We are a bunch of confused parents! And the age of information technology is to blame.
Think about it. For our (Read Indian) parents, the formula was to yell or beat one's beloved offspring into "their" idea of a model child. Recall their weapon of choice? Was it Mum's fancy sandals or dad's sturdy belt? The broomstick or the clothes hanger? The ever-purposeful cane or the all-time classic SLAP? For a lucky few it would have been all of the above but if you were one of those rare but unfortunate souls then you have no clue what I am talking about, with a heavy heart let me ask: Are you sure your parents really loved you?
Now fast forward to today's times. A lot has changed. We are buried under an avalanche of dos and don'ts of parenting. There is just too much literature around "what to expect when expecting" "the first year", "the second year" and all the way up until the bird is ready to leave the nest. While our parents would have scoffed us to mighty heavens if they were even remotely suggested to go attend a workshop on parenting, our generation has successfully contributed to the careers of many a child psychologist. Yes, a group of people who make a more-than-decent living out of making us feel very guilty about our parenting styles that seemed to have worked well for many generations preceding us.
But honestly, how does one choose? Self sooth or cuddle? Reprimand or retrospect? Indulge or teach prudence? I remain clueless, even after 7 years of parenting a lovely baby girl.
My husband on the other hand seems to have it all figured out. He is hands down the saner parent. While I go from high decibel yelling in one second to hugging my seemingly terrified daughter the next, I have seldom seen him even raise his voice. To make matters worse (for me) he frowns upon my frequent yelling and the occasional beating. She, however, seems to be the wisest of us all. Every time she sees me burying my face in the pillow trying to hide my tears after a session of intense yelling and some beating, she comes to me, turns my face towards her, wipes away my tears with her tiny little hands and says "It's ok Amma, don't cry. I know you did that because you want me to do well". I would want to just crawl into a hole and die.
It wasn't however until a very mundane event that I had a momentous epiphany of how my actions affected my precious little one.
It was a Saturday and I was already annoyed with the school for having set the time in the morning hours. I had just gone to bed a couple of hours earlier after a tiring night at office. As I hurriedly dragged my daughter along the stairs towards her second-floor classroom, she knew I'd be upset if her scores were not as I had expected; the regular PTA affair. It's cliché but true; I only wanted her to do "her" best and not top the class or hold a rank. I have never condoned the twisted art of being better by comparison.
We reached the second floor to see four other parents seated on the chairs placed neatly outside the classroom. This meant I had to wait at least an hour for our turn. Muttering disapproval under my breath I wandered the corridor to keep my mind occupied while my daughter was busy greeting her fellow classmates and scampering around with them with my husband taking pictures of every move she made.
My eyes fell upon a gorgeous paper tree on one of the walls. It was about five feet in height with a dark brown paper making up for trunk which was wide at the bottom and narrowed as it reached the leaves. It was however the leaves that made the tree a striking sight. The individual leaves were cut out from different coloured paper, making it a vibrant visual treat. Somehow the sight of the tree made me forget my weariness and exasperation. Above the tree was the title printed out in big bold black letters on a white long strip of paper which read "The tree of forgiveness".
As I drew closer, I noticed that each leaf had some pencil writing on them. Intrigued, I started. "I forgive Sunil for pinching me. Aman II A" one read. "I forgive Suhana for breaking my crayon" wrote Ruhan from I A. A wave of maternalistic affection overcome me. I kept moving from one leaf to another oblivious that the worry lines on my forehead had made way to creases around the edges of my lips as I smiled. I kept scouring the leaves until my eyes fell on a red leaf. With my index finger I moved the yellow leaf that was stuck above it, careful not to pull it out altogether. I froze as I read the words "I forgive my mother" in a familiar handwriting. It was of my 6-year-old.
I couldn't move for what seemed like an eternity. Just stayed there and kept looking until I was brought back to reality when my husband called me over to meet the teacher. It was our turn. I kept nodding my head at whatever the teacher said but my mind had wandered far. Also underneath the sentence was a drawing of a heart between two smiling faces. Neither her grades nor the trend lines on her report card seemed to matter. Those tiny hands I sometimes used to twist had drawn them so beautifully. I tried my best to keep captive the tears that yearned freedom to flow freely down my flushed cheeks.
In all her innocence though she was hurt by my behaviour, yet she found enough love in her generous little heart to "forgive me”. It's been a year now and our relationship is several proclamations of "you-are-the-best-thing-to-have-happened-to-me" and "I -love-you-more-than-anything" older, yet it was that one red leaf on the tree of forgiveness that changed the way I see my daughter.
Such a lovely realization it is; what an amazing little human she is growing into. Every time there is a need to help her see the cause for discipline, I would do that in a manner she would understand. Reminded by the "Tree of forgiveness"
*This piece of writing has been made read worthy by a very dear editor-in-the-making friend of mine. A nip there, a tuck here and voila, it reads much better.
