Do you ever wonder why parents and their children are so good at pushing each otherās buttons? When I was a teenager, my mom used to say things that would seem perfectly innocuous to an objective bystander, but irritated the hell out of me. Of course, I assumed that was because she was just so annoying . . . until I had a teenager of my own. Suddenly it was me who was pushing my daughterās buttons, and you can be sure she was just as good at pushing mine.Ā
Looking back, itās obvious that none of this was intentional. Neither of us had any interest in irritating or hurting the otherāin fact, we were actively trying to avoid it. But this only made our exquisitely accurate button-pushing that much more confusing. One day, after weād spent an interminable car ride poking at each otherās sore spots, I blurted out that I didnāt want us to do this to each other anymore.Ā She looked at me with genuine surprise, and for a moment I thought Iād broken through.Ā Then she shrugged and said: āYouāre my fatherāthis is how itās supposed to be.ā
I used to think that my mother and my teenage daughter had little in common. Eventually, though, I decided I was annoyed at both of them for the exact same reason. It was that way they had of stating a dubious andĀ unsupported opinion with utter confidence, then defending it with complete certainty. But it took me years to realize the reason I found that behavior so irritating in them is that I found it even more irritating in myself. I had deluded myself into thinking I was the apple who had rolledĀ away from the treeābut there I was, sitting right in its shadow.
If your kid (or for that matter your parent) is really getting under your skin, hereās a thought experiment for you. Think of some tendency orĀ part of your personality that youāre not proud of. Maybe itās some flaw thatāsĀ been a part of you for a long, long time. Perhaps you were criticized for it when you were a kid. Or maybe itās a defense mechanism that comes out reflexively, whenever youāre feeling scared or insecure. In any case, you know itās not the best version of you, and youāve wished more than once that it wasnāt there. As a matter of fact, most of the time you pretend that it isnāt there. You convince yourself that youāve overcome it, or that itās not so bad, or that youāve managed to keep it under wraps. Then, in a moment of stress or anxiety, it suddenly grabs your emotional steering wheel and swerves you into a ditch, and youāre left feeling embarrassed and ashamed.Ā
Now, think of times when youāve seen that same trait or behavior in someone else. How did you react? How did it feel to confront the thing you like the least about yourself in someone else? The odds are pretty good that your emotional gatekeeper quickly rerouted your shame and self-contempt onto that other person. Did you react more strongly than you should have? Did you end up red in the face or hot under the collar? Did it exposeĀ a big fat button that wasĀ just waiting to be pushed?
This could happen with anyone. It could be a store clerk or someone at the DMV. But with our familiesāthe people who share our genes, our history and our daily livesāthe chances that weāll also share some unflattering traits is much greater. The stakes are higher, too. It doesnāt take much for the hidden shame we feel about ourselves to transform into a hidden shame that we feel about our kids. If they sense that shame, and they almost always will, theyāll internalize it. Then theyāll pass it on to your grandchildren. Itās the unwanted gift that keeps on giving.Ā
Shame is a monster that we keep in the basement. We try to forget it, but it lurks in the shadows, licking its wounds and skulking around at the bottom of the stairs. It feeds on darkness, and grows stronger the more we pretend that it isnāt there. Even as we deny its existence, we live in fear of what it might do. Until we acknowledge it and force it out into the sunlight, weāll keep seeing its image in the people we love, and keep coming after them with pitchforks and knives.
Jeff Lee annoys his daughter a little less every year, in Seattle WA
Read more from the Dad Next Door:
Dad Next Door: What ever happened to summer?