I still remember being about five years old, standing in a park in the South Bronx, waiting for the Fourth of July fireworks from Yankee Stadium. My dad, as per usual, was intoxicated, but that day he took it to another level because the fireworks triggered his PTSD. They reminded him of the explosions he experienced during his Army service. A friend of his, equally tipsy, brought fireworks for us to light, which was ironic because normally, they would have unnerved him; thankfully, the alcohol seemed to ease his nerves just enough.
We lit these fireworks, which looked like long incense sticks, stuck them in a soda bottle, and ran a few yards back. A few times, the bottle tipped over, prompting me to rush back and set it upright. Looking back, I realize how dangerous that was—if they had exploded in my hands, things could’ve gone south quickly. Yet, my dad and his friend simply laughed as if it was all just a game.
This chaotic scene was a hallmark of my upbringing, shaped by my father’s battle with alcohol and his PTSD. There were plenty of moments when I narrowly avoided injury. While some days involved harmless fun like fireworks, other days were filled with fear from his unpredictable outbursts.
As I transitioned into parenthood, I was determined to create the safest environment for my child, taking a very different approach. I read endless books, attended classes, and even researched a machine that could analyze metals in our home to prevent toxicity. When I suggested buying it, my partner looked at me like I was out of my mind. Thankfully, I came to my senses and didn’t make that purchase.
When my child was born, I meticulously prepared lists for the pediatrician, worried about every little detail. I even skipped buying a Christmas tree that year since our son was just a few weeks old, fearing that microscopic bugs might lead to long-term allergies. It’s clear I spent too much time on the internet.
Navigating the world of new parenting is daunting, especially with all the conflicting information out there. My anxiety was amplified by my determination not to replicate my father’s mistakes. Anything deemed dangerous had to be eliminated.
A few months later, I came across the term “lawnmower parenting,” which describes those who clear obstacles from their children’s paths to prevent any challenges. This concept hit me hard; I realized I was being overly protective.
An eye-opening moment came when my partner replayed a video of us at a block party. Hearing my constant reminders to keep close to me and not run off made me cringe. At the time, I thought we were too close to the road, but the reality was that the street was quite far away. That was when I recognized my need to give my child room to breathe.
Hovering over him was not helping; rather, it was counterproductive. I was so focused on avoiding my father’s mistakes that I swung to the opposite extreme, stifling my child’s independence.
Of course, this transition is a work in progress. I still find myself stressing over trivial things, like his diet and potential chemical exposure at home. However, I’ve become more aware and am committed to breaking free from the shadows of my past.
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In summary, while my childhood experiences shaped my parenting perspective, I’m learning to let go of those fears and embrace a healthier approach to raising my child.