A few months ago, my 12-year-old son, Jake, decided to head to the park with some friends. These were kids he knew from school, living just a block away. They set off on their bikes, equipped with baseball gloves and bats, reminiscent of a scene from a classic movie.
However, Jake returned home within 20 minutes, which took me by surprise—I had expected them to be gone for at least an hour. As he parked his BMX in the garage, I asked what had happened. He took off his helmet, tousled brown hair peeking out, and placed his mitt on a shelf. In a calm, matter-of-fact manner, he said, “Those kids were swearing, and I didn’t like it. I asked them to stop, but they wouldn’t, so I left.”
I paused, taking in his confident stance, as if to say, “I followed your advice.” And indeed, I had taught him exactly that: if he ever felt uncomfortable or found himself in a bad situation, he should speak up. Like many parents, I was astounded that the lessons I imparted actually took root, and I thought to myself, “You were really listening?!”
However, my astonishment was more about my own background than Jake’s actions. Naturally, I expressed my pride. I gave him a high five and suggested he grab some cookies from the pantry. It’s quite brave for a 12-year-old to confront his peers and say, “Stop swearing.”
As I stood in the garage, I reflected on my own childhood. I was once the kid swearing in the park, on the brink of being expelled from school. The parents of my friends would cast disapproving glances my way. To complicate matters, I was also the kid who might have retaliated against anyone who asked me to stop swearing. I wasn’t a criminal, but my path was certainly not the one my son is on.
At 12, my own father was battling opioid addiction and had left a few years prior. Our communication was sparse, and he frequently cycled in and out of jail until his death when I was 19. My mother worked tirelessly to support us, and when she was home, we often clashed. By 14, I had run away and was dabbling in drugs, eventually moving in with my grandmother.
Now, decades later, I find myself as a father of three, grappling with how I raised a son who stands up for himself and says, “Stop swearing or I’m leaving.” Honestly, I’m not entirely sure how this came to be. But as I stood there, listening to Jake rummaging in the pantry, I felt a glimmer of hope that perhaps I was on the right track. Growing up in a broken home can leave you questioning your parenting skills, especially when you lack a solid role model. We often talk about breaking the cycle, but what does that really entail?
While I don’t have all the answers, this moment was a reassuring sign that my fears and anxieties about parenthood—worries about repeating my father’s mistakes—were beginning to dissipate. Sure, there’s still a long road ahead. Jake is only 12, and I have two daughters to guide as well. Things could take a downward turn at any moment, but for now, I felt a sense of accomplishment, both for Jake and for myself, as I realized I might just be breaking the cycle of dysfunction.
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In summary, witnessing my son assert himself in a challenging situation was a powerful moment for me. It highlighted the progress we’ve made in breaking the cycle of dysfunction that defined my own upbringing. My son’s actions reassured me that the lessons I strive to impart are taking root, fostering a brighter future for him, and perhaps for our family as a whole.
Keyphrase: breaking the cycle of dysfunction in parenting
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