Flute and Fury
"I am still learning to extend the unlimited grace I have for my children to myself."
This is Radical Joy, a column curated by Tracey Michae'l Lewis-Giggetts.
“In a world that often demands way too much of our labor, joy can feel like a radical act. I’m so grateful for the opportunity to edit the Radical Joy series for Raising Mothers and I’m excited to celebrate the boundless joy of BIPOC mothers through the curation of essays and stories that uplift, heal, and sustain us. My hope is, through storytelling, we can collectively sit with all the nuanced ways joy shows up in our lives and explore how we can nurture it, despite the burdens we carry. Consider this series an invitation to and for mothers of every background to tap into the energy of joy and become its witness.” - Tracey Michae'l Lewis-Giggetts
In 2022, my husband and I decided to move to Mexico City from Massachusetts. The decision came from an idea that was planted before we married; we wanted any potential children we had to experience growing up in their parents’ cultures. I am Haitian but moving to Haiti during a time of uncertainty was off the table. As a Mexican national, my husband wanted to return to his home country one day.
Mexico City is filled with parks that softened the landing to a new country for our children. During our time here, the children have acquired Spanish, began understanding their bicultural background, and made a plethora of friends. And at the end of their first week in school, we were invited to a birthday party.
I did not grow up in a family that celebrated much of anything. Our church held annual outings to the beach for Fourth of July, and my dad roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. That’s about it. Birthdays were no different from any other day. Because of this, celebrations of loved ones can be shocking for me. Even the most intimate Mexican birthday party has managed to surprise me.
Some of the things we have experienced at parties include: piñatas with electronics in them, a photographer printing portraits on site, a butler for a toddler, nannies that accompanied wealthy families, face painting, and so many, many magicians. Our most recent party—the fifth—featured a mariachi band that played a rendition of “Baby Shark” for a five-year-old. And front and center were my children, dancing strikingly similar to the way I do when I hear “Knuck if you buck.”
“WAKE UP!”
My Oldest Child screamed into the air as we drove home from the party, intending the words for the snoring sibling sitting next to them.
The running and jumping had exhausted Youngest Child, who drooled from the seat behind me. My husband parked in front of a pharmacy to refill a prescription. Alone in the car with both children, I attempted to be mindful. That is, until the shrieking of a flute sent me into panic.
Oldest Child, the invitee to the party, had not only retrieved two bags of candy from a Princess Peach piñata but managed to grab a green plastic flute. And they decided to have a one flute concert. Right there. In the car. The sound was piercing one of the most difficult parts of mothering for me: how to not emotionally damage my kid because I am dysregulated.
I needed to figure out how to redirect Oldest Child without waking up Youngest Child.
As a millennial, I can confidently say too many of the people who parented us were fucked up. Some of them were emotionally immature and not afforded the opportunity to examine the traumas they survived before having children. It honestly does not surprise me that after failed attempts of trying to discuss their childhoods and having boundaries overstepped, many of our generation have gone no-contact with their parents. Knowing this, I do not want to erode my children’s trust or make them feel small. Parenting advocates like Parenting Decolonialized and Supernova Momma are two starting points that have helped me understand that another way is possible. My children’s feelings matter, their interests are important, and it is my job to acknowledge them while they are young so that they feel comfortable turning to me in adulthood. So here I go:
Attempt 1
With a finger in one ear, I turn to Oldest Child.
“Hey, are you having fun?”
Oldest child whistles twice into the flute then screams “YES!”
“Did you notice Youngest Child sleeping?”
“Yes! I want them to wake up and play with me.”
“Well, they can’t because they are resting.”
Oldest child looks at me and then their sleeping sibling. Then blows into flute.
Sure, I could have snatched the flute out of Oldest Child’s hand or yelled to make them stop, but the easy way out isn’t the healthiest option.
Discipline is a delicate subject for many parents. I believe that discipline should teach not harm. I have not called my form of parenting gentle but while pregnant with Oldest Child I made the decision to not spank or hit. At the time, the decision was not based on research, but more on my own reflections of my childhood. Physical punishment made me retreat within myself. My older brother recently reminded me that for most of my early childhood I did not speak. And the older I became, the more it felt like the goalpost for being “good” was unattainable. There were times when I believed that since I could never meet those goals, perhaps it would be better if I was not alive.
Reading “Spare the Kids: Why Whupping Children Won't Save Black America” by Dr. Stacey Patton fortified my previous decision as a parent to give my children that experience. If I am to hold Fredrick Douglass to his word—"it is easier to build strong children than to repair broken men”—(and I do) then I will raise children who won’t need to be repaired.
So, with the start of a tension headache, I tried a second time.
Attempt 2
“Oldest Child,” I call in the firmest voice in me at that moment.
They lower the flute.
“Yes?”
“When Youngest Child yells in the car what do we tell them?”
Their grumpy sigh is followed by, “That ‘the car is a space that we all share.’”
“Do you like when they yell?”
“No…” They start, and I can hear the gears of understanding in their preschool brain. “…it makes me annoying.”
“So, let’s not make Youngest Child ‘annoying.’” I suggest.
“Put the flute away for now. You can play it at home.”
“Okay, but first…”
Oldest Child blows into the flute. “WAKE UP!”
When I turn to see if this shit is for real, Oldest Child throws the flute on the car floor.
As if my lack of patience was a honing beacon, my husband returns to the car, and we drive the short distance home. Oldest Child and I go inside while my husband stays with Youngest Child for the remainder of their nap. Somehow, the flute doesn’t make it into the house that afternoon. While cleaning the backseat sludge months later, my husband finds the flute and asks the children which one of them it belongs to. Oldest Child looks at it and shrugs.
Discipline isn’t always as simple as that day in the car where, after two tries and much resistance, I finally get my desired outcome. My children have days where they are straight up No Limit Soldiers. They color the walls, fight and taunt each other, and want hugs when I am touched out. Those things do not detract from how much I love them. They are only a reminder of what they need to learn.
Yet, for the sake of my mental health, I also try to take the time I need before getting overwhelmed. I go on long walks while listening to podcasts about scammers. I read a lot and have gotten back into journaling. In addition to these things, when I make a parenting mistake I apologize to my children. It is important to me for them to see their mother as a human with flaws instead of a do-it-all-Wonder-Woman. I am still learning to extend the unlimited grace I have for my children to myself. My self-talk includes a reminder that moms are people and should be given grace to course correct.
My children have more liberty with me than I ever did with my own parents. Their opinions matter. They are allowed to make decisions about groceries [I gave Oldest Child the option to choose cheese once and they picked cave-aged cheddar], what to wear depending on the weather, and if they want to accept or decline an invitation to the never-ending parties they are invited to.
This is not to say that my parents were terrible—they weren’t. But there was an emotional distance between us. They came of age in the shadow of Francois Duvalier’s dictatorship and arrived in the United States in the early days of the HIV/AIDS pandemic, a time in which Haitians were made scapegoats for the virus. As Baptists, they raised their children with strong religious convictions that juxtapose cultural ideas of vodun. We were fed and clothed, but never hugged. I cannot ask them if it was intentional because they are no longer living. I can only cope with the hurt I held because of that experience and pour into my children.
Amid all the discussion about generational trauma, I do think it’s possible to instill generational joy in our children. A kind of joy that may look different depending on the generation or people involved. My father took my siblings and I to the beach for shoreline fishing on the weekends. Although I am an awful fisherwoman, those trips brought me tremendous joy. My mother was very attentive and often brought home my favorite chocolate bars out of the blue.
These kinds of gems are essential as our world goes through tumultuous times. Physical things have an expiration date, but grace and gestures of kindness leave an everlasting imprint on our children’s lives.
Half a year later, Oldest Child has not asked about the flute. What brings them joy is playing Roblox and asking me to go easy on them in Mario Party. Youngest Child is anti-nap but pro-Gracie’s Corner. Our house is constantly filled with noise. The joy in all of the madness is how we balance the good and bad in order to move forward together.
Faithna Geffrard is a writer from Florida. She is a Roots.Wounds.Words Winter 2024 Speculative Fiction Fellow, Wild Seeds Retreat Fiction Fellow, and attendee of the VONA Contemporary Humor Writing Workshop. She hopes to learn how to swim one day.
Thank you for supporting us since 2015! Join us as a monthly, annual or founding member & keep Raising Mothers ad-free. Help us reach our first goal of 100 paid annual members. Invest in amplifying the parenting & personal narratives of Black, Asian, Latine(x), Indigenous and other voices from the global majority at all of our intersections.
Before you go, leave us some love by tapping the ❤️. Also, restack & share! Help others find us. We’re @raisingmothers all over social media.
