My siblings and I grew up with a large extended family of cousins, aunts, uncles, and grandparents. All of them were essential to our lives. Some of them lived with us intermittently, their bedrooms changed as they grew, and the sinks in their rooms filled with toothbrushes and toiletries. Our village was one of a revolving door, with many people doing light work, laughter in the kitchen, and chairs clustered in the entryway. I mixed a bowl full of scrambled eggs on Christmas morning and ate homemade birthday cake at least once a month. Because it’s always someone’s birthday. I think I was lucky to be part of the gang. To be raised by a village, loved by many people, watched over, and known by many people.
So why didn’t I want that for my sons?
They were not raised in villages. They were raised by me. Alone. Of course they were close to my mother. That connection remained strong even after she moved to the other side of the country at an early age. She loved them as much as I loved my family. She thought they were interesting and fun. She had them and knew what they liked. She brought them big boxes of their favorite snacks from Costco and played cards by the hour. She helped me with the laundry and I walked to school with her when she went for weeks. But then she returned home and we went back to our lives.
This wasn’t a village. This was Disney World for me and a regularly scheduled break in the program. A chance to lighten your load even a little. The village that raised me was completely different. And part of me didn’t want this for my sons.
In my mind, I was reminded of how complicated it is that so many adults want a say in what they do. It was easy to feel adrift in a sea of adult dynamics. So many adults have different parenting styles, more than just whims. This teenage aunt and early 20s uncle weren’t really ready to make a decision, but they made it on the spot. Adults who don’t have children of their own yet and aren’t sure how to interact with us, or who have children of their own and are busy figuring out how to raise them. Most days felt like summer vacation, happy, fun, and carefree. A small hippie colony of kids with scraped knees who ran free around the neighborhood until the streetlights came on.
When I was 20 years old and pregnant with my first son, I was taken to a group of adults in the village. Women gathered around me, helping me, giving me advice, feeding me. They did everything a loving village of women should do for a young pregnant woman. It’s not their fault that my world instantly became just me and him. I believed that I was the only one to take care of my pregnant belly. It continued after I gave birth to him and after his three younger brothers were born. I didn’t want their opinions or criticism or advice. I wanted to make a decision for my sons. I didn’t want them to slip through the cracks of adult dynamics. My partner didn’t like big family relationships, so he was perfectly happy with the family fading into the background as the years went by.
To be fair, the village wasn’t as available to me and my kids as it was when I was younger. By that time, everyone lived in separate cities. Everyone is unique. Our happy little hippie colony disbanded and we became a family with cars and jobs and living apart from each other. By that time, it was just me and the kids, and their father had moved on to another life (mostly) without us.
But when I had family, I put them in the visitor category. They were not invited to discipline my sons or provide feedback on how they thought I was acting as a mother. I wanted to find my own path as a parent without having to worry about my parents’ voices in my head or in the living room asking me questions when I had already doubted myself so many times.
I think I was wrong to treat that, and all the dynamics of it, that way. I know that in many ways I was wrong. I was trying to protect my children from criticism and discomfort, but I also took something away from them. They didn’t grow up with a sense of belonging to a family outside of our own little gang. Unlike me, they don’t know much about their cousins or most of their uncles and aunts.
I protected them from the chaos of the village. I protected them from being thrown out with the crowd of children and from being abused by their uncles, aunts, cousins, and grandparents. I protected them from irritation and frustration and from having to hear their voices in a room with so many people talking all the time.
But looking back, I also took that mess away from them. Maybe I robbed them and us of that warm, gooey good feeling of being thrown out with people who love you with all their hearts, even if you don’t always show your best side. And as my kids got older, I started to realize that that was a real shame. The existence of that village meant more than just an increase in the number of adults in the household. That village may have given my sons extra armor to take with them into the outside world. I could have given them more than I could have given on my own.
Jen McGuire I am a contributing writer to Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with her four boys and teaches life writing workshops, and in every class someone cries. When I’m not traveling as much as possible, I try to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with my neighbors. She plans to sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but is open to requests.
