Reflecting Badly On Our Family
Andy and I take Nora and Quinn to the vet for their annual checkups. We wonder if our dogs are the correct weight for their size. Are their coats clean and shiny? Do they look happy and well cared for?
The vet says our pets are magnificent. We swell with pride. We passed the test. Our dogs are an excellent reflection of us.
But are our kids excellent reflections of us? If someone looks at them, will they say, “Andy and Sue are wonderful parents!”
Often, kids are told, “Don’t do anything that reflects badly on our family.” We worry about our parental image. What if someone looks at our kids and criticises the way we’re bringing them up? What if people whisper to each other, “Andy and Sue are terrible parents. Have you seen what their kids are doing?”
I used to be concerned about things like this. I’d forget that our kids are more important than other people’s opinions.
When our children do something we’re not happy about, we need to encircle them with our love and empathy. Understand and help if we can, and not worry about what others are saying. We must close ranks and ignore any negative comments. Critical words belong to someone else. They’re not our problem.
Our kids don’t need to be a reflection of us. All I hope is that they reflect our great love for them.
So we love. We love unconditionally. We love whatever happens. And we don’t worry about what other people might say.
We still worry about the vet, though. For some reason, we want his approval. When he pats Nora and says, “She’s my kind of dog!” we grin.
After the checkups, basking in the vet’s approval, we buy coffee and go to the park to enjoy it.
“You were so good!” we say, rewarding Nora and Quinn with huge hugs. It’s okay. We can do this. They’re dogs.
They’re not kids.
Unschool: Clothes, Connections and Reflections of Love
If you have the password to my protected posts, you might like to read this reflections-of-love story:
Unschool: Clothes, Connections and Reflections of Love
She twirls, spinning, her new dress lifting. She’s grinning, and I instantly forget the pain: I dislike sewing. Years later, all grown up, with eyes glowing, she recalls that dress and everything I sewed or chose for her. And I know that clothes are not frivolous but connections and reflections of my mother’s love…
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