“I don’t know how to parent you!”

These words shock me as they shoot from my mouth on this steamy Fourth of July  morning beside the edge of Mallet pond.

Ula’s back is to me, facing the water.

She’s been with her friends all week.  She’s been with friends all summer. But they are not around at sunrise on the Fourth of July. 

She came in to find me as Bob and I were getting ready for a morning hike.  I was packing my swimming shoes and some snacks.  My plan wasn’t to come back anytime soon. “I have an earache,” she reported.

 She’d been swimming a lot and playing hard lately.  A little earache might be possible.  She could probably use a chiropractic adjustment.  I studied the ear, but found little evidence of anything severe.  “I don’t think it’s too bad,” I concluded.  “I can’t take you to anybody today, because it’s a holiday.”  I treated it with home remedies, then encouraged her to enjoy this day with nothing planned.  

“You could go back to bed,” I suggested.  At 11 and 14, Ula and Saoirse are always game for sleeping in. 

“Can I come with you?”  Saoirse heard that, and decided she wanted to come, too.  Bob’s and my quiet skinny-dipping morning became a family outing.  

This wasn’t the plan, but I never want to discourage my kids from spending time outside.  And I’m a home-schooling mom.  That means they come first in my life at all times, right?

So off we go. 

Saoirse and I tok the lead while the humidity slowed Bob and Ula down.  We were seated under some shade trees near the water, sipping our morning coffee by the time they reached us.  Ula was in tears. 

“What’s the matter?”  I reached my arms out to her, offering a hug.

“I HATE Mallet POND!”  She shouted at me.  “My ear hurts!”

Her words sting.  This is one of my favorite places in the world.  

I pulled a small thermos of hot chocolate from my pack and offered it to her. In a display I’ve never seen, she threw it on the ground, where it leaked into the pine needles, then sat with her back to the rest of us, refusing to speak.  

And so, here we are.  Beautiful steamy morning.  Inviting body of water.  Lush forest.  Herons and Ospreys.  Good food.  Nowhere we have to be.  A real day off.

And this angry child.

I don’t know this person.  It is as though Ula’s friends, good kids all of them, but who rarely go outside, and who employ communication tactics foreign to our family culture, have infected her with their behaviors.    Because the Ula I know would never act like this. 

Ula is the one who got me to fall in love with camping.  Ula is the kid who, if you put her beside any body of water, will disappear in the shallows for hours, exploring every stone, frog, crayfish and minnow.  Ula is the kid who never wants to stop swimming, who brushes off ticks and spiders as though they were mere flies; who will put up with leaches if it means she can sink her toes into wet silt and clay.  Ula is also the kid who will do just about anything for a cup of cocoa; who, once assured she was out of imminent danger, wouldn’t let a little earache bother her.  

I’m so confused.  I’m more than confused.  I’m pissed.  I’ve been eyeing this morning adventure for two weeks.  Finally!  A summer day when I didn’t have to have my kids someplace by 9am.  Finally!  A day when everyone else is off, so my phone won’t beep and buzz at me.  Finally! A moment to hang out with my family and groove on this beautiful world.

We all just sit there, awkward.  Conversational attempts fall flat.  Rhapsodizing about the beauty feels stupid. Bob surrenders first.  He leaves to get the car.  Our morning is ruined.  And that’s when I say those strange and uniquely hurtful words:

“I don’t know how to parent you!”  And the guilt shakes my body as I do it.  What if she does need medical attention and I’m blowing her off?  What if I’m being cruel and selfish in my child’s time of need?

My ego is invested in the compassionate, sensitive mother image.  My love and connection with my children should be so powerful, I should know what to do at all times.  I’ve spent way more time learning to parent farm girls than I have earning a Ph.D.  And here I am, in the woods with a sniveling kid complaining of an earache, and my selfish inner godess of pounds her way out of my chest, shrieking BBBUUULLLLSSSHHIIIITTT!!!!!  

It’s one of those critical moments in parenting — I don’t know if I’m calling my kid out on unacceptable behavior and making an important, lasting impact……Or if I’m inflicting major emotional damage.  In the end, Selfish Inner Goddess makes the call.  I need these woods, I need the skies and birds and Mallet Pond. I love this place.  I won’t have it sullied by a bratty kid.

I walk her up to the road where Bob meets us.  She climbs in the car.  I don’t.  

I walk home, sobbing.  With Saoirse, there were the books:  the ones that outlined all those hippie parenting philosophies:  Keep them away from screens.  Minimize the number of toys.  Teach them to make things.  Let them take the lead in their education.  And they all worked.  

With Ula, every day requires a re-assessment of whatever was done the day before.  What works for a child who can see and move about her world with ease doesn’t work for a child who must navigate with her heart more than her eyes.  

I get home and sit down in my office to do bookkeeping, dropping all pretenses that this is a day off.  A few moments later, Ula walks in and tosses a folded pink piece of paper on my desk.  She slips out before I unfold it. 

Dear Mom,

I am very sorry about how I acted.  I didn’t feel comfortable saying it out loud, but…I wanted you to feel sorry for me. I feel really bad about how I ruined your morning, and I’m sorry I didn’t drink the hot chocolate.  (I feel really bad about that.).  And I didn’t mean to make you feel like you don’t know how to parent me.  I love you.  Ula.

A few minutes later, she comes and stands in front of me, her need for honesty and connection more powerful than her fear of my anger. I look up into her eyes.  “Where’s my Ula?” I whisper.  “Because that wasn’t her back there.”

And she starts to cry.  “I don’t know where she’s gone!”  She laments.  “And I don’t know how to find her.”  

But she is there.  She’s standing before me with that amazing, honest, powerful heart that guides her through everything.  But that also, I suddenly see, can get her into trouble. 

And that’s when I remember another girl who made friends easily, who connected to every heart she met, and found words and language to break through any barrier, entering into as many poisonous and toxic relationships as she did fruitful and loving ones.   That girl saw all people as good, plain and simple, and picked up there ways and habits just by being with them. 

 And I remember another mother, raising this daughter on the farm, trying to shake this open-hearted child free from all the other poisons she picked up as a result of connecting so deeply with everyone she met.  

She found me.  Sometimes she upbraided me with a tongue-lashing.  Sometimes she had to physically remove me.  One time she had to drag me onto an airplane and take me far away until I could find my own voice again.  But most of the time, my mom just  talked to me.   She kept reminding me of who I was, and of who I wasn’t, because in my early years, with all that connecting and very few filters, I got pretty confused.  

I pull Ula into my arms, relieved that this fast-growing body can still fit into my lap.  I cradle her to my chest.  “Your family knows how to find her,” I tell her.  “That’s our job.  And when you have a gift to connect like you do, it’s a super-power.  But super-powers come with weaknesses and struggles.  Getting along with everyone means it’s easy to forget yourself.  And you’re going to have to fight that battle over and over again if you’re going to keep your super-power.  But we’re here to help you.”

“Mom?”

“Yes?”

“My ear feels a lot better.”

And I thank Selfish Inner Goddess, who shrieks loud and reminds me of who I am and what I need and what I am free to reject.  She took such a long time to grow inside of me; but she’s there in my hour of need.  May she grow strong in my own daughters.