Expose

It’s strange how having a child makes you see parts of yourself in a different light. My mom is fond of saying, “your children are your mirror.” And I thought that was just supposed to be marriage.

But she said that because I was acting dramatically grossed out by her chopping up pickled chicken feet in the kitchen (they taste irresistibly good, but I can only eat them if they are dismembered such that they look less like hands soaked in formaldehyde). I didn’t realize how I was sounding until I looked over at E sitting in her high chair next to me: she was frozen in fear, hands clutching the tray, wide eyes staring at the chopping board. She probably didn’t know what to be frightened of; just that if I was, she was too.

At this age she is an obvious example of that principle. When I laugh and act excited, she gets excited too. When I lie comatose on the nursery floor because I stayed up way too late for her early-morning routine, she comes over and lies her head down next to mine on the pillow (best thing I ever put in the nursery: a pillow on the floor). She wants to eat what I eat, even if it’s chips and diet soda. She wants to look at whatever I am, even if it’s the internet or cell phone.

And it makes me wonder. Maybe she is learning to snack too much because I do? Maybe she is so fixated on electronic devices because I’m always around my laptop or phone? And later: teaching her not to be performance-driven, to love exercise, to prioritize relationships, etc—these are things I can’t just tell her. I’ll either be showing her or not.

In this way parenthood, like marriage, is the great equalizer. The grand exposer. If you have any hidden bias, nasty habits, habitual idols, addictive sins, they are bound to come out. Perhaps your spouse is discreet, or forgiving; children are neither. Of course, I can’t try to fix myself for her, but I can take an honest look. And take it from there.