The emotional bank account concept holds that we run unconscious tallies of “deposits” and “withdrawals” with every human-to-human interaction. For example, greet me warmly and you made a deposit in my account. Ignore me or give me a greeting full of impatience and you’ve made a withdrawal. Even if we’re in a transactional relationship, I’m still tracking if you listen to me, respect my time, appreciate my effort, remember to thank me, and so on. It’s a running total, so a surplus from recent interactions can cover the withdrawals of a bad, stressful day. Because we all have days like that.
The latest twist on this idea: that socially awkward people need to make conscious, extra deposits in others’ accounts to stay even, because they unwittingly make withdrawals ALL THE TIME. The woman who cuts you off in the hallway, stands too close, and doesn’t realize her giant bag just clocked you. The man who talks endlessly about his favorite subject even though his listeners find it boring. The gal who can’t keep a secret to save her life. The guy who never remembers a birthday, or alternately gives gifts that are inappropriately large.
Sound like any special needs children you know?
Keeping your bank accounts balanced – financial and emotional – is a part of being an adult. But what about when that socially awkward person is your special needs child? Who balances the emotional bank account then?
My hubby can recall details of our family events, vacations, and big life moments that I cannot. Not because I wasn’t there, but because our child was. There was no way, for example, that I could ever make enough deposits to cover my kiddo ruining Gammy’s funeral or causing us to goof the mortgage signing. And I certainly didn’t want to pay the deposits to cover yet another difficult Thanksgiving or family reunion. So I was 100% focused on making sure there were no withdrawals those days.
The cross-country airplane rides to visit my family, where I would do anything – anything – to prevent meltdowns. Hours turned sideways, reading and drawing. Run fingers through mommy’s hair, clench it in a fist, wrap it around a thumb and suck on it? Fine. Whatever. But the crying couldn’t start because I knew kiddo couldn’t stop.
The multiple times I was yanked out of exercise classes at my gym; my red-faced, tear-stained child held up to the window for me to reclaim. I was told kiddo’s carrying-on after my (temporary) departure was upsetting the other members’ children, and that they couldn’t have this in child watch. How many snacks and toys did I subsequently provide to that same child watch, once kiddo could tolerate my absence?
Any idea how much effort it takes to never once – in three years of preschool – drop off early, pick up late, or write a check that wasn’t payment in full and ahead of the due date? And how many snacks did I donate there?
For years, we were that house in the neighborhood where all the kids were welcome. Where a roomful of costumes and props were available to borrow, where you could use the bathroom or get a drink, crash on the couch and watch TV, and even (if you timed it right) have the kid who lived there throw open the door with, “C’mon in! Want some lunch?”
How many hours did hubby and I spend on Scouting leadership, so kiddo could have a troop to call home?
How many hours of volunteer work for the schools?
How many times did I hear, implicitly or explicitly, “Your child is running an emotional deficit with me. Make it right, or I’m closing the account.” My kid owed all over town, and we were on the pay-as-you-go plan.
I was raised volunteering alongside my parents, dropping donations off with them, pitching in to care for relatives. These efforts were what made society go, they taught me, as well as a way to make the world a better place. It was part of how we expressed our values. One of the joys of reaching adulthood was getting to choose my own causes to support.
Does becoming a parent mean rearranging your priorities and effectively making your child your main “cause”? It should. Did I still get to use my time, talents, and income to make my corner of the world a better place? Yes. But it felt like a have to, not a want to, and that took a lot of the joy out of it for me. Often as not, I found myself using my charity and my own good behavior to buy acceptance and safety for my child – safety and acceptance that otherwise would’ve been denied because my child is special needs. And that sucks.
Kiddo still kicks about working through the last of a two-year curriculum in social and emotional intelligence. The high school’s special needs counselor assures me that, even if the lesson isn’t about a current concern, the information is lodging in kiddo’s subconscious. “The right answer will occur to your child when it’s needed.” In other words, heading off some of that social awkwardness. Those unintentional withdrawals.
The other part of the emotional bank account equation has to do with deposits. With me learning to back off of making deposits for my child. Instead, I’m starting to inform kiddo of when a withdrawal has been made, and if I sense the balance has gone negative. Also, here’s what you, my child, need to do to pay it back. You owe an apology. You owe a kind word or a thank-you. You owe a redo, or working harder. You need to step up and volunteer to help.
Because you owe it to yourself, my child, to become fully adult.
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