go of my expectations when it came to things like teaching my kids how to make their beds. When they were young, my kids would complete the chore of making their beds, and I’m sure they did their best, yet it invariably looked like, you know, a little kid had tried to make the bed. I’d see one corner of the comforter folded over weirdly and part of the sheet hanging out, and my first urge was to go in there and fix it. (I’m not even a clean freak, it was that disheveled!) But then I’d pause and ask myself a question I’ve found really helpful in motherhood, one I’ve learned from older parents who have been there and done that: Will this really matter in the long run? No. No one ever died from living in a home with poorly made beds. I’ve googled it. What matters is that I empower my kids and avoid sending them the message that the way they do things isn’t good enough. So I told them their beds looked great and let it go. Kristina: 2; Urge to Control: 89,768,201. But who’s counting?
When Luka and Matea were starting sixth and fourth grade, we moved to a new town. We were all very excited. It was the first time we could afford to buy a home, and we were moving from a small apartment to a house with a backyard (my son’s wish) and stairs (my daughter’s wish). Philip and I were thrilled to have more space, in a town with a great school system, and in a neighborhood full of kids.
But I could also feel myself stressing out about my kids starting a new school. Luka had struggled at his previous school; he’d been picked on and hadn’t really developed strong friendships. It broke my heart to listen to stories of him getting turned away or shut down by other kids. Luka handled it as well as a kid can, but still, I know it hurt. I wanted so badly to have some control over how he would experience his new school, to set him up so that he never felt alone or rejected. I wished I had the power to get ahead of him and fix everything, including things that weren’t even broken yet.
A few days before their first day at school, I found out that Cat, my only friend in this new town, lived in a house that looked out over the school’s playground. Well, how convenient! As they got dressed for their first day, I slyly convinced my kids to wear bright yellow shirts so they would be easy to spot. Cat’s kids knew the bell schedule and when the students would be outside for recess. Just before 10:50 a.m., I showed up at her house with binoculars and headed for her bedroom.
I heard the distant sound of the school bell and watched nervously as the kids started to fill the yard. I’m not completely sure if what I was doing was legal, but I’m completely sure it was unacceptable: a middle-aged woman pressing binoculars against a window, staring through them, and tracking the movements of innocent schoolchildren.
With a thrill, I spotted the neon-yellow shirt my son was wearing. But Luka was standing all by himself, not a single kid around him! I wanted to cry. I saw Matea in the distance, playing with two girls. She seemed to have already made friends. My eyes returned to Luka. He was standing near the basketball court. Other children were already on the court, casually dividing up into teams and starting to play while Luka just stood by and watched. I wanted so badly to jump out of that window, run across Cat’s yard, leap over the school fence, and tell those kids, “See this kid here standing on the sidelines? He’s really nice! Play with him! He’s a really cool kid. I’ll give you twenty dollars each, just give him a chance!” It’s moments like these when I’m grateful I don’t get to enact in real time every parenting idea that crosses my mind.
After a few minutes, a boy started walking toward my son. As I watched, I began to cheer out loud. The only other time in my life that I ever felt so invested as a spectator was when Croatia played France in the 2018 World Cup Final. And that time, I literally peed my pants. “Come on! Keep going! Keep going, kid! Keep walking toward him!! Ten more steps! You got this!!!” (Thankfully the window was closed and soundproof—otherwise, I’d be writing this from prison. And my son might never have spoken to me again.) Just as the kid got close enough to Luka that I was convinced he was about to start a conversation, he abruptly bent down to grab something that had been sitting on the grass near where Luka stood. The kid picked up the object he’d been looking for, turned around, and walked away, seemingly without even noticing that Luka had been there at all. “NOOOOO!!! What are you doing?? You’re walking in the wrong direction, kid! Go back!!!”
My inability to control this situation was killing me. I wanted to fix it! I wanted to make it better for Luka. I wanted my son to be noticed and accepted. Why couldn’t I just stage-manage this interaction?
Finally, after what felt like an eternity but was probably just a few minutes, another student carrying a basketball approached Luka. I started jumping up and down. “Come on! Come on, man. Take a few more steps. I believe in you! Don’t turn around. Just keep walking toward my boy!” Then, boom! The kid said something to my son. And then my son said something back. I froze, taking in every tiny movement and gesture. The kid handed the basketball to my son . . . and they started playing together! Tears streamed down my face. We won! We won this one.
I put the binoculars down and unglued my body from the window. I felt like I had just completed an emotional marathon, and though I was exhausted (like, actual sweat running down my chest), I realized that not being able to control everything gave me an opportunity to witness something I really needed to see: my boy, out there in the big, scary, sometimes mean world, standing strong by himself, staying open, and then making a friend.
It took my kids a few weeks to adjust to their new school and develop friendships, but soon enough, they were both telling me how happy they were that we moved. And I was able to fully retire my binoculars.
A few months later, news of another devastating terrorist attack took over the internet, newspapers, and television. Soon after that, yet another school shooting occurred. A friend of mine called me asking for advice on explaining the unexplainable to her children. The latest tragic headline news had occurred in a town neighboring hers, and there was no way to shield her elementary school–age children from it. “They’re so young, Kristina. They shouldn’t even know this kind of hate exists in the world. I’m so pissed off that I don’t have the ability to control what my kids hear about or what they see. Or what they fear.” I recognized that desire to control what passes from the world into our kids’ minds and hearts. And I wished I had some brilliant, rock-solid advice in my back pocket that could give her and all parents a sense of total security. After crying with her for a while on the phone, I suddenly had a realization. “I think we just have to empower our kids, give them something positive to do, something good that they actually can control. The worst thing a kid who is scared can feel is powerless and hopeless.” It’s probably no coincidence that the worst things a parent struggling with control issues can feel are exactly the same: powerless and hopeless.
When we hung up, I sat down and started writing a letter to my children, and to her children, and to all children who are introduced to the ugliest parts of humanity at such a young age. What I didn’t realize at the time is that I was also writing it to myself.