I don’t have any tattoos, mostly because it just seems so...permanent. I have been intrigued, however, by a tattoo displayed by one of my favorite singers, Karin Bergquist of Over the Rhine. At a concert years ago she shared a tattoo on her arm with a quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I bought the concert t-shirt with that same quote because, well, a t-shirt isn’t as permanent as a tattoo. The words stuck with me, so I might as well get the tattoo. I could use the permanent reminder. I repeat the phrase to my children at least monthly as they lament the fact that we don’t go out to eat as much as _________’s family, that we don’t allow as much screen time as ____________’s mom does, that we implement an earlier bedtime than _____________’s parents. But then I find the nagging whisper of doubt enter in. Maybe we should have more screen time. Maybe I am too restrictive with social media. Maybe so-and-so’s mom is right; teenagers don’t really need a strict bedtime. And why am I still making them eat broccoli? I find my comparison to other parents stealing my own joy. In several conversations with other parents during the past months, I’ve repeated my belief that right now truly is the most difficult time to be a parent in the history of the world. Maybe that’s hyperbole, but most days it feels true. I read articles like this one that outline the very-real dangers of online pornography. I see studies like this one about the escalation of teenage depression that conclude that “all signs point to the screen.” So we make tough parenting decisions in an attempt to keep our kids safe from dangers. We say no to smartphones still, even though I’m sure my teenagers are the only two in the world that don’t have one. Or at least it feels that way. We set limits on social media access and talk constantly about the permanency of our online words and how tone can’t be interpreted correctly through text or direct message. I live in this tension of wanting to keep them safe and inoculated forever and simultaneously realizing that my job as a mom is also to prepare them for the dangers they face while also understanding that their prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed. Throw in the dangers of school shootings, the frustrations with grades and homework, the worries about the junk food they’re inhaling, the concern for their hair and skin care routine (a special “problem” as the white mom of Black boys), and I have a recipe for certain anxiety with a sprinkling of sleepless nights. When I compare myself to other parents, I’m doing it all wrong. I’m not doing enough. I’m doing too much. I am making all the wrong choices. Damn. Deep breath. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” If I couple that with 1 Peter 5:7, I feel like a more grounded parent: “Casting your anxieties on him because he cares for you.” He cares for me, and He cares for my kids. More than I do, even, and that’s a hard equation to wrap my non-math mind around. But it’s Truth. So maybe I need a tattoo after all.
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September 2020
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