Demonstrations of Anger

It is impossible to know how much we influence our children but suffice it to say, we do.  It happens in a subtle way and often goes unnoticed.  It manifests itself in ways impossible to see let alone count.  It can be viewed in the way we dress, the way we live, our political or religious beliefs.  Sometimes it can be found in a our very personalities.

I suppose it is the old nature vs. nurture argument.  Nature creates the canvas of what we are yet it is our lives and those around us that paint upon it.  There is a lot of good about me.  I am a kind person and I care for those around me.  I am spiritual and intellectual.  I am reflective and sometimes funny.  I can be creative and intense.  I love the natural world and I try to live life as positive and accepting as I can be.  While these are the traits I hope my child finds in himself there are others I hope he will not.  I curse myself when they creep out and wish I had kept them hidden away.

I grew up with a stepfather who loved and cared for me as if I was his own.   The experience taught me that blood means nothing in the face of love.  He came into my life when I was very young and my memories of my first father are scant.  For me, my father was always my stepfather.  It never ceases to amaze me how while we may look different, people never question he is not my father by blood.  It is the result of so many personality traits of his finding their way into me.  They can be found in outlook, humor and boyish creativity.  They peep out from intellectualism and contemplation, in organization and the manner of response.  He taught me to think and to always question. 

I know my father hopes the good qualities of his remain in me and the bad ones are forgotten.  I constantly feel the same way with my son and wonder where I will succeed and where I will fail.  Already I cringe as I see my anxiety reflected in him.  I remember one day as a child when my father in rage plunged his fist into a hollow core door.  His hand was bleeding and the hole that remained was jagged and violent.  It was covered with a poster until the house was sold and the door was replaced.  I also remember a day of my own rage when I cocked my leg back and plunged my foot into a wall leaving a gaping hole.  I couldn't believe what I had done and I remember a feeling of sheer terror at the expected response of my father.  He looked at the hole and didn't say much.  He didn't punish me, he just fixed it and talked to me about anger.  It think in his own way he recognized what had happened.  He knew where the response came from.  He knew what I had seen him do.

There are times when anger emerges in ways I wish it didn't.  Frustration builds, blood pressure boils and suddenly a string of curse words fly out or a door slams.  The faces on those that remain are horrified and as minutes turn to hours, the explosion seems increasingly ridiculous yet the image in the mind of a child remains.

As parents we must always remember that our children look to us for examples.  We may not see it when it happens or even recognize the result.  It is however happening every day, every moment.  It turns in the subconscious like weather vane spinning in the wind.   It is our perpetual gift to our children that will either comfort them or be their curse.  Somewhere deep within the recess of the mind every hug is recorded.  Views and mannerisms are logged, some adopted others discarded.  The problem is, we never know what will be forsaken and what will remain.  It is as if we are walking a path through life.  At some moments our footsteps will stay impressed in dirt and other times they will be invisible as we walk on stone.  One way or another however, our tracks when searched for can be followed and will remain long after we have passed.