When you have doubts in your abilities to fix things, raise someone who can do it for you

It's not only children who grow.  Parents do too.  As much as we watch to see what our children do with their lives, they are watching us to see what we do with ours.  I can't tell my children to reach for the sun.  All I can do is reach for it, myself.  ~Joyce Maynard

Princess Commando had saved  two months allowance and miscellaneous gift money to purchase a 'rare' Pokemon plush toy direct from China. I counseled that it would be wise to be frugal- to save for something more useful like a new bicycle or a kayak. But she insisted on relinquishing her funds to a magic factory which fabricated a most coveted  morsel to add to her collection. When it finally arrived after three weeks of stalking the mailbox, she stood before me sheepishly. The cotton candy creature she protected from my killjoy frown had a visible tear in its muzzle where stuffing seeped through- the material was akin to the itchy fabric of Midway prizes. I tried with all of my might not to set  my I told you so expression on her; but, the way she slunk out of the room let me know I didn't do a very good job.

Later that evening, after The Baby was finally settled for the night and I could feel the energy draining from the tap in my spine, I stood at my bed deconstructing a pyramid of laundry. Princess Commando faced me on the other side. She held up my sewing kit and her damaged merchandise pushing them toward me. "You can fix it. I have faith in you!" Her exaggerated smile was endearing but my shoulders involuntarily slumped and an audible sigh escaped my chest. It was getting late. I was so close to bed.

I hadn't any confidence left in my abilities to 'fix' things. The Baby's upcoming surgery for ear tubes and an adenoidectomy weighed heavily on my mind. The fact that my kisses could not steal away her pain made me feel helpless. And then, I had been having a difficult time with my exquisitely introverted and shy 13 year old. Henry had been suffering for two years with a mounting school related anxiety which paralyzed him.  His pain was already etched on my heart as I, too, had suffered throughout my school years with a crippling anxiety which landed me in the hospital and kept me out of school for 2 years. I did not want this for my child. The raw empathy I felt for him was a searing pain compounded by the fact that my own experience with this same challenge made me an unreliable guide. And then there was First Born Son- I hardly ever saw him. He had become so passionately involved in soccer- travelling to various tournaments on the weekends with his father, developing a crucial bond- a connection I was not privy to. I felt irrelevant.

I stood, unmoved, beside my bed. Princess Commando cocked her head to the side and pleaded with her anime eyes. Henry had been watching us from the hallway.

"Let me sew it," he offered.

"You don't know how to sew," Princess Commando answered doubtfully.

Henry left the room to return 60 seconds later with a primitive looking Scottish terrier. He pressed the toy into his sister's face.

"What is that?" I took the toy and ran my fingers along the seams. It was a crude representation of a jaunty dog in black fleece with a tartan bow tied expertly around its neck. It was so simple and yet so inspiring.

"I made it in Home and Careers," a glint of pride lit his eyes. "Mrs. P showed us photographs of Scottish terriers and told us to come up with a pattern to sew." He went on to talk about a double back ninja stitch that he wanted to learn so that he could make extra money reinforcing men's shirts.

Princess Commando marveled at his handiwork and confidently handed over her damaged Pokemon for repair. Henry's precise stitches far surpassed the factory machine work on the rest of the creature.

"Henry is so nice! I love him so much!" Princess Commando gushed as she threw her arms around him.

Henry's compassion and willingness to help his sister was the indication I needed that I might have done something right along the rough hewn path of parenting. We have steadfastly tried to instill in our children to think of others before themselves- to act with sympathy; to keep their ears open so that they my catch a quiet S.O.S. floating in the air; to lead with patience- especially in moments where love might feel muddled. That Henry interpreted my sigh- sucked into the piles of laundry- as a moment to step in, to help me carry out my will to nurture, to fix things made my heart swell with pride and it humbled me. 

I may not be able to fully reconcile Henry's daily apprehension but I will keep walking along side him- helping him to find the resources he needs to feel safe and strong in the world. I may not be able to cure The Baby's chronic ear infections with a kiss; but I know that while she is recovering, my hands and heart will work overtime to comfort her in the way that only her mother can. First Born Son may be developing out of my sight; but he does still come to me to express his unexpected growing appreciation for jazz; admit to me his fears of failure; and to share his off beat, sometimes dirty humor which he knows I will appreciate and not admonish him for. Princess Commando will continue to make decisions independent of my best guidance, but she still holds onto the belief that I can fix the pieces that need mending. She returns to me- despite my disapproving eye, in spite of my doubtful spirit-for me to embrace her with all of my heart. 

I have learned that motherhood is a process of continuous evolution and accommodation, of learning and growth with hefty purpose, of giving one's self up to the ebb and flow of life. I am fortunate to have had sage teachers- my mother, my grandmother, my aunts, my dear friends. But the most competent teachers on the subject of flourishing within the realm of the human experience, whose reciprocation of faith has helped me to continue to place one foot before the other, are my children. As parents, we do our best to ‘fix’ things. When we don’t get it right the first time, we keep trying because we must and also because we desire to do so. But, sometimes in order to fix things it means that we may have to hand over the needle and thread to more capable hands. Sometimes we need to accept that our quiet S.O.S. has been answered by a tender bloom on the family tree reaching along side us for the sun.

messy and colorful

Life with kids has been kind of like this:

...messy and colorful.

So here's the messy part:
This week I had been puttering along at my normal pace, going through the motions of my typical routines when this ugly feeling- I'm not sure what to label it, resentment maybe- crept up on me. It burrowed its little weed into my mind and made me acknowledge a part of myself that was rife with discontentment. The Baby had been doling out a heaping dose orneriness. She assaulted me with her acrimonious demeanor (not to mention her toys which were aimed at my head) and a mouth overflowing with drool. I felt my skin try to retreat off of my body when she came at me with wet, stinky, cranky fists- pawing for my undivided attention.  I wanted to bolt- I wanted to be any place than where I was. But, I stayed and allowed frustration to course through me rather than searching my heart for compassion and patience. I employed  the talents of the other children, hunting down loose change to bribe them to watch her while I tried to get house work done or to, god forbid, assemble some loose thoughts to architect a short piece of fiction I was working on. I was disenchanted with my station in life. It was only made worse by the fact that the disenchantment bloomed with it's partner, guilt.

"Pick me up, damn it!"

 I know that the nasty pot had boiled over after having spent Wednesday afternoon at Princess Commando's school's Open House. When Princess Commando and Henry were in 1st and 4th grade respectively, I took on a long- term teaching position in a fourth grade classroom at their school. It was challenging, frustrating at times, but it was, also, very fulfilling.  I loved my students, even the ones who gave me ulcers. And I loved that I was contributing to my family outside of our home. I was working under the guidance of the most wonderfully insightful and compassionate teachers. They had taken me, an outsider, under their wings and helped me figure out the muddle of the assignment I was given. I was growing, with a greater understanding of myself and my abilities in ways I never imagined I needed to grow. More importantly, I was proving to myself that I still had more facets to my being outside of simply being 'mother' which I realized I had become intensely absorbed by.

But, the growth was soon stunted. When I was pregnant with The Baby and subsequently after she was born, I spent very little time on site at the school. I stopped subbing. I didn't have many moments to think about my separation from school as I was overwhelmed by The Baby's needs. But, on Wednesday, after re-connecting with the teachers I worked with, feeling their embrace of acceptance and love again, I realized how much I missed teaching. Realizing how much I missed teaching made me consider the circumstances that kept me from teaching. Inevitably that made me look at The Baby- and not in the glowing, nurturing, grateful, motherly light I should have been. Instead, I felt the unpalatable taste of resentment.

I do not know if it is written somewhere that mothers are not allowed to entertain these feelings. But, I felt the lead vest of guilt buckle over my ribs. I felt that I must have developed some flaw over the past 14 years of parenting which made me deficient in my ability to brush unsavory feelings about motherhood aside. I love The Baby, I know that is true. But, I do not love that my life often feels one dimensional and that that dimension is occupied solely by her shrieking needs. And there are three other children in my house whose needs are often  placed on the back burner. They survive by virtue of the fact that they are far more independent and self sufficient than their youngest sibling. Still, I long to spend quality time alone with each one of them (whether that desire is mutual or not); and my hands, bound by baby business, have kept me from them. This only adds to the messy, ugly feelings.

I should be where that cat is sitting. I miss the days of reading with my girl.

And, here is the colorful part, or the part that does not so much resemble mud:
I'm too tired to tango with resentment. I didn't wrap my hands around it to wring the life out of it- but, I chose acceptance for my current situation and tried to walk forward from there. Fortunately, that dirty, nasty disturbance doesn't root too deeply. It is only dirt, after all. It is easy to wipe away the muck and the mire when I wake up to this flame haired, dancing person:

The orneriness has been temporarily placed on a shelf. But, I am still the one she clings to most. When I leave the room- I am still the only one whose return she beckons with her inconsolable cries. She never lets me out of her sight.

It finally dawned on me that,of course, we are bound to be agitated by one another even if we are dependent on each other. Especially because of that. 'I want you close- close enough for me to push away-but not too far away because I may need you again in a moment.' We do spend every single waking moment together, for crying out loud. It is difficult to maintain that state of enamouredness with someone whom you never ever spend a heartbeat away from- not even to go to the bathroom.  But, yes, I am dependent on her, too.  I rely on her to put me in my place. There are days when I am so set in my ways; but, she's clearly had enough of everything and everyone. And her crystal clear pronunciation of the phrase "All done" gives way an accurate social commentary of her family, "All Dumb!" It's true sometimes we are a bit slow. And I would be all done with us too, if I were in her situation. More than her ability to shed light on our ineptitude, I've come to depend on her to color my world. Because, despite how our days might end, they always begin with this- a smile which shoots a million strands of colored light.

Old Musings #3: Sacred Language

Since my last post painted First Born Son in an unflattering, teenager-y light, I felt the need to review my old writings about him- from a time when there were only the two boys in the house and the only homework was to cut and paste words with their corresponding pictures. The Baby is helping to stir up old memories of when the older three were much younger- filled with wonder and imagination-where each small milestone warranted a huge celebration. I will have those moments with The Baby. I will cherish them. But, I can not help but pine for the sweeter, less stressful times our family was allowed to revel in for so many years. Anyway, this passage is from June 2, 2002. First Born Son (referred to in the piece as "M") was only 5 years old.

As it often goes, my children have taught me so many things. Most unexpectedly, the depth of mothering evolves from a sacred language with one’s children.

One night when I was doing my goodnight rounds I found M lying in his bed with a wooden stick thoughtfully pressed into his chin. He looked pensive.

“What’s up Buddy?” I asked.

“ I want to go back to where it all began,” he answered forlornly.

Such a profound statement from my five year old made me smile. But, he was serious.

“ What does that mean, M? Where did you hear that?”

“I didn’t hear it anywhere. It just came into my brain,” he answered eyes widening. “ I want to be a kid again, not a grown up, not do work in school.  I just want to play.”

It was all making sense. He was tired. It was the end of a very busy school year. Kindergarten was approaching its grand finale and the teachers were preparing the children for the rigors of first grade. One of the most important lessons was learning how to sit still for a longer stretch, without wiggling and with concerted effort to complete written work in record time.
          He loves school. When given the opportunity to stay home complaining of vague ailments, he protests. He would rather be with his friends; he might miss out on valuable fun.  If we force him to stay home when he is truly ill, he reluctantly rests, anxious to join his crowd, those comrades who are so separate from us. There are precious secrets and encoded languages there. Teachers are privy to all of this, but even they respect the sensitivity of keeping these things sacrosanct.

I was pregnant. M was soon to be a big brother again- not his choice. He accepted more responsibility like feeding the dogs and letting them outside, getting his own juice and snacks, keeping his room clean, etc. For him, it was sometimes too much. “I’m sick of doing work!” he’d grumble. “ I don’t want dogs anymore.”

It’s not often that he complains about such things. He is by his own nature exquisitely amiable. He has developed an amazing empathy for others. He’s curious and mischievous and often wild, but above all, he loves. And when he lies on his bed at night- awake when he should have been asleep an hour earlier- thinking, thinking, thinking because it is the first moment of the day that quiet has entered his body- pondering the whys and the hows of the way the world around him works and more than that pondering his own feelings about the things he knows to be true, I must just let him feel. I must let him know he is wonderful and amazing. He’ll answer, “I know.” I let him know that I don’t want him to grow up too fast. He doesn’t need to be a grown up yet, but the things he does for us are helpful and they make this family run more smoothly.  I tell him that he is doing just fine and I don’t want much more from him than to continue to follow his heart to help other people out.

He’ll ask me to rub his back, and even though I am tired I will do it because he is still so fragile in these moments, so tender as he was when he was a babe. I know there will be a day or a thousand days when he won’t want me to touch him at all and he won’t even speak those truthful worries of his brain. I’ll be left to wonder if he is really okay. For now, I savor the sacred language we have that allows me to speak simply and make him all better.

Making Smart Choices

Evil Princess Commando, Sweet Princess Commando

If Princess Commando was an animal, she would most likely be a cat. She reminds me of our younger cat, Mitsy. She curls up with you on her own time- peacefully, graciously snuggling one minute; and then, as quickly as she perceives being crossed, she snaps-claws out-hissing! The only difference is that Mitsy makes herself scarce; but, the 8 year old girl throws herself on the couch in a whiney tantrum when she does not get her way. It is no secret that she has been dubbed "The Brat" within our family. Princess Commando's attitude has taken a turn for the beastly as she has begun to face the rigors of 3rd grade. The word from school is ( although I am inclined to believe this is a myth) that PC is a dream student in the classroom. She is well behaved, respectful, thoughtful, helpful and kind. I try to be sympathetic to her new challenges, yet firm in my direction with her. But, there is only so much ornery, selfishness that a parent can endure.

We were well overdue for some alone time. This past Friday, I followed through with a promise of a "girls night" with my number one girl. The Baby went to sleep at a reasonable hour. The boys found a way to busy themselves; and, The Mr. agreed to sleep in Princess Commando's twin bed in order to accommodate our sleepover. PC's only requests were popcorn, The Diary of a Wimpy Kid movie and some gaudy nail polish. She was in a rare good mood. She allowed me to braid her overflowing locks of hair. (She no longer lets me dress her hair in any way but "plain and straight." So, this was a treat for me). Despite being exhausted from caring for The Baby all day, I made it through the movie; and, PC was soon purring, blissfully curled beside me.  I had forgotten how much I missed time alone with her.

Any sign of sweetness, was eradicated the next day when Princess Commando came down for breakfast. She was quick to whine and hiss at her brother's benign teasing. She recoiled at our attempts to cheer her up. She was grumbly when we instructed her on what tasks needed to be completed for the day. In fact, she stopped using words, she just groaned through the day. She was pouty and obstinate all weekend. She was disrespectful to the Mr. and me. But, she looked adorable. She had unraveled the braids from the night before and her hair hung in crimpy plaits about her head. The hairstyle dwarfed her petite body; and, she looked a little bit like a child who was raised in the woods by wolves. When I showed her this new version of herself in the mirror, she softened. She actually enjoyed it and decided that we should braid her hair on Sunday night so that she could wear the new look to school on Monday.

On Sunday night, after her shower, I attempted to replicate my design. This time, I decided to add more, thinner braids. Her hair seemed to be a mile long and my fingers were stiff and aching when I was finished. We waited until the last minute on Monday morning to unweave the braids. This time, with the addition of the much smaller braids, her hair increased in volume.  The effect was not lost on her. As soon as she saw the big reveal, she broke down. "I hate it!! I hate it!!" "I'm not going to school like this!" "It's too puffy!" I calmly sprayed her hair with leave in conditioner to tame it. She did not look any different than the other day when this style was met with beaming approval.  She was not budging. She sat on the floor of the bathroom refusing to brush her teeth and move on with the morning. The Mr. was taking her to school on his way to work- so there was no time to waste. And, I had precious minutes left before The Baby woke up and my chance of a shower sped down the drain. I tried to hurry her along. But she became more and more disagreeable. I finally snapped- as this Monday morning was the last straw of mornings, and afternoons and evenings like this. I threw every ultimatum, threat, and bargain at her. She wasn't buying it. She finally left with the Mr.- but not quietly.

I mulled over how to handle this behavior. What has worked for us before? What consequences should I instill? I sought the advice of my mother, a newly retired 1st grade teacher, a mother of three, a grandmother of 6 and a veteran of doling out consequences. I took her suggestion to give PC a warning that Monday's behavior would be the last time she would go without punishment. If she were to act up again, I would bag up her beloved stuffed animals. She would go on a behavior chart and would need to earn 3 stars/ day for seven days and then she would be allowed one of her animals back. I also would have her fill out a "Making Smart Choices" sheet that was sent home from school as an example of the behavior plan that is implemented in the classroom.

She came off of the bus, happy and high on the bus social hour, as if nothing happened earlier in the day. I sat her down and laid out the new guidelines. She apologized and agreed that she would try harder. She reluctantly filled out the Making Smart Choices sheet. ( I didn't have her fill out the section about what rule she broke). Find the completed form below. It may not be the explanation that I hoped she would muster up; but, it's a start.

Playdate Therapy

The Baby has been my most challenging child. She has been a test of endurance, strength, patience, creativity and faith. And, shamefully, I will admit, for at least the first 5 months, I struggled to resist the temptation to sell her off to the gypsies. I raised 3 babies before. Why was this one so hard? In spite of the fact that The Baby was a "surprise," I was confident going into this venture that she was going to be a piece of cake. Why wouldn't she be? Her siblings, as infants, were gifted sleepers and talented eaters with easy dispositions (when they got older, of course, that changed). This having been my last pregnancy (yes, the Mr. took care of that prior to her birth), I thought I would treasure every moment. The other three children were in school all day; and, I would have time to focus inward on connecting with the new little one- growing her, loving her. But, from the get go, the pregnancy was exhausting- despite the fact that I was in the best shape of my life prior to getting pregnant. I was nauseous; yet, I was agonizingly hungry all the time. At nine o'clock at night, I had such intense cravings for hamburgers, I could not sleep. I was in constant pain; and, I was woefully fatigued. My midwives were quick to point out that at 34 I was much older this time around. It was not comforting. The only silver lining, to a tarnished pregnancy, was the fact that for the first time in my history of being pregnant I had friends to go through this with. Five friends to be exact.

When I had First Born Son, I was 21 years old and the first among our friends (by 12 years) to have a baby. I had, by my own accord, isolated myself from everyone to immerse myself in the role of mother. At the time, becoming a mother was the most profound experience (it still is). Everything else paled in comparison. I looked at the Art History degree that I was working so diligently to complete as pointless. Art History, Fart History. Nothing could make me feel more complete than my days spent raising my son. It was too easy to push everything else aside and become drunk on baby love- to revel in my tiny creation. I didn't realize what little value I placed on my friendships. I made excuses not to see people-probably because I felt we weren't in the same place and I feared they would no longer understand me. I loved motherhood, but I didn't know that I was allowed to have more than one dimension. I can not be sure if I suffered for it at the time. The Mr. probably did though, as I tried to get him to wear the girlfriend hat, the one which allowed me to confide in him my deepest thoughts, unload my all my emotions, and gripe about him- to him. I secretly scoffed at the fluffy articles about the importance of friendship in the women's magazines that my mother handed down to me. "Real Women Have Girlfriends," "Girlfriends are Good for the Heart," "Without Girlfriends, You will Die Young."

I was excited at the prospect of bonding with my friends over their newborns. I was happy that I would be able to offer my years of expertise in all things baby related. But, with The Baby, I found myself in uncharted territory. None of my other children had colic. None of my other children had trouble gaining weight. None of my other children would scream bloody murder if I put them down in the coziness of their cradle to, God forbid, use the bathroom. The Baby was the universe's little wake up call to me- "You haven't learned everything yet, Oh Experienced Mother." I had wanted to breastfeed this child as I didn't fully commit to it with the others (that is a story for a different day). But somehow, at the start, we were incompatible. The Womanly Art of Breastfeeding (oh, how I loathe that book!) does not mention anywhere about how over 13 years and 4 pregnancies, your boobs can become stretched beyond Gumby proportions, making it difficult for the baby to get milk. So, I exclusively pumped. It was so taxing physically and emotionally. I only made it through 6 weeks before I could no longer handle the injuries I was sustaining. I tried formula, but she was so sensitive to it- it made her colic worse. We eventually figured it all out on our own and I was able to nurse her. But in the stupor of that dark time, I emailed my friend J, a new mother whose daughter is 6 weeks older than The Baby. I've known J since she was 5 years old. She is actually my sister's good friend. But, since my sister lives on the other side of the U.S., I get to reap the benefits of J's beautiful friendship.  I was so upset and felt like trash for giving up nursing (I blame the Womanly Art of Breastfeeding, for putting so much emphasis on breastfeeding as the sole means to being womanly and artful). I wish I had her response to post here; it was truly magnificent. Her words lifted me out of a gray cloud. She made me laugh. She validated my emotions. She offered me her friendship.

We now have playdates. When we first placed the girls side by side on the floor (at 2 months and almost 4 months) they reached for each other's hand and held on. A sign of knowing. A sign of friendship. Our daughters are very similar in temperament in that both are high needs and neither one of them wants to give us a break. Sleep has been such a struggle. I always know that if The Baby has been up all night, that I can talk to J and find out that her sweetheart was up all night too. And with the ever changing guidelines from the American Academy of Pediatrics (which our pediatricans follow as the Bible) on infant feeding, mealtimes have never been more complicated. But, we've been able to navigate through it together. I am learning from Js' trials and errors as much as I hope she is gaining something from mine. I feel that when I spend time with her, I can exhale. I am free to unload and she does not judge. I hope I do the same for her. It is like therapy. I walk away with a better understanding of myself, of my baby, of what changes might need to happen in order for us to grow. The Mr. always says that I am a much nicer (more "chipper" is how he puts it) person after our playdates. He suggests that we have one every day. And one of the biggest light bulb moments I've had, happened with J during our playdate this week. J was talking about how she does not feel the need to escape to have a drink with friends- that her sweetheart might be her one and only child forever and that this time goes by so fast that all she wants to do is savor it- even the difficult moments. I realized that The Baby's disposition is the universe's way of forcing me to appreciate this experience. A child who is high needs does slow down time. I had been lamenting all of these months that the days were dragging on, that I was suffering from not getting any sleep or exercise because my baby needed me all of the time. But in reality I was being given an opportunity to be in the moment. Her immediate needs were all that mattered. Her health and well-being was all that was important. And, now that I've stopped fighting it- The Baby has become truly delightful. And, miracle of miracles, she sleeps! But, without J's support and perspective, I might have still been floating adrift at sea. I will no longer scoff at articles in my mother's magazines touting the positive significance of friendship. It's true, "Girlfriends Give You Clarity."