I Refuse to Let My Troubling Childhood Shape My Parenting

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I vividly remember being about five years old, standing in Martin Luther King Park in the South Bronx, eagerly waiting for the Fourth of July fireworks display. My father, as was often the case, was heavily intoxicated. This day, however, was particularly intense; he drank more than usual because the loud explosions triggered his PTSD, reminiscent of the chaos he experienced during his Army service. A friend of his, equally inebriated, joined us and brought some fireworks to set off. Ironically, these were the very things that could have sent my father into a panic, yet the alcohol seemed to dull his nerves just enough.

We lit what looked like long incense sticks, placed them in a soda bottle, and dashed away to avoid the blast. Several times, the bottle tipped over, and I rushed back to right it, oblivious to the potential danger of an explosion so close. Looking back, I realize how lucky I was to escape without injury. These chaotic moments were typical of my childhood, with the highs of fun interspersed with my father’s violent outbursts that left me terrified.

Growing up in such an unpredictable environment instilled in me a fierce desire to create a safe haven for my own child. I dove headfirst into all things parenting—reading books, enrolling in classes, and crafting meticulous lists. I even got obsessed with a machine that supposedly detected metal toxicity in our home, and when I mentioned buying it, my partner gave me a look that said he thought I’d lost my mind. Thankfully, I reconsidered.

When my child was born, I prepared extensive lists for the pediatrician, ensuring I wouldn’t forget any details. I was so worried about potential dangers that I opted not to get a Christmas tree that year because I read online about tiny bugs that could cause allergies. It’s clear now that I was spending way too much time on the internet, but as a new parent, anxiety often overshadowed rationality. I was determined not to replicate my father’s mistakes; if something seemed hazardous, it had to go.

A few months later, I stumbled upon the term “lawnmower parenting,” which describes parents who clear obstacles from their child’s path to prevent any struggles. That was my wake-up call. My husband played a video from a neighborhood block party, and I was shocked to hear myself constantly telling our child to stay close and not wander off. I thought we were too near the road, but after watching the footage, I realized the street was actually quite far away. That revelation hit me hard—I was over-correcting, smothering my child rather than allowing him the freedom to explore.

Letting go is a process, and I still struggle with it. I often find myself obsessing over what he eats or worrying about harmful chemicals in our home. However, I am becoming more mindful, actively working to break the cycle of anxiety that stems from my past. Determined to carve out a healthier path for my child, I now understand the importance of space in his development.

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In summary, I refuse to let my tumultuous upbringing dictate my parenting style any longer. While I still face moments of anxiety, I am committed to fostering a nurturing environment that balances safety with freedom, allowing my child to thrive.

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