Parenting. (and how mine were good at it)

I've been thinking alot about parenting lately. See, I'm usually one of those annoying people who refuse to see anything in black or white, but I can't help but pull an either/or on the subject of parenting. Master Yoda (or someone) once said "Do or do not, there is no try". You're either being a good parent or you aren't.

And the thing is, as I've gotten older and gotten to observe parenting on multiple levels, (I've babysat, worked in a daycare, I'm good at observing people in public settings, I've had friends with parents and friends who've become parents - I've seen it all.) I can't help but notice how incredibly lucky I was to end up with two capable, loving parents who on an overall scale did incredibly good.
The more things I learn about good parenting, the more I've gotten to think about what parenting styles I agree or disagree with, my parents seemed to know what they were doing.

It seems like everyone around me has bad parents. The girls feel their mother is too emotionally distant, and their dads don't understand them, and the guys feel like their mothers are babying them, and their dads are emotionally distant. Maybe this observation has some relation to the town I grew up in, though.

See, I was surrounded by people whose parents had them when they were too young and still thought it was cool to spoil and doll up their kids, and then got divorced and bored with the babies. Some got smacked, some had mothers who had many boyfriends, many got caught in divorce-arguements... It's a jungle out there.
 
My parents got divorced when I was 9, and I am very glad they did it when I was that young. Sure, it made me sad, but my parents got divorced because they had really, really tried, and decided to call it quits while they could still like each other enough to be friends instead of doing what most of the other parents seemed to do; either tough it out and fake it to the kids until one of you snaps and leaves, or have loud, violent arguements for years, scaring the crap out of your children.
Mine stayed friends. They co-operated, they supported each other and pretty much still put up a united front until I was in my teens.

Sure, I had some hormonal years where I went through the afforementioned mandatory stage for teenage girls, "I'm scared that my mother doesn't love me, and my dad tries but doesn't get me", but I snapped out of it, and I have a very good relationship with my parents now. I know that my mother loves me, and I love her so much for never giving up on me like I've seen happening to too many of my friends. And my dad... Well, he tries, but still doesn't get me. But that's okay, that's what dads do, and I know that he loves me and doesn't think I'm a complete retard.


I used to get beat up a lot at school when I was a kid. I was skinny and pale by nature, and I was an outsider with a very rhymey name, it was bound to happen.
I don't remember hating any of my bullies. I felt hurt that they took their frustrations out on the weak kid, but I knew their parents... I mean, it was a very, VERY small town, and everyone was related in one too  many ways. I saw how the bullies parents were and acted, and I remember often feeling sorry for them. You know, a sort of "they have so much bad inside because their parents aren't as patient/loving as mine" kind of way. (and they said I learned nothing at bible camp?)
I had friends who were bullied when I was younger. Some of the parents didn't support them. They blamed their own kids, or didn't take it seriously. Mine believed me, they supported me in every way they knew how, and I feel incredibly lucky I wound up with them when I look back on that.

People say a lot of things about my parents, and about how they let me become the person my reputation makes people think I am. It makes me sad that even as a teenager, most of my friend's parents disliked me because of something they'd heard from other parents. How can adult people be that mistrusting?
People say good things about me too, but let's start with the bad. Growing up in a small society, word travelled fast. Anywhere within hours of driving, someone has heard your name and knows something about you. And these people are not the best storytellers either, to put it that way. 
They make me out to be this evil, unhygienic, sad person who turns people's daughters gay warps their minds with my left-wing propaganda, and I also think people think I'm kind of a slot even though I'm very picky.
The bad things are rumours vindictive ex-friends or exes have made up, as well as stories people have twisted and blown way out of proportion, by the way.
I can't help but feel bad for my parents whose work is so discredited. Sure, I've been emotional sometimes and done some dumb shit, but not more than others have done.
I've been cautious about sex, never tried hard drugs, I didn't start smoking at 12 like some of the others, I didn't start drinking at, well, 12 like many of the others, I've never done burglary or shoplifted or beat up a weak kid, or avoided being helpful to random people who happen to cross my path.
Oh, and rumour has it I'm a great daycare-nanny.
That's gotta be worth something, right?

When I got through the emotional, bakwards, overly hormonally drugged rollercoaster-ride that is the teenage years, I managed to peek out on the other side as a somewhat stable, friendly, intelligent person who chooses to believe the good in people. Sure, there are some anxiety now and then, but that comes from years of feeling like I've been damned in the closed society I was confined to for years, not my parents.

WHIIIIIICH leads me to my point. Finally.
Being a good parent is a choice. There are good parents, people who love their kids and really try, and there are bad parents, who feels annoyed or ashamed or scared by the kid and choose to not care much about what kind of a person's mind they were molding, or how they did it. It never ceases to amaze me what kind of dumb behavioural and look-wise example people choose to set for their kids.
Slutty moms, angry soccer dads, Drug-addicts, teenage moms who decided to not have the abortion because "I already had one and besides, babies are cute" only to get tired of them and keep acting like a teenager for a good ten more years, tired moms who look like men and have the "yeah yeah yeah whatever it takes to keep you quiet just do whatever"-kind of parenting style, and dads who treats others like they're garbage to him.

My parents read to me. They practiced writing with me, they rejoyced over all the crappy art I made, they took my words seriously, and most of all, they never exposed me to bad behaviour. They made a point out of being friendly and polite, they were honest with me, and they answered all my dumb questions. I have ADHD, so... There were A LOT of question. (Thank you for the incredible patience on that one, mom and dad! <3  )
They didn't mock me for crying or yell at me, they didn't use me to get back at each other or take out their hate for each other on me, they didn't go out and get drunk and leave me all alone, and they made a point of out driving nicely. Well, my mother did. My dad's driving taught me how to swear; But you get the point.

What makes a good  parent is the will to try anything in your power, and to admit that you have more to learn and take all the opportunities you can get to improve your parenting-skills. You're also a good parent when you love your child and let them know that you do so, and when you decide to never tell kids not to do something you wouldn't do yourself.

You're a BAD parent when you treat your kids like they are dumb, when you refuse to remember that it is not logical to get angry at kids for not knowing something there were no way they could know, and when you treat your children as belongings, possesions, intead of a tiny, real person.
You are also a bad parent when you give up on raising your kids, or take the easy way out and let them have and do whatever they want, or get annoyed with them for being kids, and most important of all... When you give up trying to make them a decent, polite human being because you don't give a shit and have the money to not do so anyways.


I don't have children yet, but when I do... I know what kind of parent I want to be. I know what styles, techniques and behavioural patterns I want to use on my children, and which ones I don't. I've always felt that in order to make an informed deciscion, one needs to gather up as much information as one can, and the more I learn... The more I feel myself becoming my parents. That's right. I catch myself saying things or voicing opinions like my parents do, and getting annoyed at the same things I remember hearing my parents get bugged by. And then I think to myself. "Well. It seems like my parents were right."
That's, right, I said it. I'm 22, my brain is almost fully grown, I admit it now. My parents were right.

So, whoever you are, what ever you've heard about my parents, know this. My parents did their best to make me as intelligent and nice as possible, and they wanted me to be that way because they were too. They supported me, and put up with all my crap, even when I said hurtful things I wish I could take back a million times or acted up. They fought for me, they supported me, and they always make sure I know just how much they love me. They fed me healthy food (well, sans the massive loads of pasta), they helped me with my homework, they kept me fed and clean and clothed, and they did their very best. They set a positive rolemodel for me and treated others withe politeness and kindness, and they were honest with me. Always.

It seems like everyone but me has a broken family. When I count up all the things my parents did right, I see how incredibly low the odds are for getting parents with all the qualities needed to be good parents, and I feel lucky.

Whether you feel your parents are good parents or bad parents, there will always be something they did right, some good thing they taught you, and you need to hang onto that. No matter how they act, or how you turned out (hey, it's their fault!), they love you.

Mine do.

Mine did great.

I want to matter.

I've finally realised what I want from my life. Or, I do want many things, but I've realised what one of my dreams are.
In danish, there's a saying roughly translating "to burn for". If you burn for something, you just somehow know that this, this is what you love/are good at/are meant to do. You know what your goal is, and you feel some inner fire fuelling you to get there.
I've never had that. I have things I would love to do, but can't, and my talents... I don't have any astonishing talents. I don't have some inexplicable talent that can somehow be documented or filmed or recorded or something. I don't have people calling me up, saying "Hey, I need some help, and you're the only one I know of who can do this job well enough."
I have things I'm good at, things I do well, but nothing, not a thing to show for it.

Somehow, I've always managed to flail around in life, just drifting through with no real purpose. Nothing is permanent to me, nothing is constant, and nothing is given. But, for those same reasons, nothing has really seemed to matter. Don't get me wrong, I have plenty of stuff to live for, and I am a somewhat happy person, but... There's never been a lingering sense of direction. Until now.

I want to matter. I know that I do matter to some people, but that's not what I mean. I want to have such an impact on a person's life that they immortalise me. That I have somehow been such an important element of somebody's life that they feel like they have to talk about it, or write songs about the feelings, or a poem, or paint pictures, something.
I want, when I die a longlonglong time from now, all grey and wrinkly,  to know that this life hasn't been in vain. That I have, by existing, wronged a right in the world. Helped someone, heard someone, mattered to someone, CHANGED SOMEONE'S TRAJECTORY, left such deep and lovely feelings in someone that they can't help but share it with the world.
I want someone to look at whatever these inspired people made, and think "I know who inspired that song/poem/painting/storybook/invention", and smile.

In other words, my dream is to be the start of a positive chain-reaction.

I realise I might come off a bit selfish writing this, but that was not my intention. I don't feed off of the attention of others, and I don't try desperately to matter to everyone, but I must admit that it is a fear of mine, leaving the world without leaving a footprint.
I need to leave a dent. If the world was a giant car, and every important changes to it, no matter how small, were dents, I want to somehow be part of what inspired someone to leave one. I need to know I wasn't just another drop in the ocean.


Until that happens, I will keep listening to beautiful lovesongs, wishing they were about me, and drawing my crappy drawings hoping I'll someday have some life-changing epiphany somehow inspiring me to make truely original or beautiful art.The fire just needs to be lit.


Also, I think that maybe this ambition of mine is my reason for still being alive. Not that I've ever wanted to commit suicide or anything, but life just somehow seems so arbitrary. The things we do everyday to keep ourselves alive, whether for the short or the long run they sometimes seem so pointless, it overwhelms me; it sometimes keep me from remembering that I too am a piece in the giant puzzle that makes "the whole picture". I can't see the whole picture, because it is so incredibly large, but I know that I am a teeny tiny part of it. The only thing I can't figure out is how my piece fits in with the big picture, and where.

"No animals were harmed during the production of these meals"

It has been 10 days now since I decided to stop eating meat, at least as much as possible, and I have to say it is going well. I ate some chicken and some pizza with meat on it last weekend, as I went to my sister's house, and I had some pizza with salami on it once or twice as well, but other than that... No meat :)  Or, well... My noodles are chicken-flavoured, so I suppose they technically count, but bear with me. I'm learning, and I'm poor, haha.
I'm also still having trouble letting go of fish, but I actually have an excuse for still eating seafood: doctor's orders!

Anyways, I went shopping for some cheap, long-lasting non-murderous meals, and if I pool it together with what I already had in my fridge and stuff, this is what I've got:

If you subtract the pasta, cheese and hummus, this whole deal cost me approximately 100kr. We're talking 1kg rice, 1,5kg vegetables, 3 boxes of tomatoes, 2 bags of bread, vegetable-butter, and so on. Believe it or not, but this will (dinner-wise) be enough to feed me for almost 2 weeks.

Apart from what you see here, I have about 6 bags of noodles, a jar of raspberry jam, and a buttload of eggs.
Some might say that eggs and dairy are also torturing animals, but I don't want to discuss it. My main reason for not wanting to eat meat is that the thought of having paid for someone else to get killed makes me sick to my stomach. Who the fuck am I to decide who dies? That's not my job, and is it fair that I can do it just because I have money? Hell to the no!
You know what? I actually wrote a poem about it! Poems are a fun-tastic way of relieving all sorts of frustrations and emotions, and I write them alot when dealing with things.
Soooo... Here is my poem about the emotions that caused me to not want to eat meat!
(and also, forgive me for writing an overly pretentious and seemingly guilt-tripping post, lol)

Bodies on the table

I stare at them, and they stare at me
as different as we could possibly be
Me sitting here, them lying there
despite the world that we used to share

I raise my hand up to my lips
it starts to tremble, its contents slips
I try it again, and again, and again
but I just cannot do this to my furry friend

my throat starts to close, and my stomach churns
I'm closing my eyes, but the feeling still burns
All of the lies I have previously told
suddenly seem to be so very old

My cash took their lives, though they weren't mine to take
I realise now my gigantic mistake
we use them for food, for clothes and for show
if they will forgive us, we might never know.

Trilinguality

Others often comment that I tend to post things on facebook in three different languages; Danish, Norwegian and English. I do, and I honestly don't see why that is a problem, as I consider myself a fluent speaker of all three.
See, in order to fluently speak a language, you need to be able to express your innermost thoughts and emotions as precisely as possible, and in order to do that, you need to be able to THINK in that langauge.
When you think in a language, at least, this is how I do it, it is as if you hear someone speak to you in that language. When I write, I don't sit and think about the words. It is almost as if there is a person who speaks that language standing behind me, and I am just writing down what they say; y'know?

So, as this is a trilingual blog, I will make posts in all three languages. Deal with it.

Om døde dyr på brødet og følelsen af kollektiv skam.

Der stod jeg så, midt i Føtex's mad-afdeling, pludtselig overvældet af følelser. Jeg prøvede at vandre lidt rundt, men jeg da jeg ikke kiggede efter noget bestemt, følte jeg mig bare som en zombie på spasertur.
Det er den sidste hverdag i måneden, og jeg har fået SU. Jeg skulle i føtex for at handle mad ind, da jeg snart er ved at løbe tør for pålæg, og det var i frysedisken, det hele startede.
Jeg havde stået og tænkt på, om jeg skulle købe noget frossent kylling, da jeg pludtselig fik en følelse af skam. Skam og forargelse. "Hvorfor", tænkte jeg til mig selv, "køber jeg egentlig døde dyrs lig og spiser dem? Fordi det er billigt?" Ja, hvorfor, egentlig. Det ER jo ikke billigere end grøntsager.
Jeg indsåg egentlig dette for nogle dage siden, men følelserne efter alvorlige ting kommer altid lidt sent for mig. Først er jeg nummen, og så bryder det ud, som at blive slået i fjæset og ikke føle at det svier, før en halv dag efter.

Nu havde jeg jo tænkt, at mit første indlæg i den nye blog skulle være et eller andet røre om hvorfor jeg skriver på tre sprog, men fuck det lort. Vi tager det senere.

Nå, men der gik jeg så, blandt spegepølse, salami og kyllingepølser, og tænkte for mig selv hvor utroligt egoistisk jeg egentlig er. Pludtselig holdt alle de undskyldninger, jeg tidligere har brugt, op med at være relevante, og jeg kunne ikke finde nogen grund til at spise kød i det hele taget; ingenting der kunne retfærdiggøre, at jeg bidrager til, at andre mennesker får betalt for at slå noget levende ihjæl.
Jeg gik hen til køddisken med de friske varer i, i håb om at finde noget der frister, men ak, nej. Det duftede så dejligt, det gjorde det, og jeg VED jo godt at dyret allerede er dødt og derfor ikke tænker over, hvad der bliver gjort af dets fysiske krop, men jeg kunne ikke røre ved noget som helst af kød uden at tænke "dette dyr er slået ihjæl fordi jeg insisterer på at spise det".

Jeg fik kvalme, simpelthen, og begyndte igen at vandre, nej, svimle rundt, for ikke at gå helt omkuld.
Måske kom kvalmen af tanke på alle de regninger jeg har denne måned, for det første jeg tænkte i kyllingedisken var nemlig "måske burde jeg købe denne pose med kylling, jeg har nemlig kun 300 til mad hver uge, og dette er billigt", efterfulgt af overnævnte tanker om dyrelig.   Måske kom kvalmen af, at jeg havde pist mere mælkeprodugter, end min laktoseintolerans kan holde til, men jeg tror det kom af noget andet.
Jeg tror simpelthen det kom af, at tanken slog mig om hvor utroligt kvalmende egoistisk og dobbeltmoralsk jeg (såvel som så mange andre mennesker på planeter) er, og hvor røv-sygt det er at jeg har retfærdiggjort det så længe som jeg har. Jeg mener, hvordan kan nogen som helst unskyldning retfediggøre, at jeg spiser andre dyr? Jeg ved da godt at man "æder hinanden og sådan er det", og menneskers fordøjelseskanal jo i den grad er tilpasset en kødholdig kost, men alligevel. Hvordan kan jeg være gråden nær over at komme til at træde på en edderkop, for så at vende mig om, og spise min skinkemad? Når jeg nu tilhører en race, der har sprog og kundskab nok til at vide hvad de laver, og tage nogenlunde fornuftige valg, hvordan kan jeg så bestemme hvem der lever eller dør? Det skal jeg da for fanden ikke bestemme! Men når jeg tager valg, hvor udslaget er, at døde dyr bliver slagtet og spist, så er det jo lige det, jeg har gjort! Nu tror jeg ikke på Gud, og jeg ved ikke hvem der bestemmer hvem der lever eller dør, men det kan da for fanden ikke være mig!?

Jeg kan ikke (eller kunne ikke der og da) fatte at andre mennesker gider at være venner, med sådan en dobbeltmoralsk egoist som mig. Hvis jeg havde et valget, ville jeg ikke en gang selv gidet det.


Nå, men jeg har så brug for pålæg, og der ER ikke meget jeg både kan tåle, er sundt,  OG der smager godt på rugbrødet, så jeg svimlede lidt rundt for at finde noget pålæg, der ikke kom fra døde dyr. Døde dyr på brødet virkede næmlig pludtselig ikke som noget, jeg kunne tænke mig at spise. Lige meget hvor jeg kiggede så var der kød. Måske var det fordi jeg pludtselig var bevidst på det, men der er egentlig pænt lidt pålæg, en vegetar kan spise! Min mave rumlede, og ikke på den gode måde. Skinke, salami, pølse, kødboller, pepperoni-fucking-pizza, alt jeg kunne se var mad til de mord-medvirkere, jeg indtil for nogle minutter siden selv havde været en del af.
Så kan man jo også skændes om biprodugter som æg, mælk og honning er noget man godt må spise, men det gider jeg ærlig talt ikke at diskutere med flere. JEG synes at jeg skal have lov til at spise det, og da det ikke gør, at jeg har betalt for at få et dyr slået ihjel, er jeg fornøjet.

ANYWAYS. Brød er noget jeg spiser hver dag, og med tanke på det lille jeg har tilbage til mad når jeg har betalt de obligatoriske regninger og sendt de obligatoriske fødselsdagsgaver til familiemedlemmer, kan jeg ikke ligefrem købe mad i skolekantinen, så min jagt på pålæg fortsatte.
Jeg lagde mærke til, at de have udsalg på økologisk mug-ost, og lagde et par stykker ned i min handlekurv. Mugost er dog ikke noget, der er særlig sjovt for andre at jeg har med på brødet, da det lugter af bræk til trods for den dejlige smag, og det kan hurtigt også blive trættende i længden, så jeg gik på udkig efter mere. Nul putte.

Efter at have købt ostene og diverse andre madvarer (mineralvand + lidt trøsteis), gik jeg ned af gaden, hvileløst og uden nogen særlig mål og mening. Jeg følte mig nedtrykket, overvældet, og helt omtåget af alle de tanker, og den skyld jeg følte, for at have medvirket til mord så længe som jeg har gjort.

Til sidst tog jeg hen til den lokale grønt-butik, der alligevel lå i den gade, jeg skulle ned af. Jeg tror danskerne kalder det en "perkerbutik", men det hedder altså et Tyrkisk Marked, det var ihvertfald det, skiltet sagde.

Med eet fik jeg øje på  kikærterne, og en tanke slog mig. Jeg HAVDE jo smagt vegetarpålæg før, og det var, såvidt jeg kan huske, lavet af kikærter! "Det kan da ikke være så svært at lave", tænkte jeg for mig selv, og det bekræftede den venlige mand (der i øvrigt talte meget godt Dansk!) bagved kassen, og han gav mig en hurtig lektion i at lave hummusplålæg.
Du koger kikærter, moser dem, blander lidt olivenolie og saft fra noget presset hvidløg i, og tilsætter noget tahin. Tahin er forresten et lækkert pålæg lavet af sesamfrø, og det ligner egentlig jordnøddesmør forbløffende meget både i smag og udseende. Jeg tænkte "Yes man, hjemmelavet hummus, coming up!", da den venlige mand plutselig sgde, at de faktisk havde færdiglavet hummus! De havde lige et par dåser tilbage, og jeg fik dem for "hele" 15kr tilsammen.
Da jeg gik derfra var jeg 6 pakker rejenudler, to dåser hummus og en nøglering rigere, og 45 kroner fattigere. Money well spent!

Jeg ved ikke, om det var følelsen af at have spared penge, eller af at have købt pålæg der ikke myrdede nogen, eller om skyerne bare var lættet, men jeg kunne sværge på, at solen skindte mere da jeg kom ud af butikken, end da jeg gik derind.

Jeg ved heller ikke hvor længe denne efter-effekt af kollektiv skyld blive ved med at virke på mig, og jeg kan ikke love at jeg skal være konsistent, men lige pt. er min plan at købe alle mine grøntsager der (da de var både større, friskere og blligere end i Føtex), og lade de døde dyr blive spist af nogle andre.
Måske får jeg tilbagefald, måske vågner jeg i morgen og har ikke længre en grund til ikke at spise bacon, men lige nu, lige idag er sødyr de eneste dyr, jeg har samvittighed til at spise. (Og det er så kun fordi jeg virkelig, VIRKELIG har brug for de proteiner og ting de indeholder. Nej, jeg vil ikke diskutere det, hold kæft.)


Der hersker stadig tvivl indeni, om hvad der bed mig, og hvad det var, der pludtselig satte mig på andre tanker, men jeg tror simpelthen ikke, at det er noget, jeg nogensinde finder ud af; og kender jeg mig selv, så skifter jeg nok mening snart, eller går tilbage til at hade mig selv i stilhed mens jeg gnaver på et kyllingeben, efterfulgt af en time med kvalme og selvberbrejdelser.




Nu mistede jeg helt tråden, men det har de fleste læsere, if any, nok gjort for længst alligevel.

Over og ud -
 Anna, wannabe-altruist, kronisk selvhader, og midlertidig semi-vegetar.