It’s breakfast time, and my 6-year-old daughter, Clara, shouts, “I need more milk!” She insists, “I can get it!” as I instinctively rise from my chair. I force myself to sit back down and watch her dash into the kitchen with her cup. She opens the refrigerator with all her strength, inadvertently knocking over the salad dressing. My grip tightens on the table, and I can feel my tension rising.
With all her effort, she pulls out the nearly full gallon of milk — it seems to weigh a ton compared to her tiny frame. I take a few deep breaths, trying to recall the parenting books that emphasize the importance of letting kids handle things on their own. What exactly do they learn from this? I can’t remember. My eyebrow begins to twitch as I focus solely on her precariously tilting the milk gallon toward her plastic cup. My nerves are frayed, and suddenly the milk spills everywhere, sending her cup clattering to the floor with a loud ping! A white waterfall erupts, and I can only manage to say, “Oops!” as Clara sets the carton upright, milk still pouring out.
“It’s fine,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing a smile as I hand her a mop. “Accidents happen!”
Once my kids head off to school, I do my best to steer clear of their bedrooms. They make their beds as best they can, and while most parents would find it acceptable, I’m not like most parents. I’m a recovering control freak. Eventually, I venture upstairs, cupping my hands around my eyes like a horse wearing blinders, telling myself, “It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine,” even though I know the sheets are likely bunched up beneath the comforter, probably dragging on the floor.
The urge to manage everything extends far beyond milk and messy beds. I bite my tongue when Clara comes down with a ponytail that’s missing a big chunk of hair. I sit on my hands as my kids piece together a puzzle, my stomach churning as they take their time finding the right pieces. The temptation to just take over and do it all myself is almost too much to bear.
Until now, being a control freak has had its perks. In my professional life, tasks were completed efficiently, and my supervisors relied on me, even if my coworkers weren’t fond of my micromanagement. My life felt like a well-oiled machine — my credit score was stellar, and my sheets were never a mess. The only downside? Flying makes me anxious; I hate being out of control.
“You’ll need to change your ways once the baby arrives,” my friends warned when I was pregnant, usually while I was organizing their kitchen utensils. “This little one is going to turn your world upside down.”
“Sure, whatever,” I’d reply, eyeing their clutter. “Do you have a tape measure and circular saw? I can make you something amazing!”
Turns out, they were right. I’m working hard to change, but old habits die hard. I recognize that kids must try and fail to learn. Natural consequences are important — you have to stumble before you can walk. A sheet crumpled under the comforter won’t hurt anyone. Repeat after me: A sheet crumpled under the comforter won’t hurt anyone.
My kids are learning perseverance and resilience, and judging by the exaggerated twitch in my eyebrow while they struggle to tie their shoes every morning, I’m learning those lessons too.
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Summary
This article explores the challenges of parenting as a control freak, emphasizing the importance of allowing children to learn through experience, even if it means enduring spills and messy beds. It highlights the struggle between a parent’s instinct to control and the need to let kids gain independence, ultimately fostering their growth and resilience.