Science- Though I'm not Catholic, I've tried to give up something every year for Lent.
- Sometimes — like when I tried giving up chocolate — my commitment has been short-lived.
I'm not Catholic, but I used to give up something for Lent each year. Once I gave up chocolate; that lasted a week. Another year it was coffee (three days). One night a few years ago, during dinner with my teenage daughter and my husband, I announced that I was "giving up giving advice." It was a joke.
"Yes!" my daughter shouted. She jumped out of her chair to hug me. My husband raised his eyebrows and gave me a thumbs-up. They were taking me seriously.
"It's only for Lent," I said, trying to backpedal. "Don't worry. After 40 days, you'll get lots of advice scribbled on sticky notes in your Easter basket."
No one laughed. My daughter's smile fell back into her normal teenage scowl. I realized I had to go through with it.
It made me realize how I was parenting my daughter
In high school, my daughter spent hours alone in her room and started drifting toward a crowd I wasn't sure about. One day I noticed the screen on her window was ajar. I figured she was climbing onto the roof to smoke cigarettes or weed, but I had no proof. I'd experimented at her age, too, so I understood. But now I was the mom.
My mother always told me, "A good mother must get control of her kids." Her method of staying in control was to offer advice. This didn't work with me as a teen, but her mothering style was the only model I had, so I followed suit. I hadn't been aware of how preachy I'd been getting until I started my vow for Lent.
During the first two weeks, my tongue was swollen and bruised from biting it whenever I wanted to add my suggestions. After another week, my observational skills became sharper as I witnessed what triggered me. I'd notice myself squirming in the evenings as my daughter watched a stupid TV show before dinner instead of tackling her homework. When she'd bop by me on her way to school on frigid mornings wearing only a thin shirt, a skirt, and sneakers, I wouldn't say a word, but I'd suddenly feel chilly and find a sweater to put on.
Sitting alone in front of the fire after dinner, I wouldn't know what to do with myself. I felt invisible, useless. It was my first hint that perhaps my need to feel valued as a mother overshadowed the guidance I'd hoped to give my teenager.
On Easter, I revived my voice, but I'd been humbled. I tried my best to listen more and talk less.
My silence brought us closer together
I thought I'd made a huge mistake when I gave up advising. I worried my daughter would drift farther away, but the opposite happened. She shared Radiohead songs from her playlist with me. Rather than clear the table and go to her room, she'd stay to help me do the dishes. Sometimes we'd turn on my favorite old Motown tunes and dance around the kitchen together.
Instead of running by me without a jacket on chilly mornings, she'd walk, winking at me as she passed. My silence signaled I had confidence in her ability to gauge the weather — and much more. She wasn't always accurate; sometimes she got caught in the rain, and at times her judgment was off about other things, too. But I learned that when I first ask her if she wants my opinion, my words become more valuable.