養兒育女
（雅玲畢竟是天下雜誌培養的種子教師，也寫出親子關係的努力。半寄）
去年暑假，跟兒子女兒ㄧ起去泰國旅行，回來後，女兒跟我說她跟我們ㄧ起出去玩，很痛苦。
她說，她不怪誰，
她知道是她自己的問題。
從前，她這種話，會像ㄧ把刀或劍刺穿我，但可能我內心已經被訓練過了，雖訝異卻不悲傷。
我能做的，只有等待與繼續陪伴。
女兒高年級時，我是她的老師，有一陣子她常常動不動就哭，
我沒有好好的跟她聊聊，卻跟她說哭不能解決問題。
從此，她不哭，但也把心門關起。心門ㄧ旦關起，要再打開並不容易。
我知道她很努力的想打開，但不容易，所以，當她和我們在一起時，內心會有很大的衝突，
應是又愛又恨吧！
現在的我，能理解了，所以我只能默默的聽她說的ㄧ切，然後等待與陪伴。
去年ㄧ整年，我們有時到北部車宿或辦事情，總會安排時間和女兒吃吃飯，
她的任何展出，我們總盡量邀ㄧ大堆家人一起去鼓勵她，
今年從泰國旅行晚一點回來，就從機場去北投住飯店泡溫泉，順便看看她，
送她一堆禮物，
她也騎摩托車來我們飯店泡溫泉，我買了好吃的便當給她，她也吃完了，
旅行期間，我會傳訊息給她，有時她在忙沒回覆也沒關係。
她從今年做畢業舞台到現在在片場工作及接案，除了要有創意，也有很多勞力活要做。她跟我說，
現在每天騎摩托車在台北東奔西跑，還要搬很重的東西（片場道具）。
她畢制展出前，我們有去看她，那天，看到她ㄧ個人在停車場刷著舞台的版子的油漆，她渾身沾了油漆，就像工人一樣，
雖然有點不捨，但看她選擇她喜歡做的事，而且也做得很棒（聽她說她做的舞台，是她們這屆做的很好的，獲得很多好評），
手臂上也沒有新的傷痕，我其實不需要擔心她。
她小時候，上自然課，老師說自然界裡，越漂亮的東西越有毒。
小學三年級的她問老師說：那人呢？
女兒既聰慧又敏感。
但我並不知道。
我ㄧ直用我的框架在對應她。當她只想穿舒服的功夫褲時，我強迫她穿裙子；當她遇到同學說老師（媽媽）的壞話時，
她不知道如何反應，
我卻跟她說不要哭；當她在國中新生資料上寫：我的家人感情不好，
我直接跟她說，我們的家人感情哪有不好？當她在女中跳舞搭車回來，一身狼狽，
我直接跟她說她很臭欸；當她不想叫媽媽時，我無法理解她，卻情緒性的對她責罵；當我發現她手臂上有傷痕時，
我非常生氣又擔心的問她，爲什麼要割手？
當她母親節活動不想在同學面前唸母親節卡片時，我卻渾然不知！每天晚上睡前我唸書給她和哥哥聽（至少10年），
但我卻很少和她聊聊天！這幾年，
這些事，我終於漸漸明白，很多事情都是一點一滴慢慢形成。
以前，看不明白的時候會想，是不是我們上輩子欠她的？爲什麼她不是我喜愛的孩子的樣子？
現在完全不會這樣想，因為明白了，在相依相待的過程中，我們就走到了今天這個結果。我要做的事，就是把自己的框架打破，變成一個沒有框架的媽媽。哈！
今年，女兒改變很多，尤其是畢業製作及工作後，她變得比較柔軟和穩定，
很多事願意跟我聊，雖然，她還是不叫媽媽，不過，那沒關係的！
後記一：
女兒的頭髮ㄧ下染成粉紅色、一下染成藍色，
畢業前，跟我說她要在手臂上刺青（應該是知道我不喜歡），
我跟熟悉的年輕藝術家朋友説：女兒和我們的性格截然不同，喜歡搞怪！
年輕的藝術家朋友也認識女兒，
竟説：女兒和你們很像啊！
你們還不是在做一些不是你們這個年紀的老師會做的事情！哈，想想也對。
別人這個年紀都在含飴弄孫了！我們兩個卻好像有做不完的事和夢想！
後記二：這次去泰國，飯店都是穿泳裝的歐洲人，除了小朋友，人人幾乎身上都有或多或少的刺青。
我跟女兒說，原來刺青已經是那麼普通的事，我都不知道。（去除框架之一，哈！）
撰文/洪雅玲
Raising Children (Yaling’s Response)
Last summer, I traveled to Thailand with my son and daughter. After we returned, my daughter confided that being on the trip with us had been painful for her.
She said she didn’t blame anyone — she knew the problem was her own.
In earlier years, such words would have pierced me like a blade. But perhaps time has tempered me; though I was surprised, I was not heartbroken.
What remains for me is simply to wait, and to accompany her.
When she was in her later school years, I happened to be her teacher. She often wept then, yet instead of sitting beside her and truly listening, I told her that tears would not solve her problems.
From that moment, she stopped crying — but she also closed the doors of her heart. And once shut, those doors are never easy to reopen.
I know she strives to open them again, yet it is a struggle. That is why, when she is with us, she feels torn within — a mingling of both love and resentment.
I now understand this. So I listen quietly to all she wishes to say, and I wait, and remain by her side.
Throughout the past year, whenever we traveled north for errands or short trips, we always arranged to share a meal with her.
For each of her exhibitions, we gathered as many family members as possible to cheer her on.
This year, returning from Thailand, we went straight from the airport to Beitou, staying in a hot spring hotel so we could see her. We brought gifts, and she rode her scooter to meet us there. I bought her a warm meal, which she ate with us.
Even during my travels, I sent her messages. Sometimes she was too busy to reply, but I minded it little.
Since completing her graduation project, she has been working on film sets and taking freelance jobs. She told me her work requires not only creativity but also a great deal of physical effort. Each day she rides her scooter across Taipei, hauling heavy props.
Before her graduation exhibition, we went to see her. That day, in a parking lot, I found her painting stage panels by herself, her body streaked with paint, like a laborer.
Though my heart ached, I was also deeply proud. She has chosen the path she loves, and she pursues it with excellence. She told me the stage she created was among the finest of her class and was highly praised.
There were no new scars on her arm, and I realized I did not need to be consumed with worry.
When she was a child, during a science lesson, the teacher remarked that in nature, the more beautiful something is, the more poisonous it tends to be.
At the age of nine, she raised her hand and asked: “And what about people?”
My daughter was bright and sensitive. Yet I failed to see it then.
I responded to her only through the narrow lens of my own framework. When she longed to wear loose, comfortable kung-fu pants, I forced her into skirts. When classmates spoke ill of their teacher — who was me, her mother — she didn’t know how to react, and I told her not to cry.
When she wrote in her school records: “My family doesn’t get along,” I immediately denied it: “Our family isn’t like that.”
When she returned home from dance practice, weary and disheveled, I said to her sharply, “You smell terrible.”
When she avoided calling me “mom,” I could not comprehend, and I lashed out emotionally. When I found scars on her arm, I was filled with anger and fear, demanding to know: “Why would you hurt yourself?”
When she wished not to read her Mother’s Day card aloud before her classmates, I was utterly oblivious.
For over a decade, I read books to her and her brother each night before bed — and yet, I rarely paused to simply talk with her.
In these recent years, I have finally begun to understand: such things are not born in an instant, but accumulate slowly, bit by bit.
In the past, when I could not see clearly, I would wonder: “Did we owe her a debt from a past life? Why is she not the child I hoped for?”
Now, those thoughts are gone. I understand that in the give-and-take of living closely together, this is the result we have reached.
What I must do is to shatter my own rigid framework, and learn to be a mother without one. (A laugh, but true.)
This year, my daughter has changed profoundly. Especially after her graduation project and entering the workplace, she has grown softer, steadier, and more open to sharing with me.
Though she still does not call me “mom,” I find peace in that — it no longer matters.
Postscript 1:
My daughter experimented with pink and blue hair, and just before graduation, she announced she wanted a tattoo on her arm—fully aware that I disliked the idea.
I confided to a young artist friend: “My daughter is nothing like us; she thrives on being unconventional.”
The friend, who also knew her, countered: “On the contrary, she is very much like you. Aren’t you both engaged in pursuits that few teachers your age would even consider?” I realized she was right.
At an age when most are content with grandchildren, we remain restless—still pursuing endless work and boundless dreams.
Postscript 2:
In Thailand, the hotel pool was filled with Europeans in swimsuits, and with the exception of young children, virtually everyone displayed tattoos.
I turned to my daughter and said, “It seems tattoos have become entirely commonplace—I hadn’t realized.”
(It was yet another reminder to let go of outdated frames—haha.)
Written by Hong Yaling
（照片李耘耘，台北國立藝術大學）
