She wasn't sure what went wrong or how it happened. Probably on account
of being white. Being white had so much to do with so many things. And
nothing felt more white than when her Black daycare provider admonished her for lax parenting.
"You have to be consistent, no matter what," she said, shaking her
head as if the breech had already happened, as if it were a lost cause
trying to get the white woman with overly good intentions to get it
together and be a good parent.
Of course, such admonishment was deeply embarrassing, so she denied
being inconsistent. Comical really. Like denying she was middle class.
Or pretending not to be a do-gooder white lady social liberal with a
parenting style that leaned toward "whatever is easiest in the moment."
For instance, those parents whose children always stayed in their
own beds. Hard asses. They not only must've had endless energy to
reinforce the ground rules at 3 am, they must've been the types who
could handle delayed gratification. The same ones who, as children,
succeeded in the experiment which would later help researchers
hypothesize about who would make it far in the business world and who would not. It was all based on
their ability to withstand the temptation of sweet treats as observed in a psychological experiment. Although she had not been one of the subjects, she was sure, without a doubt, that she would not have been able to resist.
Now her own child was a pre-teen, wily as he had ever been, easily set off, ungrateful when hungry, unhappy, bored and prone to insisting he get his own way. In
moments when he was sweet, nothing could be better. The rest of the time
she wondered what her lax white parenting had wrought. Too late to go
back in time; she prayed he turned out well anyway.
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