How do I talk to my kids about my old scars, anyway?
It was 92 degrees yesterday, our AC died in the middle of the week and the repair guy can’t come till Saturday, so I’d just stepped out of a cold shower and was standing in the kitchen in nothing but ratty gray sweatpants, digging through the fridge for a seltzer. My 7-year-old Lila was climbing on the counter to get the blue popsicle she’d stashed behind the bag of frozen broccoli last week, and she just stopped mid-climb, pointed right at my forearm, and said “Mom, what’s that big bumpy line?”
I froze mid-seltzer pop. I usually wear a thick woven bracelet that covers most of it, or a long sleeve even when it’s hot out. I’d forgotten it was on the bathroom counter. My 11-year-old Jax looked up from his Switch propped on the table, chewed his goldfish cracker for a second and said “Yeah, I’ve wondered that forever. Just didn’t wanna ask.”
Great. Cool. So here we are. I’ve been dodging this question for years, and now it’s just out there, sweating in the broken AC, crumbs all over the table.
The scar’s from when I was 17. I was with a guy I shouldn’t have been with, we’d snuck out to drink beer at the quarry, he was driving way too fast down the back road, missed a turn, and I went right through the passenger side window. The cut was so deep the doctors said it missed my artery by maybe a quarter of an inch. If it had hit that, I wouldn’t be here, sweating in this kitchen with two kids asking questions.
That’s the whole messy story. I don’t know how to tell that to 7 and 11. I always tell them it’s okay to make mistakes, that everyone does stupid stuff when they’re young, that you can learn from it and move on. But saying that and actually telling them I was that stupid kid, that I almost died because I made a hundred bad choices in a row? That feels different. It feels like dropping a rock in their little pond that didn’t need a rock thrown in it.
I told myself a thousand times I’d answer when they asked, but now that they have, my mind’s gone blank. Last week at the community pool, I kept my left arm half under water the whole time Jax was having his swim lesson, and when Lila asked why I wouldn’t rest it on the edge, I said my shoulder was sore. That was a lie. I just didn’t want her pointing it out in front of all the other moms. That’s so stupid, I know. But I did it anyway.
The weird thing is, I have another scar, right low on my stomach from the emergency appendectomy I had when I was 8 months pregnant with Lila. I don’t mind talking about that one at all. I even joke about it, tell Lila “that’s the scar the doctors gave me to make sure I could have you, see.” No awkwardness, no flinching. Why is this one so different? I think it’s because that scar is part of the story of them. This one’s part of the story of me before them, the messy parts I still don’t really know what to do with myself.
I told Lila once, when she fell off her bike and got that big ugly scrape on her knee, that scars are just proof you healed, that they’re nothing to be ashamed of. I said that all bright and positive, like I knew what I was talking about. But some days I still look at my scar and I don’t feel that. Some days I just see how stupid I was, how close I came to leaving before I ever got to have them. So how do I say that to them? Do I lie and say it’s just an old accident, leave it at that? Do I give them the whole messy story?
Last month my mom was over, Lila pointed at the scar and I yanked my sleeve down so fast I almost knocked over her iced tea. I knew if I didn’t, my mom would start in on how I broke her heart, how she stayed up three nights crying at the hospital waiting to see if I’d live, and that’s a lot for little kids to hear, right? I don’t need that weight on them. But now I’m starting to think that by hiding it, I’m making it a bigger deal than it needs to be. Jax already glances at it when I’m tying his soccer cleats or opening a tight jar lid, like he’s curious but doesn’t want to upset me. Lila drew our family for school last week, and she drew Jax’s missing front tooth and my chipped pink toenail, but left the scar off my arm. She noticed. She knows it’s something I don’t talk about. That makes my chest hurt a little, honestly. I don’t want her thinking there are parts of me we can’t talk about.
I saw a thing on some parenting thing once that said you should always be totally open with your kids about your past, that it builds trust. But another said you don’t need to burden kids with your old mistakes, that they don’t need that information. I don’t know who’s right. All the stuff I read online is so clean, you know? “Turn it into a teachable moment about road safety!” “Use it to talk about healthy relationships!” “Great opportunity to normalize body differences!” It all sounds so easy when someone writes it that way, but it’s not easy. I haven’t even totally processed all that stuff myself, how do I teach a moment out of it?
I don’t want to keep flinching. I don’t want to keep lying about my shoulder hurting at the pool. I just want to answer their question, and not mess it up, but I don’t know how. Has anyone here done this? How did you approach it? Did you leave out the messy parts, or lay it all out there? I’d love to hear what worked for you, because right now I’m just standing here sweating, still holding my seltzer, and I don’t know what to say next. (Word count: 1128)
Please indicate: Thinking In Educating » How do I talk to my kids about my old scars, anyway