In subsequent years with these [nostre] deep differences Barack and me we would have to figure out, mostly by trial and error: our often conflicting ideas about what the term “commitment” means, the relative position of our two stars in the sky, the ability to control everything that we did not already have. clearly defined between us. I hated it when he was late or careless about his duties. He resented when I put pressure on him or made too many plans for us, involving too many people. What gaps are we trying to fill? Which ones would we just take note of and leave it at that? Which of the two would adapt to the other or try to unlearn past habits? It took time and a lot of practice to figure out how to resolve our differences. It turns out that Barack is one of those who first comes to the rescue. He gets straight to the point and tries to fix a problem in a relationship as soon as it arises. He tends to manage his emotions, maximizing profits and avoiding unnecessary waste. (…)
Over the years, I have seen him strive to overcome difficulties, I have seen him quickly build up his entire arsenal of rational insights, striving to achieve a warmth of reconciliation that lies beyond conflict. As in childhood, he still puts all his efforts into this, behaves effectively, trying to find a solution.
I, on the other hand, warm up a lot more and move much slower. Irritation quickly builds up inside me and after that I need time to gradually recover, which is perhaps a consequence of the openness that my parents taught me as a child, encouraging me to express every thought that came to mind. In my family, time never ends. When a conflict breaks out, my brain sometimes explodes and the last thing I want to do is engage in a rational, point-to-point discussion about who is right or what the solution is. Apparently, when I feel cornered, I am able to say stupid things and insults. There have been times in our relationship when Barack insisted on discussing what had happened right away and found himself burned by the fire of my anger.
We had to learn to reconcile our differences. We had to practice to figure out how to respond to each other’s inclinations, taking into account our two histories, our different needs and ways of being. Barak understood that he needed to give me more space and time to let off steam and slowly process my emotions, knowing full well that I had grown up with such space and time. For my part, I have learned to manage my emotions more effectively and less brutally. And I try to make sure that the issue does not remain unresolved for too long, knowing that it has been raised, in order to avoid escalating conflicts at all costs.
We have discovered that there is no right or wrong way to be in a relationship. There is no predetermined set of principles for married life to be followed. There is only what we can make work between us, namely: two people, extremely determined in their specific differences, day after day and year after year, someone pushes, and someone concedes, relying on deep reserves patience, in a constant attempt to always understand each other a little better. I value physical presence more than words. For me, punctuality, time spent together, routine and regularity are important – all that was not so important in the house where he grew up. It is important for Barack to have space to think, to be able to resist any form of pre-established order, and to live easily and with a high degree of flexibility—all of which were not so important in the home where I grew up. . It is always better to name our feelings and trace some differences back to our own history than to blame each other.
At the White House with Mom and Dad
In these eight years (two terms of Barack Obama, ed. note), our girls have gone from wide-eyed first graders to blooming teenagers striving for independence and the privileges of adulthood. Like all teenagers, they experienced certain limitations and did stupid things. One was punished for not following the curfew. Another posted a startling bikini selfie on Instagram and was promptly ordered by the East Wing team to take it down. One of them was dragged away from an out-of-control and out-of-control school party by Secret Service agents just minutes before the police arrived. Another defiantly retorted to the President of the United States when he had the imprudence to ask her (without diplomacy) how she could learn Spanish by listening to rap.
An episode of even mild disobedience or inappropriate behavior on the part of our teenage daughters created a wave of anxiety in me, reinforcing my biggest fear, which was that life in the White House was upsetting them. Which, of course, would apply exclusively to us parents. In such situations, my old friend, my frightened mind, took over, releasing a cascade of doubt and guilt. (Did I mention that the cowardly mind is especially fond of children? It knows all your weaknesses and will hunt them down.)
The slightest failure was enough for my mother’s guilt to manifest. So I started questioning every decision Barak and I made at every crossroads we stopped at. Self-criticism, as mentioned above, is something women are programmed to excel at, enslaved from childhood into a system of inequality and stuffed with completely unrealistic images of so-called female “perfection.” None of us – really none – ever measure up to that level. However, we do not stop trying. As with marriage and cohabitation, fictional parents are at the center of our imagination, while the reality is much, much, much less perfect.
For mothers, feelings of inadequacy can be especially strong. The images of maternal perfection that we encounter in advertising and on social media are often just as misleading and deceitful as the images of exalted and photoshopped female bodies—hungry, sculpted, and stuffed with filler bodies—so often considered the canon of everyone by society. the beauty. However, we are conditioned to accept them, always looking for not only the perfect body, but also the perfect kids, the perfect work-life balance, the perfect family experience, and the perfect level of calm and patience, despite the fact that none of them we are really. no one, I repeat, will ever be before. The doubt generated by all this fiction can be strong and harmful. How hard it is for a mother not to look back and think: can everyone do it perfectly, except for me?
I’m just as prone to this self-torture as everyone else. At the first sign of conflict or trouble with our daughters, I immediately began to scrutinize my mistakes with rage. Was I too strict with them or too lenient? Was I too present or too absent? Was there some book on parenting that I forgot to study fifteen years ago? Was it a real crisis, a symptom of a larger problem? What important life lessons have I not taught? Was it too late to do so? If you are in any way responsible for a child’s life, you certainly know this special kind of fear and anxiety, anguish that makes you worry about your children to the point of stealing your sleep, the unnerving and bewildering feeling of that you haven’t done anything. enough for them, or that you got it all wrong, causing them to pay the price for your carelessness or poor decision making. I think it’s a strong and almost ongoing feeling for many of us, from those very first moments when we welcome the precious and innocent perfection of a newborn face and think: please don’t let me ruin you.
As a parent, you are always struggling with the anguish of not completing your assigned task. There are entire sectors of the market created to fuel and benefit from this anxiety, from children’s Brain Gym exercises and ergonomic strollers to tutors for college entrance exams.
It’s like a hole that can never be filled. (…)
I’m sorry to admit that it doesn’t end even when you reach a certain milestone. Anxiety doesn’t evaporate when your child learns to sleep, walk, go to kindergarten, graduate from high school, or move into his first apartment and buy a set of steak knives. You will continue to worry! You will continue to worry about him! While you are breathing, you will wonder what else you can do. The world will always seem infinitely more sinister and dangerous when a child, even an adult, roams it. And most of us will do anything to convince ourselves that we have at least some control. Even now, my husband, the former commander-in-chief, can’t help but send warning news to our daughters about the dangers of highway driving or walking alone at night. When they moved to California, he sent them a lengthy article on earthquake preparedness and offered to ask the Secret Service for guidance on how to respond to natural disasters. (The request was met with a polite “No, thanks.”)
(Text: © 2022, Garzanti Srl, Milan. Photo: Getty images; courtesy of the Obama-Robinson Family Archives)
Source: Elle