Moms are constantly being called upon to fix things. We sew stuffed animals, superglue broken toys, and settle sibling squabbles. When trouble is brewing, we’re on the front lines. I know I take this role of Caretaker of Everything quite seriously. I’ve probably taken it too far. I’ve heaped responsibility upon responsibility upon myself because, let’s face it, no one can get the job done as well as I can or as quickly. If something is broken or in need of repair, I am The Fixer.
I internalize struggles my children are having and, reminiscent of some grand, imaginary machine full of life’s answers (something like Spencer Tracy was promoting to Katharine Hepburn in The Desk Set), I try to spit out a response towards improving them. It’s exhausting. My oldest son has ADHD, and I’ve spent the past year and a half trying to coach him around it. I feel this is my responsibility. In my work with him, however, I think I’ve made him pay more attention to his deficits than I’ve asked him to pay to his strengths, which are many. How sad is that?
My mom challenged me with this thought yesterday: what if, instead of trying to fix everyone we thought was broken in some way, we focused instead on what is unique, right, and wonderful about that individual? I mean, there are amazing things about my husband that I overlook because I’m too busy nagging him about things that really don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. If I focused on his positives, like his limitless patience with me and his constant willingness to give of himself, then the fact that he has seven pairs of shoes under our bed perhaps is a small price to pay for his genuine kindness.
Dealing with my oldest son’s ADHD has been quite a challenge for me. I don’t understand how his brain works. I’ve spent so much time being frustrated by how his true intelligence can’t be measured in his average grades that I’ve forgotten to pay attention to how truly awesome he is. The same goes for my youngest son. While his grades are not an issue, I get wrapped up sometimes in trying to rein in his boundless energy and creativity to improve him in areas where he needs focus. Why am I doing this? Because I am The Fixer. And, it’s my duty to turn out well-rounded, responsible, successful individuals with something legitimate to contribute to the world, right?
But, what if the best thing I can do for my children and my husband is not to fix them but instead to cherish them for who they are and for what they bring to our family? We each have a role to play. Why can I not let go of my queen bee hat and just accept that we’re all doing the best we can with what we were given? Wouldn’t our house be much more peaceful if I stopped harping on things I see that I believe need to be fixed? Wouldn’t I be much happier if I paid more attention to people’s positive qualities instead of their negative ones? I’ve been incredibly blessed, and yet I make work for myself trying to fix things that aren’t broken. They might be different than I would like, but that doesn’t mean they need to be repaired.
And what if, while cutting everyone else some slack, I applied the same principle to myself? What if I stopped trying to fix things about me that I dislike and I allowed myself to be authentically me, self-perceived flaws and all. I’m not broken. I am who I am because I have something to contribute from this one-of-a-kind perspective. It would be a shame to eliminate differences. They’re what make the world interesting.
Now, none of this is to say that I’m gonna put my superglue away and stop mending things permanently. I’m not sure I’m capable of that, nor do I believe my family would appreciate it. But, perhaps, I will try to tread a little more softly with myself and the people with whom I come into contact. Maybe instead of wanting to strangle the guy who cuts me off in traffic, I can approach the incident from a very zen place and appreciate his skillful maneuvering instead? Yeah. You’re right. I don’t think I’m quite ready for that either. I guess that’s just a good reminder that you can’t fix everything.