By Nichole Woo | Blog

There’s this thing in the air. You’ve likely been exposed — especially if your kids’ activities (too) have incapacitated your social life.

Symptoms.
This “thing” is both infectious and highly contagious. It incubates in competitive environments, attacking parents’ vulnerable nervous systems. Symptoms range from elevated heart rates and involuntary clenched fists to sweaty palms and irritability.

These symptoms exacerbate during children’s performance “events” — school art shows, music recitals, spelling bees, the monkey bars . . . any place where parents are sizing up their offspring’s abilities to those of their peers. It is common for symptoms to worsen at sporting events, most notably during soccer games. (Scientists hypothesize that this correlates to a high incident of player distraction, from factors like butterflies, dandelions, and somersault-worthy grass.)

Symptoms are accompanied by overwhelming angst, culminating in feelings of frustration and inadequacy. Often, parents channel this emotional intensity to their own children through sideline “cheers”, the “look”, or the barely audible swear word. They believe that, applied effectively, this pressure will prompt superiority: The win, the score, the MVP, the not-just-a-participation-ribbon, the top performance. Progeny victories appear to usher in brief periods of remission. Ineffectively treated, however, symptoms will reoccur and worsen, often resulting in long-term damage to the heart.

Detection.
I began noticing infected parents – especially moms – right out of the parenting gates. There were many on my beat: The boasters of super-latching babies in lactation group, and the exuberant church moms swopping milestone stats on sleeping, sitting, rolling over, and speaking. (Either that or they were referring to their dogs . . .)

As my children grew and my circle widened, I feared an epidemic. The infected surfaced at toddler music classes (best shaky egg form), after school language programs, swimming lessons and tumble-bees gymnastics (“Tuck your head on that somersault, dang it!”). I playfully christened these women “Tiger Moms”, from Amy Chua’s controversial work, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.

I scoffed at the pressure parents placed on their kids to perform. It seemed every move since birth was calculated to usher their offspring out of mediocrity and on to the Ivy League, Julliard, the NBA – or at least one of these. I pitied each overly-ambitious disease carrier and their poor, defenseless children.

Until the day I glanced into the mirror, and saw orange and black stripes.

Diagnosis & Denial.
It was my husband who painfully and lovingly held up that mirror. I was vexing about some recent “Tiger Mom” encounter, when he interjected “You know you’re one, too, right?” There is nothing like realizing you are the thing you ridicule. It’s even better when your spouse exposes the hypocrisy. (The “for worse” part of my marriage vows are never lost on me.) I jokingly shrugged him off, knowing he was right.

Acceptance.
It wasn’t the title that gnawed at me so much as grasping why I deserved it. There was no denying I exhibited the symptoms. Simply put, if my kid landed on top, I was gratified — at least for a while. Anything less opened the ugly flood gates of discontent, until their next chance to shine. It’s why I felt a competitive tension whenever my kids performed, and why I constantly sized up their “opponents” in the classroom and on the playground. My radar constantly detected others like me. We prowled in the same territory, always cramming that one extra thing into our kids’ packed schedules. (Because someday, it just might matter to MIT if they can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in 12 different languages. . .)

Honest dialogue with a close friend exposed the truth: This wasn’t about my children, or their greater good. It had nothing to do with them realizing their full potential, learning the value of hard work, or becoming the best version of themselves.

It was all about me.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” My parenting abilities were enough. Their upbringing was enough. Even my genes were “enough.” My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

Treatment.
Earning my stripes was effortless. Losing them meant painstakingly shedding my pride. It required me to expose the darker underbelly of a value system I’d thought was godly. As it turned out, mine just pretended to be. Finally, I recognized a comparison worth making — His values next to mine:

Threaded through Scripture’s pages, I found God in relentless pursuit of His beloved. Us, valued not for what we did (He had that covered), but for who we were. Imperfect, fallen, flawed — but masterpieces nonetheless; His workmanship, His image bearers. And just in case there was any doubt about our worth, He bought us back at the highest price possible, the price of His only Son’s blood.

No plastic trophies or gold medals required. Not from me or my kids. Not from humanity. My futile quest to net value through the likes of these now seemed absurd. Here was the antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

Recovery, and a Science Fair.
I wish I could tell you that I’m completely cured, and that I’ve lost my “Tiger Mom” credentials. But that “thing” still lingers in the air, and my tiger sometimes still rears its ugly head.

Recently, I strolled the poster board labyrinth of our school’s science fair. I’d like to say I spent that time celebrating the amazing learning on display. Instead, I secretly scrutinized each one, assuring myself of my kid’s place on the podium.

The symptoms came roaring back. But this time, I prayerfully applied His antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

And that was enough.

About Nichole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins. Visit her blog at www.walkthenarrows.wordpress.com.

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