It’s depleting to have to constantly be justifying myself regarding the decisions I make on how to raise my son. To have to be answering to someone ALL. THE. TIME. From his education to the more laid back doctor I love, to who he plays with, what toys he has and doesn’t, what has he learned, what have I taught him, what have I not. To the smallest most insignificant detail, like why didn’t I buy him the green cup (that’s his favorite color) instead of the blue. To the real intimate hard decisions, like the type of boy I want him to be, and eventually to the type of person/man I hope he becomes. Even that is questioned.
It’s condescending, hurtful and insulting to have to bear daily criticism. It’s intrusive and disrespectful to speak to my son and have someone interrupt me and tell me what I should and should not tell him. To be constantly and closely analyzed, like an incompetent person, and not a mother, a woman, a person with a heart overflowing with love…well…that’s indisputably demoralizing.
And they say you’re your own worst critic.
“Criticism is the only reliable form of autobiography,” Oscar Wilde said because it tells you more about the psychology of the critic than the people he or she criticizes. (Psychology Today)