Expectations

Pick your battles! Don’t sweat the small stuff! I remember hearing these and other well-meaning words of advice from observers to my many parenting struggles (or fails, as I saw them at the time) over the years. Looking back I realise how clueless I was, and in many cases still am, when it comes to choosing when to fight and when to walk away. Maybe that’s why some friends seem to have a much easier time with their children. One in particular, who almost never argues with her offspring, confided that she has no expectations of them and therefore cannot be disappointed.

I admit I have expectations. I expect my children to be polite and treat me and others with respect. I expect them to listen when they’re being spoken to, to express their opinion but not talk across others and to be considerate of people’s opinions and feelings. I expect them to be honest. I expect them to be helpful around the house (even when we had a full-time cleaner they were required to tidy up after themselves). I expect them to stick to their commitments and put 100% effort into their education. I expect them to spend a greater proportion of their time interacting with people in real life than online. I expect them to apologise when appropriate but also to respect themselves enough that they expect and accept an apology when they’ve been wronged.

I overheard a father and his children having a conversation the other day and was reminded of a very similar exchange between me and mine. One child had (perhaps accidentally, but I suspect not) bumped their sibling. The injured child complained and the father asked the perpetrator to apologise. She refused. Dad insisted, to which the child replied “OK, sorry, but I don’t mean it and you always told me not to lie”.

Ah, the joy of expectations being met?!

Thinking about the reality of parenting, I understand why people suggest some battles just aren’t worth fighting. But then again, isn’t the difference between an argument and a conversation just the expected outcome?

So my children and I will battle on (in fact there’s a squabble in the kitchen bubbling away as I write), I will continue to marvel at how much I (and they) have survived and admit how naive I must be to believe that at any point I’m in control.