Today, when it was hard...

Today, I read a beautiful blog written on Huff Post titled "Instead I Held You." It really is a sweet and gentle reminder to stop and savor the sweet moments with our little ones. But, as a mother of an almost 5 year old and 6 1/2 year old, my little ones aren't falling asleep in my arms too often any more, and I don't need the reminder to stop cleaning as they fall asleep in my arms, because it happens so rarely I recognize it as a treasure.

But, as my kids have gotten older, and necessarily branch away from me so they can become their own independent and capable selves, I realize the sentiment holds, but it goes maybe like this...

Today, my patience had worn thin because I hadn't had nearly as much alone time as I needed, or time to just rest, or read a book, or sit and not think for a minute. And in the middle of all that, you'd had a bad day too. So...

Today, when you walked in the door from school, dropped your backpack in the middle of the kitchen, and said, "I'm hungry. Where's my snack?" I didn't first tell you to put away your things and change your tone. I bent down, kissed you on the top of the head, and said I was glad to see you. You grunted, but you didn't pull away from my kiss, and I noticed.

Today, when you were angry because I turned off the TV so you could help me set the table, I didn't send you to your room on time out. I listened to your anger, and waited until you were calm enough to hear me say it's important to work as a team. You were still mad, but you took the dishes and slowly set the table. I simply said thank you. I noticed you kept coming back to the kitchen to 'not help', even after you were done setting the table.

Today, when you slammed your door after shouting that you hated me, I took deep breaths, and continued making your dinner. When you came out a few minutes later, I stopped what I was doing, turned and faced you, kneeling down to your level, and looking into your eyes, simply said, "I know you don't hate me, but when you use those words, it hurts my heart. I still love you." I let you walk away without forcing an apology, because I knew you heard me. And when you walked in and kissed my stomach, because that's how high you come now, and then quickly walked away, I knew you were sorry.

Today, when you kept speaking rudely to our guests and me, breaking family rules, and rolling your eyes at me, I didn't take away your toys or TV time. I gently asked you to come into your room with me, then I sat on the floor and asked if you wanted to sit with me. Turns out that's all you wanted. Just a few quiet minutes with me. We just sat there and took some deep breaths together. Sometimes company is hard on all of us.

Today, when your daddy and I were fighting, and you came in and started interrupting with an urgent need for string cheese right after dinner, I didn't yell at you. I stopped, looked at your dad with knowing eyes, and asked if it bothered you when we fought. You said yes. Your dad put his arm around me and I leaned in, even though we were mad, so you could see we were ok. I told you that we still loved each other, and sometimes you fight. And sometimes, when you fight, if you do it with love, you actually love each other more at the end. We asked if you wanted to watch us work through what we were arguing about. You did. So we argued as maturely as we could, hoping to teach you that conflict happens, and we have a choice how we engage with it. Later, I heard you fight with your sister; you were kind even though you were angry.

Today, when you told me I looked fat, I didn't tell you that it was a mean thing to say. I smiled, I told you I loved my body, and that I hoped you grew up to love yours, too. I told you that it doesn't matter what size your body is as long as you are taking care of it - eating healthy, exercising, making safe choices, and doing things that bring you joy. I also told you that in many places in the world, fat is a compliment - so hold your ideas loosely, and ask questions like "huh, I wonder why we do that/think that" before you jump in with both feet.

Today, when you came in to my room at 6:30am and told me you didn't want to go to school, I didn't say you had to. I asked why. When you explained it was, I quote,"unreasonable to expect me to sit still for 5 days, and then what, only get two days off? It's too much", I agreed and told you that you could stay home. As I was on the phone with the school office, telling them you were absent due to a mental health day, I smiled as I watched you building a playground out of scrap wood for the chickens.

Today, when your young boy eyes fell on the bikini clad bronze woman on the front of the magazine at the check out line, I didn't shoo you away or tell you stop. I asked what you were thinking. When you said you wondered why she was in her underwear, I sighed, and did my best to help you understand. To somehow help you learn about respecting bodies, yours and hers, and to also respect that it was her choice to be on the magazine in her bikini underwear. Then, I directed your sisters eyes to the magazine and asked you both if you thought she looked like a real woman, or if you thought they'd maybe changed the picture. You both said they'd changed the picture. I agreed, and said real bodies are beautiful and don't need photoshopped slimming.

Today, when you woke me up at 2am saying you were hungry, I didn't send you back to bed, I got up with you and we had a secret bowl of cheerios in our pajamas with just the little light over the stove to illuminate our faces. I was tired, but I want you to know when you're 16 years old that I'll have a 2am bowl of cheerios with you when something is on your mind, or you just need me to sit with you in the dark.

Today, when you said you just needed a Mommy Day, I didn't explain that sometimes I need to work and you'd just have to play by yourself this morning. I turned on my out of office and we went to get pedicures. Your fancy toes looked amazing, and I noticed when you played quietly for hours after we got home so I could get work done.

Today, when you told your sister she had to give you one of her toys or you would kick her, I didn't scold you hard and say you were violent. I pulled you to the side, and told you that when we only give someone two bad choices, we use our power to take away their power. Two bad choices isn't much of a choice. Then I gave you a second try, and you told your sister you'd like to play with her toys, could you trade for a bit?

Today, when you refused to get your shoes on when it was time to go, I didn't yell or storm you out to the car bare foot. I asked what was wrong, when you said it was my fault, I thought about your week and then asked you if it felt too busy. You said yes, and that you wished everyone in the world would just disappear except you and me. I understood and felt the same way. We cancelled our plans for the next day and spent it watching TV and snuggling instead.

Today, when you screamed at me that I was out of control, because let's be honest, I was borderline out of control as I was so tired and frustrated, I somehow found a deep breath, lowered my voice, and said you were right. I asked you for a time out for my sake, explaining that time outs are breaks to help us be our best, and I was sure I needed one. You gave me one, and after I'd calmed down, I apologized and asked your forgiveness. Hard as I try, I can't seem to make the right choice every time, but I promise to always ask your forgiveness.

Today, when it was hard, I got one piece of it closer to right. I don't always, even usually, but today I did. Today, when it was hard - for you, or for me, I tried to remember that we're in this together and I tried to show you that I love you. And I could tell you were trying, too.

Parenting: Higher Expectations, Less Failing

Early on in motherhood, I had this sneaking suspicion my son was actually much more capable than I was told he was. I also really didn’t want to raise a child who thought he wasn’t capable, so I figured the best way around that was to just treat him as if he were.  This attitude towards parenting is entirely different than overt and excessive praise, extreme statements such as “you’re the best at eating baby cereal!” and engaging my child in a host of extracurricular activities so he can develop his ‘full potential.’

An attitude of capability is instead one that says “ I believe you can, even if you don’t and can’t yet, and I’ll keep believing that you can until you prove otherwise.” It’s an attitude that starts from a position of ‘yes’ or an excited/hopeful ‘maybe!’ rather than a position of  scared/uncomfortable ‘maybe’ or ‘no’.

I’m not the ‘vivid memory’ type, but I distinctly remember a moment where I chose to engage with a ‘yes’ attitude: I was standing in line at a WellsFargo in Pasadena, CA when my son was about 14 months old. I had a piece of trash in my hand, and the garbage can was on the other side of the large room; I handed the piece of trash to my son and said, in a tone of voice as if I were talking to an adult, “can you please go throw this away? The garbage can is across the room, to the left of the coffee stand. It’s black and has a hole in the top.” He took the trash and began toddling away.

A woman looked at me, eyebrows raised, and said in a fairly condescending tone, “don’t you think that’s a bit much?” Now, in my retrospective version of this scene, I say “I just want to say thank you so much for using your ‘no’ attitude with me and my parenting. I feel super supported in young motherhood right now. Not that I need your support, I mean, I totally know what I’m doing. This little fellow came out with a manual.” But I didn’t say any of that. I watched my son toddle confidently away from me, and simply said, “Maybe. We’ll see.”

My vivid memory stops there. I like to think he made it to the garbage can without any assistance, but the point is, it didn’t actually matter. What mattered is I believed maybe he could and he trusted my belief. I gave him a chance to try, and whatever happened next I do know I told him thank you, and that he did such a good job. "Thank you for trying, thank you for helping me, thank you for being brave and walking across this great big room full of strangers, thank you for exploring, and for trusting me when I said “try.”" 

Having higher expectations of our children does not mean asking them to do things children shouldn’t be expected to do like mediate parental conflict, walk themselves to the bus before they are ready, grasp the painful realities of conflict and injustice that permeate our world, or whatever else they clearly aren’t ready to do. Having higher expectation means we let our children show us what they are ready to do before we jump to ‘no’. Higher expectation means we don’t draw the limit of their capabilities without asking for their participation in the process. Higher expectation means choosing to absorb some of the fall-out so they can miss the mark and recognize they have room to grow.

If our children are raised with a ‘no’ mentality ascribed to them, they will have a ‘no’ mindset towards themselves. Even more seriously, if they are raised in an environment where missing the mark is considered a failure, they will be afraid to try, and will assume there is one right way to do something. When there is only one right way to do something, our children stop being curious.

As a gentle aside, I would suggest many of us as adults have concluded there is one right way to do many things, and are subsequently void of curiosity. And I would also suggest an absence of curiosity quickly morphs into fear – and unfortunately, the fear is what our children pick up on most quickly, and embrace as their own, even though it feels such a stranger in their ready-to-explore-and-risk little beings. An absorbed ‘no’ mindset results in these self-conclusions: I am not good enough, the risk is bigger than my potential to recover from or overcome it, someone has the right answer and it’s not me, and so I am so afraid.

Our children will fail, they’ll fail big. How do I know? Well, mine already have, and even more so – I have. I’ve failed huge, fails that take years to begin healing into change and growth. My intent in writing this chapter is not to suggest failures are only opportunities. While I believe just about anything can be redeemed, I also know that sometimes failure just looks like, smells like, tastes like, and feels like failure. Full stop.

But, our children don’t need help recognizing their failures. The world, starting at a very, very young age, has already started labeling their missing the mark as ‘failures full stop.’ You know this is true, because the world has done it to you and me, too (and if we’re honest, sometimes we’re ‘the world’ in this scenario).

But from us, from their parents, our children don’t need help recognizing failure; they need opportunities to try and not succeed. And not succeeding must not be defined as failure, but instead embraced as learning and applauded as courageous curiosity. They need to fall, literally and figuratively. They need to fight, to hurt others (hopefully not too literally) and to be hurt. They need to pour their own milk and cover the floor with it (you can make that as analogous as you want).

And then, absolutely then, they need to be scooped up, told they did well not in spite of missing the mark, but because they tried. They must be taught how to look back and see where micro-goals were met, even when the macro-goals remained elusive. When my babies were little, up until they were about 4, many of our post-injury or post-conflict hugs ended with me setting them on their feet, and with arms still supporting their weight, whispering in their ear, “strong feet, brave heart.”

We have to engage in the world with strong feet and brave heart – to be steady, and know who we are, to have enough confidence in what we know to be true of ourselves that when we fall we know our brave heart will remind our feet just how strong they are. And when our brave hearts quake at the prospects looming ahead, our strong feet will, out of sheer habit, begin walking just in the direction we need to go.

This mindset doesn’t begin in adolescence, or even grade school – it begins in infancy and takes root in toddler years, and I promise it begins to bloom right before your very eyes by the time they are 2.5-3. It’s subtle, like an early spring bloom still hidden by wet leaves from the past fall, but it begins to happen.

Now that my kids are a bit older, we’ve begun to shift a bit towards the next step in this lesson: defining success and accepting our short-comings with intentionality. My son came home from KG the other day and announced, “sometimes kids say mean things to me.” The conversation continued like this:

Me: “yeah? That stinks. What do they say?”

Kai: “they said my drawing was bad.”

Me: “Huh…what did you think of your drawing?”
Kai: “It was bad.”

Me: “Oh. Does it bother you it was bad?” (note – I opted out of the conversation on who defines ‘good’ and ‘bad’, especially when it comes to kg art)

Kai: “No. Not really. I don’t like drawing.”

Me: “Ok. Well, it makes sense to me that if you don’t like drawing, you probably didn’t spent much time on it, right?”
Kai: “yeah”

Me: “if you didn’t spend much time on it, do you think it should be good?”

Kai: “no.”

Me: “well, maybe it’s ok to not have a good drawing. In fact, maybe it’s ok to do a bad drawing, especially if you don’t like drawing. Are there other things you like doing and are good at?”

Kai: “yeah, I’m really good in PE. I usually win the games”

Me: “that’s awesome. Maybe next time the kids say your drawing is bad, you could just shrug and let them know you know, and that it’s ok with you because it’s not something you want to spend a lot of time on. And maybe someday you will want to spend a lot of time on it, but for today, it’s ok to not be good at drawing. I’m not good at physics, or at high jump – I don’t like those things, and so I don’t spend much time on them.”

Kai: “yeah, ok. That’s fine.”

And so we push towards this lesson more and more – you take part in deciding which goals you want to pursue, that you should set high expectations for yourself, and it will take hard work to meet them. 

Step one of the lesson: I am worth a ‘yes’. 

Step two: Missing the mark means I tried, and that’s so good. 

Step three: I get to choose what the goal is, and I choose how hard I work to get there. 

Step four: Step two is super important.

I’m not entirely sure what the next steps will be, but I’m pretty sure they have something to do with recognizing some expectations are determined by others and somewhat non-negotiable. For example: you simply should not get in a car with someone you don’t know. This is non-negotiable. You simply should not steal, or kill people, or say things that undermine the value of another human being. These are non-negotiable. But, at the same time, you get to choose if you make these expectations your own, or if you simply choose to follow the expectations out of fear, or ignore the expectations and endure the consequences of not meeting these expectations.

At this stage in the game, as my kids venture into the broader world and I’m no longer with them, I hope they have learned how to be curious with expectations – to weigh them for their intrinsic and extrinsic value, and intentionally align themselves with expectations of value while discarding all the rest. I surely won’t be able to teach them what their relationship should be to each and every expectation that comes their way from society, others, or even themselves. I’m still figuring out to do with the ones that come my way every day. But I can teach them their engagement with expectation is in fact a relationship, and they have a voice in it.

And I hope, when they come up against these expectations everyday, whether it’s an expectation to look a certain way, or say a certain unkind thing, or look the other way when injustice occurs, or to give up trying out for basketball because someone said they aren’t any good, or to pursue a certain career or life-style that puts a damper on their spirit, I hope deep in their beings, a little voice rises up, reminding them to have higher expectations but less failing as it assuredly whispers, “strong feet, brave heart.”

parenting: spheres in orbit

An email draft I just began to my sons teacher left me in tears. The content was fairly straight forward: "my kid says he's a bit bored in class if he finishes an assignment early. Can I send in a workbook?" Writing it now, just moments later, it seems so simple and so straight forward. But as I typed the email, I found myself stumbling and bumbling over words in my head - my intentions being limited by my vernacular, my fears being flattened to a black and white 2D form where I could see their details more clearly than when they round and create their own shadows.

And then, a habit I've spent the past two years intentionally learning to form sprang to life without me knowing it. For the first time, without conscious effort or thought, I realized the truth driving the fears and the lies: I miss watching my son learn. I miss being his teacher. I miss being the one he enthusiastically reports his successes to.

I know I still do all of those things, and that in some degree I will as long as we're both breathing. But the reality is that for 7 1/2 hours a day, I have passed that baton to others. And as exhausting as the race of young motherhood is, and as much as I enjoy sacred moments such as these to do the things put aside for the past years, it is a bittersweet hand-off. And two months into this baton-passing, I realize my hand still shakes when I reach forward to pass it to the next runner in my son's life.

Parenthood is a hurdling forward sort of endeavor. I've found myself musing on it's complexities more and more as I've watched my babies morph into toddlers grow into preschoolers and leap into kids totting lunchboxes on their way to school. It seems to me, that with many other things in my life, the goal is to grow closer to. Closer to my husband, closer to my dear friends, closer to my siblings, closer to my dreams, to the Truth, to my identity. But parenthood seems this casting out, this hurdling of a ball of light out into space, watching as two objects that morphed from one slowly spin away from each other.

And there is so much immense beauty that occurs in this spinning away - it's how galaxies are formed, it's how we each have found who we are - by journeying out and away. With parenting, though, I think the key is to keep the light shining so brightly from both spinning spheres that no darkness grows between them.

It's the little things that keep the light shining farther and farther as the spheres keep creating distance between themselves. It's the big smiles when I pick him up from the bus - my smile to him causes his light to grow towards me, and with each one-tooth-missing grin he shoots out the bus window, my light grows towards his, too. It's the kisses I give each night before I go to sleep, when they're far away in dreamworld and their foreheads taste like the sea.  It's the apologies we give each other after a fight - rebuilding a stronger light than the one that shone before. It's the trying and the failing, and the trying yet again, all of us, that sends our light out and makes others light grow towards us.

Perhaps, in some ways, we're all spinning away from each other - every being on the planet. But parenthood shows it clearly - that each moment in life is an active choice of letting go and sending light towards, or letting go and sending no light to follow. For all things must be let go at one point or another, and that which is lost, if it's meant to be found, is sweeter once it is re-found, and so the letting go isn't a loss but an eventual gain.

If we send the light out.

I know this may seem like some rambling of words beyond the tangible realities of each day - but the truth is, the tangible realities of each day are a rambling of activities striving to articulate the things our words fail to. Activities striving to communicate the truths we hold, the dreams we're counting on, the hopes we won't dare whisper in case the utterance of them cheapens them back to an attainable thing easily found and just as easily lost.

I hope to be writing more soon. To share with you, whoever you are, wherever you are. But for now, one of my little spheres is about to spin back into my orbit, and I need to go cast my light and watch to see his - because I hope our lights can always be seen by each other, and want to do what I can now so when the lights get harder to send and to see, we have some from today to guide us.

The bus is coming. I have to go.