Wicked isn’t the correct word, I know. It’s the counsel of the well-meaning. Counsel of the blinkered. Counsel of the chorus of family members who love us and who mean the best — I know they do! — but who do not comprehend the scope of what we’re facing.
They raised me as they were raised. Children are knobs of clay, and it is a parent’s job — a good parent’s job — to ensure that clay leaves the house 18 years later in the shape of a respectful, productive, hard-working adult. As long as that is the goal, all manipulations are acceptable. You can squeeze the clay, compress it, pound it or smack it around if you have to. If the product doesn’t fit the mold, you don’t blame the clay for its lack of pliability. You blame the sculptor for her weakness, for her lack of commitment. You gesture to the many successfully finished models around her. You remind her that she only has one job. Or rather, only one that matters.
I try to imagine what earlier generations would have done to my child, who struggles inside with things we are only beginning to have terms for, this tiny heir of complicated genetics and generations of hidden and not-so-hidden illness. The living members of this heritage mean well but what they counsel is not best for her, and so is not best for me or our family or anyone. I am a master of the polite smile and nod, of dismissing without having to say out loud that I’m doing so. What’s harder to ignore are the voices that lodge in my own head. The internalized judgment that says the result is more important than the process, that fixing the symptoms today is preferable to addressing the disease tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. That if I was doing this right, it would look and sound pleasing to all those who pass by.
The judgment in my heart does not want the best for any of us. The judgment is wicked. I fight it every day.
— cpb
They raised me as they were raised. Children are knobs of clay, and it is a parent’s job — a good parent’s job — to ensure that clay leaves the house 18 years later in the shape of a respectful, productive, hard-working adult. As long as that is the goal, all manipulations are acceptable. You can squeeze the clay, compress it, pound it or smack it around if you have to. If the product doesn’t fit the mold, you don’t blame the clay for its lack of pliability. You blame the sculptor for her weakness, for her lack of commitment. You gesture to the many successfully finished models around her. You remind her that she only has one job. Or rather, only one that matters.
I try to imagine what earlier generations would have done to my child, who struggles inside with things we are only beginning to have terms for, this tiny heir of complicated genetics and generations of hidden and not-so-hidden illness. The living members of this heritage mean well but what they counsel is not best for her, and so is not best for me or our family or anyone. I am a master of the polite smile and nod, of dismissing without having to say out loud that I’m doing so. What’s harder to ignore are the voices that lodge in my own head. The internalized judgment that says the result is more important than the process, that fixing the symptoms today is preferable to addressing the disease tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. That if I was doing this right, it would look and sound pleasing to all those who pass by.
The judgment in my heart does not want the best for any of us. The judgment is wicked. I fight it every day.
— cpb
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