He's fine

I'd like to say I am a sensitive, touchy-feely mom who raises my son with gentle words and loving encouragement. That I am more about discussing feelings and emotions than about strict punishment, threats or bribes.

But that would be a lie.

The truth is, I am my parents' child. The only discussions we had during punishment growing up was who was gonna smack the kids, my mom or my dad. The only time-outs we got were when my dad was removing his belt to smack us with it.

My mom could, and did yell, but she was also the master of inflicting massive pain by silently digging her sharp fingernails into our arms when we acted up in church. She never even missed a note during the hymns; she simply held the song book with one hand, and while singing about God's love, dug into our arms with the other. We knew better than to protest; the more you wiggled or cried, "Ow!," the deeper she dug in. Some people came away from church with inspirational, spiritual messages; we came away nervous, a bit jumpy, with broken skin.

Those were my parenting role models. Unfortunately, their lessons stuck with me, and except for physically inflicting pain, it turns out my parenting style is almost identical to theirs. I've tried unsuccessfully to be a more sensitive, loving parent, less screaming and more talking, but as my brother Scott always says, "I never yell the first time; I only yell the third time I ask you to do something."

But this is a different time than when I grew up. I don't spank my kid, and I'm more about consequences (good and bad) than about punishment. But I can't help it; I am a yeller. And sometimes I worry my yelling will hurt my delicate little boy. I worry that I'm not being sensitive enough, that he's going to come out damaged or with low self-esteem.

But after the other day, I'm not so worried anymore.

Mark brought home a test with a perfect score, and I seized the opportunity to praise him. I wanted to build him up, so I said how proud I was of his good work.

"Yeah, I did awesome," he agreed. "I'm awesome!"

"Um, yeah, you are," I answered. "And I'm glad to see you've got such a high self-esteem!"

"I totally do," he said. "I'm not one of those jackwagons with low-self esteem. I have tons of self-confidence. I ROCK!"

I stifled a giggle. I have no idea where he learned that word. But I'm glad to see that maybe he's not as delicate as I thought. His self-esteem is about as healthy as you can get without turning into a complete jackwagon.

Turns out he's fine. And turns out maybe I'm not doing such a bad job, either.