Topic: Parenting

I blew it the other day.  I was frustrated, tired, angry, and hungry...and when one of the junior members of my tribe made a mistake, I didn't handle it well.

He did something that indicated he was a normal adolescent who forgets that there are other members of the household...he looked after himself.  That's what teenagers do.  One of the normal developmental tasks of adolescence is to become more aware of those around, and develop empathy and care--and then translate that into action.  In other words, mature.  Heck, most of us adults are still working on that.

So, it is completely normal that he neglected to include the others in the tribe in his preparations.  Normal--but not appropriate...so as a mother I should gently instruct and encourage allowing the slow dawn of enlightenment to begin to burn brighter and brighter in his mind as he understands his error.  The facilitation of this discovery would pave the way for greater compassion and care of others the next time (read these last 2 sentences with great maternal melodrama).

Yeah, right.  Not so much.  I'd had a crazy day where I hadn't had time to sit down.  The advance planning for supper, the extra phone call home to make sure it was started did not turn into the leisurely 20 minutes of family time that I had planned when I arrived home.  There was supper for one.  And that wasn't me.

I was hurt...and then I got mad, keenly aware of a sense of injustice...not at all acting like a mom needing to raise a child carefully, but as a human being that was worn out, frazzled, and disappointed.  I said some things that weren't at all instructional or inspiring to better behavior.  And when the tribe member got mad in response, I argued back.  Like arguing with an adolescent when they are upset actually gets you somewhere.  Like I was in a place to be making effective communication. Not so much.

At some point, I figured out that I best stop digging the hole deeper...and so I got silent.

Later that evening, I apologized.  I blew it.  I still felt bad, though...
and the next morning, for some reason...I googled one of my favorite parenting gurus that I have found really helpful and saw this:

I'm gonna send the tribe member a link to this blog.  He needs to know how sorry I am.  He needs to know how I'm gonna push "restart" on my parenting and give it a good go...and then be prepared to hear another apology when I will, despite my efforts, inevitably blow it again.  He needs to witness real apologies to see what it is like to "own it and fix it"...I need to change my behavior and strategies, so he can see an apology in action.

I can hope that my apology will inspire apologies of his own in his life to the others that he will wrong in his life, despite his best efforts.  That he will know what it looks and feels like to own it and fix it...to be able to take responsibility, to not become defensive or hostile or blaming.

Good thing he'll have more opportunities to witness and learn from apologies of "owning it and fixing it"--his mother is human, eh?  His mother is me--and I will mess up again.

I used to have days where I thought the crumbs on the kitchen counter multiplied prolifically on their own whenever I turned my back. The crumbs on the counter were a slow form of torture for me...signifying the work of running a household that would never be completed.   Could never be completed because the household was a living breathing hive of activity that would go from breakfast to snack to lunch to more snacks and so on, creating more mess on the counter seemingly within moments of the last time I wiped it.  Some days it seemed those crumbs might push me over the edge...and although it is clear exaggeration now as I write this, it didn't feel like hyperbole when I felt my frustration at the time.

This morning, one of our staff was in tears.  A young friend of her son's dropped dead, suddenly, inexplicably, without warning as he was going his most ordinary day.  Her son's world is rocked...death isn't supposed to happen to a very young adult like that.  There was reminiscing about all the ordinariness of hanging out at the community club together, of baseball games and hockey rinks.  There were tears over the hole now created in the life of the mother of the boy.  What would she do with Christmas gifts purchased for her son who will now be buried by Christmas? Then I showed her what came in the mail today and she really started to weep:

The idea of all the mundane chores and all the buzz of life that will no longer be in the mom's life now that her son was gone made for an incredibly sad reading of this poster by the staff person.  The holes created by the loss are huge. I ordered this poster a coupla weeks ago.  I liked it.  Going to share it on our bulletin board at the office for a while, before I take it home and put it up in my hallway so I see it when I walk in the house or every time I  walk up the stairs.  I'll see it as I trip over a gym bag or a shoe not put away in the hallway. I'll see it when I  look at the homework left out on the table or see the splash of mud on the floor when somebody didn't take their shoes off.  I'll see it when somebody lopes through the hallway to grab another cookie, or comes down the stairs asking about a shirt that is desperately needed and can't be located.  I'll notice it when someone comes in complaining because their feet are so cold from sledding too long down the hill.  My eyes will go over it as I run downstairs to see what the "big crash" in the kitchen was this time. And I'll be grateful for the buzz of regular boring, messy, monotonous life because it holds a treasure that today I don't take for granted.  And it won't be far from sight or from mind when I choose to take a deep breath and be incredibly grateful for the crumbs that have magically and mysteriously appeared on my counter.  And I will remember and be grateful for the love story that unfolds itself each day in my house as we live and love, grumble and laugh, complain and revel, celebrate and grieve.  We go about our days which are extraordinarily ordinary.  As we live the most ordinary but extraordinarily wonderful love story.

So...I put this poster on the bulletin board at work.  It wasn't up 15 minutes before someone who came into the office asked where I got it from so they could order one too. I told her I got it from Kal Barteski's website, [i] LoveLife.

I dunno, but maybe she needs another way to look at the crumbs on her counter. too.

Who will love me for me

Not for what I have done or what I will become

Who will love me for me

'Cause nobody has shown me what love

What love really means

JJ Heller

I went for a walk on Sunday...a long luxurious walk through the neighborhood looking at the front gardens and late autumn woods.  I will go for walks throughout the year, and they will continue once the snow falls.  Snow is forecast for this week.  I had a sense that as I was walking along, enjoying green grass, some shrubs that are persistent and hardy that I was living on "borrowed time".  I love the time without snow, and everyday that happens now where the snow does not fall feels like a gift to me...and in mid-November, that gift is nothing to be taken for granted.

I had my camera with me, and found myself snapping shots of the vestiges of summer beauty that were still around.  There was a real treasuredness as I walked, knowing this could well be the last time I would see these...as any day, it will be covered with the seasonal snow, and the flowers and the green will be gone for months. Flowers in November--what a find! 

It got me to thinking about valuing that which will soon be gone, and reminded me of a piece a friend sent me recently, of a mom coming to grips with being aware of living on "borrowed time" with her son...knowing that the day is soon coming when he will be older, living the life of older boys, and letting go of the life of young boys. As delighted as mothers are for their children as they gain more maturity, there is a sense of loss, and of needing to treasure whatever little moments come that feel familiar and increasingly rare, soon to be gone.

We stroll through a crowded shopping mall a familiar distance now between us. He slips away little by little, in the smallest increments, nearly imperceptible, but in this place I find myself acutely aware of a widening gap. It is as it must be, as it should be, as I knew it would be from almost the very beginning. I used to believe knowing this would make it easier to bare, but instead it begs my acceptance, my blessing, my letting go. I release him minute by minute, hour by hour, like a woman in labor, I await the inevitable change, reminding myself to breath. Remember how important it is to breath in every minute and hold the air in your heart as long as you can, I tell myself in these days. I give myself good advice.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, for no reason at all, his hand slips once again into mine. We walk hand and hand as we have countless of times his life. And though the number is beyond counting that this son of mine and I have meandered, our fingers entwined, I instinctively, correctly, know to count this time, to add it to the end of all the other numbers, because it will be the last time.

Store fronts and people passing by slip into a blur as my eyes fight to regain composure. My boy chatters away and I listen to his high pitched voice, knowing something he doesn't of lasts. It is not right for me to tell him or ask him to carry the responsibility and weight of such knowledge. But as we move through the crowd I consider what it is to be grown and what it is to be a child. I am struck by the firsts and the lasts that come and go. Lasts differ from firsts, as often we have no idea when lasts are happening. They slip in, like dreams, while we sleep and we awaken to find them already gone.

More lasts have already happened than I, yet, even know. Still some of them I caught as they attempted to slither by unnoticed. The walk with my son, hand in hand, I captured. I caught it and held it tight, and though my boy slips away, and a man replaces his childhood self, I will remember the familiar feel of his small hand in mine; the way his happy voice lit up my heart like the sun in a field of wildflowers. I will wish him the joy of knowing the perfect fit of another hand in his, though mine has outgrown him.

Lasts come and go like dreams while we sleep. But, if we awaken in the middle of their passing, sometimes we can catch them and store them away like pearls.

Is it your intention to connect or to correct?  Parents who can define their parenting purpose or intention can help meet children's vital needs, including stability, security, safety and guidance.

What is your purpose of intention?  To correct and manage your children or to connect with and enjoy them?

For one week, count the number of times in a day you correct your child, and then count the number of times a day you connect.  Which number is greater?  What might this information tell you?

Compassionate Parenting Tip- Week 1
Nonviolent Communication
Marshall Rosenberg, PhD

I tripped upon this resource through Twitter the other day...I just received "week 1's" tip in my inbox.  Click on the link to get you to a page where you can sign up for some gentle reminders in your inbox to parent compassionately and connectedly.  Children need guidance and structure, to be sure.  However, when it is received within the context of an environment that is supporting, and respectful and loving, the structure is more likely to be welcome and understood. 

Little did I know how quickly that reminder would become helpful to me as we were dealing with some behavior around this place!  With a deep slow breath, and the "correct or connect" line in my head, I entered a parenting scenario with a better ability to picture what I wanted as an end goal of the situation...rather than attacking, blaming, or shaming a child--which, I have to admit, first started to bubble up inside when I discovered the situation. 

• It meant I waited until we got home and settled to deal with it, rather than when I picked him up from practice.  We could debrief the day and have a good time in the car...and I could be reminded he was more than just the situation. 
  
• It meant I presented the situation and asked him to explain his perspective, rather than jumped to conclusions.  That wasn't easy, but there had to be a reason he chose the course of action he did, and I wanted him to know that what was going on inside of him was important...and it is...given that what goes on inside of him in the future will dictate his actions. Why wouldn't we both want to know what was going on in his head and heart?
  
• It meant that I explained my concerns about the situation from my point of view, and my challenges in trusting his explanations on this one in an honest and candid and calm way...so that we could figure out how to handle similar situations in the future in a way that built trust. 
  
• It meant that I tried to explain my concerns about how I wanted him to feel good about himself and how he handled himself, and how he may jeopardize that with handling future situations in the same way. I wanted him to understand that it makes sense from his perspective as well, to do things differently in the future.  It's not about conforming to his mother, it's about him doing what ultimately works for him, and honors who he is.
  

Did it work?  It went well...neither of us stomped away or left upset or couldn't sleep.  We have a strategy in place for how to handle a similar situation in the future.  I get that mistakes happen, and will happen again...it's how mistakes are dealt with and resolved that truly matter.  But did it really work?  Ask me in 10 years.  :)

In my inbox this morning:

We think sometimes that poverty is only being hungry, naked and homeless.  There is more hunger in the world for love and appreciation than for bread.

Mother Theresa

The dreaded orange dot of doom.


Many of us in the city live in neighborhoods that have elm trees on either side of the boulevard...the trees have been there for 80 years or more.  The elm trees meet in the middle of the street providing this beautiful archway.  The leaves, this time of year are a beautiful golden yellow with orange highlights, and with the sun shining through them, and the wind rustling the leaves that have not yet fallen, the dappled sunlight dances on my table even as I type this.  I love these elm trees...part of the largest urban elm forest in the world.

Alas...the elm tree across the street from my house one day had the "dreaded orange dot of doom".  I hate that orange dot.  I resent it, it makes me mad, and sad, and frustrated.  The dreaded orange dot of doom (yes, when I looked at it, that was the entire phrase that would run through my head each time) meant that the tree was marked for removal.  What nature took 80 years to build would be felled by a half dozen city workers in about 90 minutes (including chopping and carting away).

When I looked at the tree, it still had some life in it.  Lots of leaves on it, as far as I was concerned.  It didn't seem so far gone at all.  I didn't think it deserved the dreaded orange dot of doom.  But the city didn't ask me.  That orange dot was on that tree for the better part of a month.  I half fooled myself that maybe the orange dot on this tree didn't mean what  I thought it did.  That there was more than one reason why city workers would put an orange splotch of spray paint on a tree...that not all trees would be sawed down...that there was some other reason for the dot, and the tree would be spared.

No such luck.

The tree disappeared this week. The workers stripped down all it's branches one day, leaving a most undignified naked trunk overnight (I felt a little embarrassed for the elm...it seemed to me that if trees have feelings, it would feel rather like a patient walking down the hallway in one of those hospital gowns with only one tie in the back leaving far too much exposed) and then the remainder gone the next day.  Only the stump remains.


One of my favorite things about living in the neighborhood is these beautiful elms.  We've lost 2 this summer very near my home.  The city gave the rest of them intravenous drugs to try to save the rest (pretty cute seeing those IV's in the tree bases...felt like walking down a hospital ward when I went for a walk that evening), and the neighborhood "tree band-its" banded the trees.  It's hard to see them go.

I have a hard time seeing the stump...knowing that even when, next spring, another tree is planted in its place, I won't get to see it in maturity for decades, or maybe even at all. I'll miss that old tree.

Somehow, seeing that stump has me thinking melancholy thoughts...nothing specific, just an awareness of how life passes and changes.  Some changes are welcome, some are not.  Some changes happen slowly--trees growing, children slowly becoming adults, relationships maturing, while other changes happen quickly, sometimes undignified, like a bandaid being ripped off painfully--a spouse leaving, retirement, or a tree being chopped down.

I remember talking to someone who was part of a community building a church building.  The ones who would be contributing the most significant portion of the expense were those who had mortgages paid off, children's educations paid for, and had money they could give to the project.  The debate was, "Do we build a gym as part of the church?  Do we make it bigger than we need right now, because more people are coming all the time and we need space to accomodate the new Canadians who have not yet arrived?"  One elderly man stood up and quoted Nelson Henderson:

The true meaning of life is to plant trees,

under whose shade you do not expect to sit. 

I was on vacation with my crew this month.  We went through Calgary, Banff, Lake Louise, Athabasca Falls, ice fields, Sunwapta Rapids, and more.  The beauty was simply staggering, the sights were awesome.  Took my breath away.  We stopped the vehicle often, just to get out and gaze at the magnificence of the beauty of the peaks and valleys, the brooks and waterfalls, the wildlife and the wildflowers.  We hiked up mountains and rafted on white water.  We went past the tree line, up into the clouds on foot and by gondola to look down at the icy blue glacier lakes and the green grandeur of endless trees. WOW.  Wow doesn't do it justice, but sometimes words for such beauty don't exist.  Wow.

Then we went to Edmonton. Had a riot in the water park, slid down one slide after the other, played tricks on each other in the wave pool, had contests zipping down slides that seemed as though they were straight down (felt that way looking down, anyway). Shopped till we dropped…which is fun to do at West Edmonton Mall.

In short, we saw sights and sounds that are incredible and eye popping for these prairie eyes. Fields of wheat are beautiful and awe, but the mountains take the breath away for these prairie people.

Un –buh-live-able.

But, you know what I think I will remember always and forever about this trip?

The work it took these city slickers (and the incredible number of pages of the Alberta Accomodation and Camping Guide—a thick book which is no more) to get a fire going so we could make our tin foil casseroles. We tried this and that, added paper, bark, kindling. We blew on it until we were faint, stung our eyes with smoke till we were blind and still it only smoldered. We laughed and giggled at our ineptness. After it was dark, we roasted marshmallows, occasionally saying something, but mostly gazing at the flames silently…together.

Eating packaged pasta and plain cooked chicken thighs on plastic plates sitting on mattresses in a tiny tent. We were somewhat relieved that our supper was finally cooked, and the tent set up in the rain. We were proud that we had accomplished setting up camp. The youngest of the crew declare that this was the most delicious supper he had ever tasted—and he meant it.

Spending all day in the vehicle together, getting out at various stops, listening to a story on CD from the public library, stopping it to answer questions or discuss our thoughts on a part of the plot…just being together, and realizing at the end of it, that, rather than being relieved that the day of driving was over, we were reveling in how good it was to spend the day together as we had.

A moment in the wave pool, when one of the crew was misbehaving and I ordered a time out. With disbelief that he would be sentenced to a time out at his age, he tried to cajole me out of it. I was persistent, and to his (and my) surprise, I began to count as I haven’t done for years. Holding up fingers to match my words, I began, “One…Two…” and before I could get to three, he left over with a sparkle in his eye, and the most charming and impish grin on his face, and held my third finger in my palm, stopping it before it could be raised…and gently and in a friendly way made his point for what his behavior actually meant and why he shouldn’t have to go sit “time out”. It was a delightful moment, where boy becomes man. In a mature way, he didn’t turn sour or bitter, but took the critque in stride, and advocated for himself. It was wonderful. He was effective, but he wasn’t successful. :) He still had to have time out and leave the pool—the site of his transgression…but this time out, after a few minutes I sat with him and we talked about this and that, and “timeout” did not fracture relationship, even for a moment.

I will remember this vacation for the conversations, hearing the insights, reveling in the joys of being together. Knowing the crew won’t be this age forever, and that these moments need to be captured and squeezed for all they are worth. I'm realizing now, when I look back over the years, it has been the little moments in between the big moments that are the ones that are coming back.  I'm remembering the little things that went wrong, the laughter we shared more than the "big money" events. So I'm treasuring the simple and mundane as something holy and significant.

I had already thought all of this through when I saw this video, which says it even better, inspiring us to hold onto the moments, and allows us to mourn with bittersweetness those that will never return.

There is little that is more beautiful than watching a son conquer, with the help of a mother's love and support...and especially so, when the son awes us with something that, is in itself, beautiful.

Inspiration:

• Conner has overcome significant challenges against all odds to do something that does him proud. That does a heart good to see. For those that face challanges, to witness this is fuel for the road.
• There is little that is more attractive to me in life than to see the pure admiration of a parent for a child.  Unadulterated love mixed with joy at seeing them loving themselves.  His mother, Amy, has that look in her eyes. That's awesome and the beauty in that makes my soul shiver.
  
• The gentle delicate graceful arcs of the kite as it soars to the haunting music of Sarah McLachlan's angel.  Breathtaking.

Conor Dolan was eliminated from America's Got Talent last night.  Pity.

I can't be sure, of course, but I am almost certain that didn't diminish his mom's pride in him one bit.  Big smile on that one.

It was huge for Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of Committed:  A Skeptic Makes Peace with Marriage, to acknowledge the delight she and her sister had when  her mom gave up her job at Planned Parenthood. It was the 1970’s, and her mom, involved in cutting edge work to empower women, had 2 kids with chicken pox and an important conference to attend out of town at the same time. 

Elizabeth’s dad refused to take time off work for 2 days to make the situation work—so Mom Gilbert did what many women have done for centuries…made it work herself—she quit. While she would work again, she would never again have a career. “As she explained to me later, she came to feel she had a choice: She could either have a family or she could have a calling, but she couldn’t figure out how to do both without support and encouragement from her husband. So she quit.” (p. 181)

On her processing of her decision:

“Needless to say, it was a low point in her marriage. In the hands of a different woman, this incident could have spelled out the end of the marriage altogether…But my mother is not one for rash decisions...it appeared to my mother that [divorced] women had maybe only replaced their old troubles with a whole new set of troubles….she still happened to love my dad; even though she was angry at him and even though he had disappointed her deeply. So she made her decision, stuck with her vows, and this is how she framed it: “I chose my family”

On her own reaction:

Frankly, we were delighted when our mother gave up her dreams and came home to take care of us. Most of all, though, I believe that my sister and I benefited incalculably from Mom’s decision to stay married to our father. Divorce sucks for kids, and it can leave lingering psychological scars. We were spared all that….a sense of constancy in the household allowed me to focus on my homework rather than on my family’s heartache…and therefore I prospered.

On her aknowledgement:

But I just want to say here—to lock it forever in print, if only to honor my mother—that an awful lot of my advantages as a child were built on the ashes of her personal sacrifice. The fact remains that while our family as a whole profited immensely from my mother’s quitting her career, her life as an individual did not necessarily benefit so immensely.

And Elizabeth Gilbert’s pleading conclusion:

If I—as a beneficiary of that exact formula [of a 2 parent household with a mother who sacrifices herself for the family] will concede that my own life was indeed enriched by that precise familial structure, will the social conservatives please (for once!) concede that this arrangement has always put a disproportionately cumbersome burden on women?....And might those same social conservatives—instead of just praising mothers as ‘sacred’ and ‘noble’—be willing to someday join a larger conversation about how we might work together as a society to construct a world where healthy children can be raised and healthy families can prosper without women having to scrape bare the walls of their own souls to do it? (p. 184-85)

To all the parents out there who have made costly personal choices to keep your family intact and provide your children with a stable two parent household, I salute you. Some of you have turned down job transfers, incredibly cool opportunities, chances to join clubs and teams that would have been good for you personally but incredibly stressful for your marriage and family. You have voted for your family, and you have voted for your children’s wellbeing. I suspect that while you see the benefits of that choice in your children and your household, there will be days where you measure the cost to your own soul and wonder if anyone else knows what you paid.

To vote for family over oneself is for some an oxymoron…as for many, doing something good for family is doing something good for oneself. When the wellbeing of family is so closely tied to one’s own wellbeing because of the sense of connectedness we have with our families, it’s not hard. 

Sometimes, though, it involves breathing deep and slow, swallowing hard, and making tough choices. The easy choice is not always the optimal choice. Today, I honor those who have thoughtfully carefully and thoroughly and have made the choices that are wise and courageous. Choices that benefit the little ones in your lives, that give them the stable base that will set them up well in life to move confidently forward.  That's a big deal.

And I pray for a world where women won’t have to disproportionately makes so many of those decisions that are for many, so very difficult and painful to make.