Illustration by Rachel Maves
My 3-year-old daughter, Katherine, and I got into our first fight. It wasn’t over how many episodes of “Octonauts” she should be permitted to watch on the television. It wasn’t over which tulle-decorated dress she was going to wear to preschool or whether I could get her to put on any shoes besides her purple dinosaur rain boots.
No. It was over a topic that secretly warmed my English teacher heart: how many syllables her name has.
“Katherine, the way we pronounce your name, it really only has two syllables: ‘Kath-rine.’ We don’t say the ‘e’ as a separate syllable.” I clapped twice, once for each syllable, as I repeated her name several times to drive my point home: “Kath-rine. Kath-rine. See?”
She raised her blond eyebrows at me and pursed her lips. It was the look of determination, opposition, someone who was digging her heels in and not backing down. I know, because I’ve made the face myself too many times.
“No, Mommy. My name has THREE syllables: ‘Kath-er-lynn.’ ” She, too, clapped on each syllable, and I was both impressed and annoyed that she had changed the pronunciation of her name just to win an argument with me.
“Sweetheart,” I said as gently as possible, “your name isn’t ‘Katherlynn.’ While that is a very unique and beautiful name, your name is simply ‘Katherine.’ ”
And so here we were, a grown woman and a tiny toddler, going round and round for longer than I’d care to admit, until finally I rolled my eyes and relented.
“OK. Fine. Your name is Katherlynn. It’s three syllables.”
She smirked. “I know.”
It’s strange to enter into the era of parenting a tiny human with her own thoughts, opinions and reasoning skills (as shaky as they may be sometimes). When I was pregnant, she and I were one. I would lie on my side at bedtime, stroking my protruding belly to get a kick from her, thinking about how connected we were. I poked my belly. She moved. We were one.
Now, however, we are clearly separate entities. I am often tempted to project my thoughts and experiences onto her simply because we are so similar, and while I am aware that this is unhealthy, it’s also tempting and difficult to refrain from doing so. I am aware, too, that the tension between her autonomy and my authority over her as a parent will become more complex as she grows. Right now, our biggest disagreements are about name syllables and whether or not a yogurt pouch is an acceptable dinner.
I know that she will make decisions with which I disagree. I know that she will develop her own set of values, and those may differ from mine. It’s a daunting reality, especially as I attempt to navigate my relationship with her so very differently than how I was parented. (Anyone else here trying to reparent themselves while simultaneously raising children?)
I was raised to blindly respect and obey authority. Thanks to some therapy, I can see how being brought up under this parenting style bred within me people-pleasing tendencies, self-doubt, disconnection from my own intuition — you get the picture. Wanting to avoid those potential outcomes for our own children, my husband and I have chosen a different style.
Despite our best intentions, in moments of stress and disagreement with my own toddler, I hear myself wanting to repeat mantras I so often heard as a youngster: “Because I said so,” or “You’re a child.” They just bubble up from deep within me where I’ve suppressed them and threaten to spill off my tongue. While I know those authoritative comments aren’t productive or in line with my parenting style, sometimes I’m not sure what to say. I can identify what not to say. But I lack the vocabulary and scripts needed to set a firm boundary in a way that also honors my kids’ autonomy, needs, emotions and fears.
Veteran parents reading this piece are likely shaking their heads: “Oh, just you wait until middle school. Or high school. Nay — until adulthood when you’re an empty nester! Then you’ll really see how hard it is to balance your role as a parent with your child’s need to make their own decisions.”
Just like I let the argument about how many syllables are in Katherine’s name go, there are some other things I let slide as well. For example, she picks out all her own outfits. Does this mean she rocks yellow polka-dotted pants with a sequin-embellished lavender dress and lime-green socks? Absolutely. Do I care? Yes. I do. I wish I didn’t, but I do.
Every caregiver picks and chooses what boundaries to enforce based on their values, parenting style and beliefs. Right now with my toddlers, our disagreements are about which “Pete the Cat” book to read or whether or not Katherine can drink juice with every meal. But someday, those discussions will evolve: What will her curfew be? When will she be able to have social media? What will happen when she wants to date someone? And as much as I will think I know what’s best for her, as much as I will want to control her to protect her from harm, ultimately she has to decide things for herself.
So today, I concede that “Katherine” has three syllables, I let her wear rain boots even when it’s not raining, and I respect her wishes when she says “no” after I ask to hug her (even though it stings a little). She may be a part of me, and she always will be, but she’s her own little person.
Christine Suders is a high school English teacher, writer and volleyball coach. She’s married to her high school sweetheart and is the mom of a tenacious toddler and an infant.