I Was Raised By ‘The Village.’ I Chose Not To Raise My Sons The Same Way.

My brothers and I grew up with my extended family: My cousins, my aunts, my uncles, my grandparents. They were all regular fixtures in our lives. Some of them lived with us on and off, bedrooms changed hands as people grew up and out, bathroom sinks crowded with toothbrushes and toiletries. Our village was one of revolving doors, of many hands making light work, of laughing in the kitchen and chairs gathered around in clusters on the front porch. Mixing bowls full of scrambled eggs on Christmas morning, homemade birthday cakes at least once a month because it was always someone’s birthday. I was happy, I think, to be one of the gang. To be raised by the village, to have many people love me and watch out for me and know me.

So why didn’t I want that for my own sons?

They were not raised by the village. They were raised by me. Alone. Of course, they were close to my own mom. Even after she moved to the other side of the country when they were little, that connection stayed tight. She adored them in the same way I felt adored by my family. She thought they were funny and fun. She got them, and knew what they liked. She brought them big boxes of their favorite snacks from Costco, played cards with them by the hour. She helped me with laundry and we walked them to school together when she visited for weeks at a time. But then she went home to her life and we went back to ours.

This was not the village. This was Disney World for me, a break in our regularly scheduled programming. A chance to lighten my load a little. The village that raised me was something else entirely. And a part of me did not want this for my sons.

That part of me remembered how complicated it could be to have so many adults want a say in what you were doing. It was easy enough to be left feeling adrift in the sea of adult dynamics. So many grown-ups with so many different parenting styles that were not styles as much as whims. Decisions made on the fly by this teen aunt or that early 20s uncle who were not really ready to make those decisions. Adults who either didn’t have their own children yet, and so weren’t sure about what to do with us, or did have their own children and were busy trying to figure out how to raise them. Most days felt like a summer holiday: happy and fun and carefree. A little hippie colony of kids with scraped knees and freedom to run around the neighborhood until the street lights came on.

When I was pregnant with my first son at the age of 20, I was brought into the adult fold of the village. The women gathered around me to help and advise and feed me. They did all the things a village of loving women are meant to do for a young, pregnant woman. It was not their fault that my world instantly became just me and him. I only trusted myself to take care of my pregnant belly; that continued after I had him, and then his three little brothers. I did not want their input or their criticism or their advice. I wanted to make the decisions for my sons. I did not want them to slip through the cracks of adult dynamics. My partner was not a fan of the larger family dynamics and so was happy enough to let them fade away into the background as the years went on.

To be fair, the village was not as available to me and my children as it had been when I was young. By then, everyone lived in different cities. Everyone individuated. The happy little hippie colony disbanded and we became a family with cars and jobs and lives apart from each other. By then, it was just me and the kids, their father moved on to a different life (mostly) without us.

But when family was around, I slotted them into the visitor category. They were not invited to discipline my sons or offer feedback on how they thought I was doing as a mother. I wanted to find my own way as a parent without their voices in my head or in my living room, questioning me when I was already questioning myself so often.

I think I was wrong to handle it – and the dynamics of it all – that way. In a lot of ways, I know I was wrong. I was trying to shield the kids against any criticism or discomfort, but I took something away from them too. They did not grow up with the same sense of belonging to family outside of our own little gang. They don’t really know their cousins or most of their aunts and uncles, not like I do.

I protected them from the messiness of my village. I protected them from being thrown together with a bunch of kids, from being told off by aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents. I protected them from irritation and aggravation and having to make their voice heard in a room where too many people were always talking.

But, in looking back, I deprived them of that mess too. Maybe I deprived them and us of that warm, gooey good feeling of being thrown together with people who deep down love you even if you’re not showing them your best side all the time. And as my kids become even older adults I’ve come to realize that it’s a real shame: Having that village was about more than just extra adults in the house. That village might have given my sons extra armor to take with them into the world. It might have given them more than I was able to give them on my own.

Jen McGuire is a contributing writer for Romper and Scary Mommy. She lives in Canada with four boys and teaches life writing workshops where someone cries in every class. When she is not traveling as often as possible, she’s trying to organize pie parties and outdoor karaoke with her neighbors. She will sing Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time” at least once, but she’s open to requests.