What Might They Tell Their Therapists?

Kelly Corrigan's column, GRAIN OF SALT, is reprinted with permission from The Hills Newspapers in Northern California, and was originally published on February 21, 2006.

I was up in Tahoe last weekend, skiing with old friends who live in San Diego. These old friends, having just hit paydirt, brought a babysitter named Breah with them. Breah is 23. Her eyebrows have been masterfully arched by an artisan SoCal waxer in a way that showcases her really-quite-arresting green eyes and she has one of those eye-catching tattoos in the space between her long sleeved cotton tee and her just-so low rise jeans. I didn’t catch what the tattoo said, though my husband might’ve. He is generally known to be observant.

Over pork tenderloin on the first night, I asked everyone, including Breah, if they skied as children. I myself did not, unless you count snurfing down the hill near our back patio – we did get suited up and photos were often snapped. I believe there is even a family shot framed that could pass as Aspen or Vail, just really close up.

When I asked about skiing as children, Breah laughed and rolled her eyes, like someone who has forgiven but not forgotten, and said, “Yeah, until my dad made me go down these black diamond runs and I begged for the blue runs but he said I had to keep pushing myself.”

There was silence for a few seconds and then she added, while piling a few more balls of overcooked couscous onto her plate, “You know, I’m sure there were a lot of fun days but that’s all I remember – him pushing me down these runs.”

Man, I really hate that. I hate it that days or even weeks of levelheaded, devoted parenting can be erased, or at least eclipsed, by a single lapse in judgement. It is the same way I feel about sudden death, actually. So much sweaty resolve to transform desire into an embryo into a baby into a person. It should take nine months to kill a person, and as much pain as labor, and as much agonizing second-guessing as parenthood.

So I said all this in less eloquent terms to my friends and then Breah, who by now had made quite an impression, says, “They say it takes a week of praise and encouragement to counterbalance one negative message.”

“They do?” asks my friend.

“Whose ‘they’?” I ask.

It turns out Breah is getting an advanced degree in early childhood development. She’s clocked a couple years in preschools and is now planning to run one.

“That’s why you gotta ask yourself, what do I want my kids talking about when they’re 30? What do you want them to remember about their childhood?” Breah added casually, like a woman who does not have children and might not be able to imagine the thousands of pop quizzes that epitomize parenthood.

I went to bed and woke up with this on my mind for several days. I wondered if perhaps this unavoidable truth is what drives us to go overboard on birthday parties or family vacations. Maybe we are unconsciously manufacturing BIG events so that when our kids are 30, childhood is recalled as one happy string of Christmas mornings and trips to Disneyland – anything to overshadow the catalog of mistakes we hope will be forgotten.

But that won’t work. Therapy sessions always start with “Tell me about your childhood” and although pony rides, jumpy houses and princess parties might come up, the therapist will quickly move on to the everyday experience of being someone’s child. (And you won’t be forgiven for snapping at your children just because you were icing cupcakes for their party). So, on the drive home from Alpine Meadows, I tried to imagine the best reviews my girls might give me -- my mom was fun, she was fair, she listened, and my mom loved me. After a few miles of that, I started to wonder what I was doing to help my girls be understanding, empathetic adults who would forgive me my moments of impatience, irrationality and misguided “encouragement.”