How to Get Over a Shitty Childhood
and other confusions.
Last Friday I ran up a hiking trail with the twins and watched them run down it. They’re three years old. Some people call three year-olds threenagers, and I’m one of them. Once we were at the bottom of the hill one of them suggested, his face wide and smiling, that we run up again simply to run down again, so we did. We hiked to a boardwalk through a wetland where mallards were dunking themselves underwater in search of slimy food, and when the ducks refused to swim under the boardwalk, one of the boys threw himself down onto the wooden slats and screamed in frustration. I am deeply familiar with the rigid line of his little body as his emotions, not yet given words, pulse through him, and I hold him to keep him safe. My job is to let these moments, when the kids I work with hit, kick, and spit on me, pass, and to let them go. Although I’m not a parent, this is the job of all parents, though some of them seem to wrestle this simplicity into something much more complicated, imbuing tantrums with hidden messages and assigning “good” and “bad” to behavior that is simply impulsive and mostly uncontrollable.
We do that to each other, too. I keep reminding myself, whenever one of the boys is able to pin a word onto his emotion (that made me feel frustrated) what a celebration it is, to name our emotions. How complex we are, and how often we are so unknown to ourselves that we believe the voices inside us come from some far-off land rather than from the deep and miraculous system that is our body and brain.
“We struggle to hold the truths of others because we have so rarely had the experience of having our own truths held.” -Sonya Renee Taylor
I listen to a lot of Janet Lansbury, whose podcast Unruffled is a wealth of information regarding accepting and loving children where they’re at, while creating firm and immovable boundaries that support their sense of safety. I used to wonder why I was so drawn to working with children, and so deeply embedded myself into family units when I could be working at a preschool. Nannying pays better, yes, but also, I’ve been babysitting since I was eleven, when I spent my fifth grade spring break taking care of seven year-old twins who lived in my apartment complex. I’m not sure what their parents were thinking (other than how great it was to pay $70 for a week of full-time childcare) or what my mom was thinking (other than being glad I was doing something other than watching TV and eating), but it was a disaster. One of the twins threw her bicycle at me. They both got a stomach bug and threw up all over their apartment.
Things have changed since then, of course. I am a grown person with an advanced degree, working for a family that appreciates me and pays me well. But I still get things thrown at me. Learning to calmly accept the outsized emotions of children has been a long journey, but one of the biggest challenges of nannying has to do with processing my own childhood, the ways in which my own emotions weren’t accepted or reflected, how alone I was, and how inconsistent my mother’s love.
Through my own therapy I’ve learned about attachment theory, and long ago figured out that I was raised in a way that caused me to feel disorganized attachment to my caregivers. This is a common outcome for kids who are raised in environments where caregivers can be terrifying. I knew two things: I was scared of my mother, who was my sole caregiver (except when I lived with my grandparents), and she was also supposed to be the person who I felt safe with.
Often when I’m nannying I’ll have thoughts and feeling emerge about my own childhood, but in the moment I don’t necessarily have the capacity to acknowledge them. As I’ve done more work with somatics, therapy, meditation, and mindfulness, I’ve learned how to process these moments outside of work. Last week, as I wiped down the dining room table for the thousandth time, I remembered my mom telling me that I’d understand her more when I have my own children. I’ve thought about that a lot. The idea that, encountering how challenging children can be, I’d understand why my own mother resorted to hitting, name-calling, demeaning, neglecting, and abusing me. If I could talk to her now, I’d tell her that I understand her less. I will never understand how a parent can abuse a child. The children I spend my time with are so vulnerable. So soft and forgiving, their hearts always on their sleeves. Although I’ve been pushed to my limits as a caregiver, I’ve never called any of them fat, or told them they were the worst kid in the world. I’ve never locked them in a room. I’d never withhold food from them, or drag them across the floor by their ankles, or straddle their chest, pinning them to the ground, until they promised to do what I wanted. I’m positive that, if they were my own children, I wouldn’t do these things either.
There is no way to get over a shitty childhood, is what I’m saying. Not for me. There’s no resolution without an apology— a sincere one that’s followed by action.
Or, maybe that’s not true.
My Dad apologized to me for his absence. My mom, I am sure, regretted her actions in a lot of ways. My stepdad is still alive, nonchalantly moving through the world without regret. But ultimately, I’m an adult now, and I can choose to hold onto the bitterness I’ve felt about my childhood. The feeling that I was somehow duped out of what other kids got. I told my therapist about how I used to collect the warm smells of other kids’ houses when I was younger. Ours always smelled like cigarettes because Mom smoked inside, but other people’s houses smelled like meat cooked in a sauté pan and on-brand laundry detergent. Like fresh shampoo and soap. I always felt safer in other people’s houses, but as I got older I turned into the kid your parents didn’t want you to hang out with. The bad influence.
An image came to me as I was sweeping the floor of my nanny house: there I was, a child, at a round table, a snack next to me, doing my homework. It was warm inside. Someone was cooking in the kitchen. If I’d had that, would I have done my homework in the first place? Would my life be different? Would I be more myself? The person I was meant to be in the world? It’s not that I wanted everything. Not a big house, or the best clothes. Just someone to care if I did my homework or not.
I can immerse myself in that wanting, you see? If I weren’t a nanny maybe I wouldn’t think of it so much— what I didn’t have. But in remembering what I didn’t have I can acknowledge what I do: my willingness to process and move through these emotions, without kicking or screaming. Allowing myself to feel that loss, and reparenting myself in a way that frees me up to move through the world differently than I used to.
It’s complicated, right? And I am sure, had my childhood not been terrible, it still wouldn’t have been perfect, because a perfect childhood doesn’t exist, nor does a perfect parent. I can forgive my mom without endorsing her actions. The forgiveness does nothing for her: she’s not here to receive it, though I wish she were. But forgiveness is another word for freedom. It’s not even about the other person, really, and it’s not a simple thing that happens only once, but an undulating wave, always shifting. Forgive, forgive, forgive. Forgiveness doesn’t mean I won’t remember. Forgiveness doesn’t relieve me of my experiences, or their consequences. Forgiveness, though, gives me agency. I can say this is my life now, and I don’t use other people as excuses. My bad childhood doesn’t give me a pass.
Tender, soft children. We are still them. Our child-selves live inside us, and we can nurture them still. We can give them what they didn’t have. We can give ourselves what we so longed for. Accept our bodies, our thoughts, our so-called deficiencies. I think that’s it. I think that’s how we get over it, and move through it, again and again, each time a little easier.
This week we got a new president. I went on Twitter for a few minutes and got activated by the ping-ponging dialogue. I am so glad I’m not on social media right now. How did I handle it before? The crush of information, of images. It’s quieter here.
Things I loved this week:
Gabourey Sidibe spoke about her struggle with bulimia. We don’t talk about eating disorders enough, especially since so many people have them without really knowing it. "I found a button, and on top of that people were like, 'You're looking good.' You know? So, I’m like, why would I stop?”
I’ve been writing about somatics, and was happy to see this piece in the NYT about somatics and movement.
This SNL skit made me laugh (okay it was really Donald Glover that was so funny), and then I thought of this other skit called Wells for Boys, which also made me laugh.
I’ve been doing lots of yoga which feels really good. Every Monday I practice Katonah Yoga. I found these amazing sketches on their website and want to paper my walls with them.
Did you notice my new jellyfish logo?? My friend Kate Palermo made it for me.
Thank you all so much for reading, and for hanging with me while I find out what this newsletter is supposed to be. If you think someone would love this, please share it, and please comment because I’d love to hear from you.
