When my son was two, he bit another child in his daycare room. He went on to do it six more times in a few weeks, and I was horrified.
I sought the counsel of our pediatrician. He was old and wise and usually knew how to make me feel better.
I told him I was scared there was something wrong with my child. What would make him do this?
I couldn't sleep, and no amount of reassurance from his daycare teacher that this was "normal" helped. I hoped my pediatrician could offer something of use.
He confirmed everything the daycare teacher had already shared: why my son might be biting and why he would likely soon stop. But none of those made me feel any less alone.
I talked about how much I worried about the other mother--The one that has to pick up her kid and find out he was bitten AGAIN.
Then he said the one thing that made me feel a teeny tiny bit better:
"Mrs. Lennon. I've been doing this for a very long time. Biting happens, and it will stop. That has never changed in all my years of practice. The other thing that I know for sure from all those years?… It is much harder to be the parent of a biter than to be the parent of the bitten."
I started to cry.
Until he said those words out loud, I had no idea how hard all of this was. And he was right. There were things I felt that no mother could understand unless they are the mother of a biter.
And since no mothers I knew would ever own up to having a "biter," I felt alone.
That one conversation with my pediatrician fundamentally changed me, and it shaped how I interact with other children's parents to this day.
Fourteen years later, I still look for the mother of "the biter." Or the parent of the bully. Or the one that is alienated, and I stand by that mother.
My goal isn't to give advice or even suggest I understand, and my goal is to make sure I see their pain. I may not know their unique struggle, but I know what it feels like for your child to be different and for it to hurt.
Most of the time all I say is, "You doing ok?" And it's enough. They know I know.
I think parents are struggling with their children's issues more than they ever have in the past. The pandemic did a number on a lot of kids.
This year my oldest attended his junior prom. This is the first official "big event" for one of my kids since the pandemic started.
If you have a high schooler of any age, I know you'll relate to this: it was such an incredible joy to see so many of these kids looking happy. They are a subset of a generation who will have a teen life most of us will never understand.
There was deep gratitude in this mama's heart for "normal."
I wrote about it on social media the next day. I haven't written many personal stories on social media since the pandemic began. Mostly because I know so many kids (and their parents) are struggling.
Every time I thought about sharing something good that happened, I'd remember a friend or colleague who was struggling and stop myself. But this prom felt significant to me, and it marked a turning point and felt important to celebrate.
I spent FOREVER wondering how to celebrate and still recognize the pain others were in, and I eventually landed on language that felt right. This is what I shared after I talked about the joy I felt for the kids who did go to prom:
"….There are some other friends I want to shout out also. They are the parents who had a junior home last night.
Maybe your child doesn't "do proms," or perhaps it was something deeper. Perhaps they are so insecure they couldn't bring themselves to go.
Or maybe they are dealing with a mental health issue. Or the heteronormative expectation of the prom itself was just too much to navigate with where they are on a personal journey of some sort.
Or maybe … something is happening inside, and they suspect you could never understand. Perhaps that is what is keeping them home, and it is breaking your heart.
As big as my joy was yesterday, I know there are parents nursing pain, fear, and hurt that may be even bigger.
And if you are that parent, I want you to know I said a prayer for you, and I asked all the angels to be close to you and comfort you.
We are only ever as happy as our unhappiest kid. As much as I teach others not to make their happiness dependent on another's happiness, I've never quite figured out how to apply that to parenthood.
Last night brought so much joy to so many of us, and I'm grateful.
But for those of you where prom meant something different - something painful for your child - I see you, and I'm holding you in a special place in my heart."
I received a lot of private messages from that post.
Parents shared stories of how difficult the prom was for their child and, therefore, them. They didn't feel like they had permission to talk about it, and they were grateful I said something.
I think this issue transcends parenthood. Post-pandemic people are struggling, and many people feel alone in their challenges. What would happen if we all started seeing each other's pain?
It doesn't mean we can't celebrate what is ours to celebrate. But what if we just made a little room for the experiences that may be happening around us?
As the mother of a former biter, I can tell you that if one mother had walked up to me and said, "I got you, sister - this is hard," it would have made that journey a lot easier.
Patty Lennon is a best-selling author, keynote speaker, certified coach, and founder of The Receiving School®. She is a former type-A corporate banker who discovered there was more to life than making money. Patty holds a masters in psychology and has been featured in Forbes, Fast Company, and Daily Worth. She blends brain science and metaphysics to help her fellow humans manifest their dreams into reality.
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