I was around 5 years old, standing in a park in the South Bronx, waiting for the Fourth of July fireworks from Yankee Stadium. My dad was predictably drunk, but this time, he had an extra reason to overindulge—fireworks rattled him due to his PTSD from his Army days. Ironically, his equally inebriated buddy brought along some fireworks for us to light up. Normally, these would have set my dad on edge, but apparently, the booze had a calming effect.
We lit these long, incense-like fireworks, shoved them into a soda bottle, and hurried a few steps back before they went off. A couple of times, the bottle tipped over, and I dashed back to set it upright. Looking back, I could have seriously injured myself, but my dad and his friend just guffawed like two clowns.
This sort of chaotic scene wasn’t uncommon during my childhood, thanks to my father’s drinking and PTSD. I often found myself in situations where I was lucky to escape injury. While we had moments of fun, there were also times he erupted in violent rages that left me terrified.
Because of this lack of safety, I completely flipped the script when I became a parent. I was determined to create a nurturing and secure environment for my child. I devoured parenting books, attended classes, made meticulous charts, and plotted out every possible scenario. At one point, I even considered purchasing a machine to test for metal toxicity in our home. My husband’s incredulous look was enough to snap me back to reality.
Once our baby was born, I crafted lists for the pediatrician as if presenting an academic paper. I even opted out of getting a Christmas tree that year because I read online that tiny bugs could trigger allergies. Clearly, I was spending way too much time on the internet.
As a new parent, it was nearly impossible to stay calm with all the conflicting advice swirling around. My anxiety was amplified by a desire not to replicate my father’s mistakes. If something was labeled “dangerous,” it was banished from our lives.
Months later, I stumbled upon the term “lawnmower parenting,” which describes parents who clear obstacles from their child’s path to ensure a smooth journey. That’s when I realized I was being overly protective.
An eye-opener came when my husband replayed a video from a block party. I heard myself constantly urging our child to stay close and not wander off. At the time, I was convinced we were too near the road, but after watching the footage, I realized the street was actually quite far away. It dawned on me that I needed to loosen the reins.
Hovering over my child wasn’t helping him; in fact, it was doing more harm than good. My intense fear of becoming like my father pushed me to the other extreme of overcompensation.
Of course, letting go of that control is easier said than done. I still find myself obsessing over the minutiae, like his diet or potential toxins in our home. However, I’m more aware of my tendencies now, and I’m committed to breaking free from the chains of my past.
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In summary, I’m learning to shed the weight of my traumatic childhood to become a better parent. I am still a work in progress, but I’m determined not to let my past dictate how I raise my child.