Different Parenting Styles Impact Daughter’s Personality

As a curious little kid, you are constantly asking questions. You learn about the world around you, and when you get the answers you’ve been looking for, you take them at face-value because you assume others have all the answers.

As kids, we are all influenced by our parents more than by anyone else. I mean, not only do they clothe us, feed us and give us a warm bed to sleep in, but they are the people you learn your initial perspective on the world from.

Now, how is this initial perspective effective when you are raised with bipolar parenting?

No, not bipolar parents: parenting. My parents are two very different people. My father was an only child, growing up in Germany, spoiled by a very affectionate quintessential house mother. My mother was born in Guam to a Navy Captain. As the eldest of three she was responsible for keeping her siblings in check, making sure they met her parents’ strict standards as they moved from country to country. Sensing some discrepancies? My mother was raised to be completely independent from her parents and to take care of herself, whereas my dad was raised as my grandma’s “baby boy.”

With parents literally from two different ends of the Earth, growing up I was constantly confronted with two different views on the world. Two different reactions for every action. Two answers for the same situation. When I was old enough to understand my actions had consequences, I tried to please both my parents by becoming a “bi-polar” daughter, in a sense. I was one version of Kim Hoedel around my mother, and another around my father—and neither one was the real me. I pushed myself to question everything. How can there be two different answers to the same question? Something had to be wrong—and being the curious kid I was, I had to find the problem and figure it out for myself. Exploring all the possible answers for every question taught me that the world isn’t just black and white.

I learned, way too early, to cross-examine people. Question their motives. Analyze their reasoning. Stick all the pieces of information together in order to construct a new, clear picture of each situation on my own. I learned to see each side of a situation and find a happy compromise I felt comfortable and confident in supporting.

My father always encouraged me to accept any help I needed or that was offered to me, usually by him. He constantly offered to help me with my homework or would sit up with me making my Valentine’s Day box and cards for my third grade class. My daddy always told me that I could do and be whatever I wanted. This is the guy who offered to drive me to an audition for a Nickelodeon talent-scout when I was twelve. My dad is quirky like that; he and I share a great sense of humor and spend most of our time goofing off and just being silly. He and I were always closer to equals rather than father-and-daughter. I could talk to him the same way I talked to my friends, granted, never about similar topics.

Without my father, I would probably be the most heartless person walking around out there—even now, I hold a hatred of all things sentimental or emotional and resist all things Disney. I mean, an hour and a half of singing dwarfs? Pass. This is what my dad counteracts. He always shows me not to take life too seriously because, where is the fun in that? He took me out to a celebration dinner when I landed the role of “Oakie #3” in East’s performance of “Grapes of Wrath” my freshman year. My dad taught me to be goofy while still teaching me good morals and the importance of doing what is right. I felt like I was being raised in one of those little kid shows that plays on Nickelodeon—he exercised a “Big Time Rush” style of parenting: mostly silly nonsense, but always tied up with a good-ol’ moral lesson.

Without my mother acting as my counter-weight, keeping me grounded, I would most likely be a spoiled brat—we are talking Veruca Salt, here. My mother is an amazing woman and I admire her more than she will ever know, but we have our problems. My mother is an extremely independent woman. On her 16th birthday she left her parents house, hopped on a bus bound for Texas and started a new life on her own. Badass, right? She believes in me and that I have the power to do things on my own, and that life will be more gratifying that way. But she never sugar-coated the world.

She was never the type of parent to tell their kids cutesy lies when they questioned something. I mean, don’t worry, Santa was still sacred; but mostly she just told me hard cold facts: School Choir? Kim, I think the ability to sing is a requirement for that. Looking back, I’m really grateful for that. I mean sure, I wasn’t as much of a starry-eyed dreamer as other kids, but I like being a realist.

My mother has always had the toughest skin of any person I have ever met. She knows what she wants and what she stands for and nothing anyone can say will ever faze her. She raised me on harsh critiques, hoping to help me grow and improve to the very best I could be.

Now. Mesh the two together and you’ve got some issues. I could never address my mother the way I address my father. My dad is like a friend, but my mom is always my superior. Where I run to my daddy for help, my mom blocks my path and turns me around to figure the problem out on my own (not that my father didn’t try his hardest to get around her and help me secretly, several times successfully).

For my father, watching my mother exercise “tough-love” and setting me off on my own was tormenting. For my mother, watching my father shelter me and spoil me and let me lean on him throughout my whole life was frustrating. For me, as confusing and frustrating as it was, it made me the strong independent realist that I am today—and for that, I am very thankful.

Where my mom made me a confident, harsh realist, my father gave me inordinate amounts of compassion for others. Where my mother made me independent and strong enough to stand on my own, my father taught me that accepting help doesn’t make you weak.

Reflecting back, I am so grateful for my bipolar parenting. It kept things interesting. I really found a true sense of myself through it. I didn’t feel like I was just an extension of my parents, believing in the same things they did because that’s how they raised me to be. I felt like since I was presented with two bizarre ends of the spectrum on most issues, I was able to find the answers for myself, and figure out what I believed. I would weigh my parents’ answers and see which one I agreed with more, and whose reasoning and logic I understood more.

My mother taught me to explore and discover the world. My dad taught me to love and enjoy it.