Restorative Practices

My oldest son, all of 19 now, is my mirror. He looks like me, he acts like me, and he sounds like me. And because we are so similar, he pushes all of my buttons. He always has. I don’t know that it’s intentional. It’s just the nature of our relationship.

I am, by no means, Mother-of-the-Year when it comes to this one. My parenting style has always been much too reactive. We used to compete over who could throw the bigger tantrum at shower time. Whose will was stronger when there were vegetables to be eaten? Bedtimes and potty training were all out wars. And I’m sure somewhere, my parents are snickering. Payback is a what …?

I cringe to think of the damage I’ve done to this poor soul whose only crime was to inherit my DNA.

As he started his junior year of high school, got his driver’s license, and developed this new confidence, I realized he was becoming a man. Those manforearms and his suddenly unrecognizable manbiceps were yearning to break free of the shackles of my Mother-Smother. Sarcasm, dry wit, and knowing adult humor were coursing through his manveins which stood out prominently on his manmuscles. There was one more thing: he had grown taller than me. I’m 5’9 1/2”; I’ve been 5’9 1/2” for a long time. I’ve spent most of my adult life looking over the heads of a lot of women, and I’m eye to eye with most men. I found myself looking slightly upward to meet his gaze. His fingers were suddenly longer; his palm was suddenly wider. I’m pretty sure that happened over night.

When COVID threw us together nearly 24/7, I had to take a step back for fear of truly demolishing any relationship I had any hope of having with this kiddo. I fought ever urge to react to him as best as I could, and I decided to let natural consequences take their course. He was finishing his junior year of high school that spring, and I knew we only had one more year together under the same roof before he flew this little nest we had built for him. Not only did he have to learn to make his own decisions, but I didn’t want him beating his wings bloody in an effort to escape some cage I had created. I wanted him to want to leave but also want to return. My hope was that he would learn valuable lessons based on the actions he took, to understand cause and effect. I left the door open for conversation to help him process choices he was about to make or regroup when things didn’t go as he planned.

This summer, I’m doing a book study on restorative practices. A lot of what I’m reading is taking me back to this time in my life when I was consciously making decisions to be proactive instead of reactive, to repair and improve a relationship that is so vitally important to me, and to attempt at least to communicate as effectively as I could. To use humor to defuse, compassion to understand, and empathy to relate. (I’m not sure he’ll ever read this, but if he does, I can picture him shaking his head and thinking I’m rewriting a whole new version of history. I’m not sure how well I executed my plans, but my intentions were there. Points for effort?)

It reminded me of one incident when I fought hard against my natural instinct to over react with anger and frustration to something he’d done. I don’t even remember what it was he did. But I do remember taking a breath. I decided his “punishment” was to take a selfie with me every day for five days, and then I got to post those pictures on social media. He scoffed and thought it was ridiculous. He said no way. But he laughed. And so did I. So, over the course of five days, he had to avail himself to my camera when the moment struck me.

Day 1 was just in the kitchen. I was testing the waters to see how he’d react. He complied.

Day 2, he was a little more reluctant. The smirk says it all.

Day 3, we took an adventure to a local farm to see some sunflowers.

He was warming up the idea of spending time with me.

By Day 4, I got him to take a walk with me. He talked, I listened. I was so grateful we were bonding, not arguing. We were laughing, not yelling. And when I announced SELFIE #4 TIME, he was the one who threw his arms around me.

Day 5

It was the first day of school for him, and the alarm sounded earlier than he was used to. I admit, this last one was just plain mean, but it’s the one that makes me laugh the hardest. JUSTICE.

As much as we have butted heads of the years, we also share the exact same sense of humor. Ryan Stiles and Wayne Brady on Whose Line Is It Anyway? send the two of us into fits of giggles. We cackle at Barney Stinson in How I Met Your Mother. We quote the same movies, he’s gotten into Seinfeld, and many times, the sarcastic comment going through my mind comes out of his mouth.

I’m grateful for his tenacity, his sharp wit, and his strength.

This concept of restorative practices is so incredibly valuable. In her invitation to join this book study, my principal’s comment was, “This isn’t earth-shattering material, but it’s good to remind ourselves to this philosophy from time to time.”

She’s wrong. It is earth-shattering material. Be mindful. Put relationships above all. Use empathy, humor, compassion, and conversation to build connections. At a time when I feel like our planet is way off course, this is absolutely the stuff we need to shatter this earth back into an orbit I can live in again.

These are not my finest moments as a photographer, but I hold them close as one of my finer moments as a parent. Maybe that Mother-of-the-Year trophy isn’t totally out of the question.

My oldest son is my mirror, and there is so much value in reflection.