I am not my mother.  My six-year-old daughter and four-year-old twins make certain that I know that I am a pale composite of the woman they call The Nana.  When The Nana talks, everybody listens.  When I attempt to become a force to be reckoned with, what comes out is a bunch of new age mommy-speak; these children of mine smirk at my threats of time-out and naughty spots. Instead of fearing their mommy as I feared mine, these twenty-first century kids remind me to count to twenty and to take deep breaths before I find myself in big trouble.  For example, ZaZa, one of the twins, screamed at me recently: “If you yell at me again, I am so out of here.”  My mother could barely remain in her seat once she realized that I was not going to put that child back into her place. Instead of “popping her little butt” for being so sassy, I explained to ZaZa that she was not allowed to speak to me in that tone, and I sent her to her room to think about her poor behavior.  Needless to say, my mother was flabbergasted and outdone by the fact that I had allowed a child to get away with what amounted to high treason.  A child of hers would never speak to her that way. .:read more:.

No, I am certainly not my mother; she would never tolerate such blatant disrespect. My mother “did not play that.”  I cannot begin to recount the untold numbers of “whoopings” doled upon me for the offenses of back-talking, eye-rolling, and lip-smacking.  I was not a bad child by any stretch of the imagination.  However, my mother would tell you that I was always one step away from insolence.  My mother used fear as a disciplinary tool, and fear certainly worked on me. I played by her rules (mostly) and, as a result, survived growing up in Gary, Indiana virtually unscathed: no teenage pregnancies, no drugs, and no arrests.  My mama was a good mother to me and my younger brother.  She did what she had to do to keep us in line and safe; she sacrificed everything to make sure that we would have the opportunity to live a better life.

Nevertheless, I must admit that those butt-whoopings and umber-strict limitations took a toll on my emotional well-being.  Because my mother needed to focus constantly on my physical well-being, she did not have the energy to address my emotional or psychological development.  I do not fault her because I understand that mothers can only give their children what they themselves have left to give.  I only point this fact out to illustrate why I have chosen to parent differently. Rather than using fear as a parenting tactic, I parent from a position of love and understanding.  I validate my children’s emotions. I allow them to express themselves.  I give them opportunities to rewind their poor behavior and to do over a poor choice.  I try not to yell or to spank because I do not want them to be afraid of me. Ultimately, I want them to respect me because I have shown them respect, not because I am bigger than they are.  Let’s be clear: I can nurture them in this way because I do not have to worry about where their next meal will come from or whether they will make it home from school safely.  I can be gentle with them because we are not living in survival mode.  I can allow them to be free because danger and death are not all around us.

Although I believe that my parenting style is healthier for my children, I still long for some of that power my mother wielded (and still wields). I would love to have “that look” she would threaten us with as a part of my arsenal. New-age “mommying” drains my voice from all the talking it requires.  Sometimes I long to just “pop a butt” and resolve a problem quickly rather than drag out my six-year-old’s melodrama for hours. Yet, I resist the temptation to do what is easy and meditate religiously.  To be sure, I do not like all of the sass that accompanies the free speech rights I have bestowed upon my children. In the end, I figure that a little annoyance is a small price to pay for emotionally-stable, creative, and articulate children. Besides, I can still sick The Nana on them if they get too big for their britches.

Dr. Seretha D. Williams

center stage magazine

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