A New Year

Since the year began I have felt under the gun.  Time melting away, streaming through my fingers so fast it might as well have been made of water, and I found myself feeling so futile, so frustratingly inept, that I merely stared as it did so.  It all felt dictated to me.  My relationships have suffered.  My inner scream coming out to only sound in anger at my kids and not giving voice to the true hurt within me.  Tumult and drama are difficult for me to address up front; diminishment before words are unleashed being my foremost talent.

Affirmations and attestations of love do little when I have retreated behind the wall of safety: self inflicted damage and abandonment.  Control the where and how of the pain.  It will hurt less that way.

It’s a very wretched spot to be in.  And though there might be triggers, might indeed be justified reasons for me hurt, the end result is not one of healing but more self vilification.  Some cycle, eh?

Some of what goes into this is the awareness that so few really get what the experience is of a stay at home mom (SAHM).  Fewer still seem to have a comprehension of what it is to be a homeschooling SAHM.  Add to that the wife of an entrepreneur of two small businesses, mother to a child with celiac disease, and the peer group shrinks still more.

I feel alone most of the time.  Lost too much.  Feeling present is nothing more than a reminder of how very tired I am and how frustrated I am that my only audience is two little people for whom I should be their audience.

That inner voice of mine has wanted to scream so much my jaw hurts with the requirements of my commitment to my children from fighting it.  One year without yelling.  Today was the first day I managed it.

While the part of me that wants approval, support for how very burnt out I am, wishes to give the laundry list of the insane schedule I keep the bigger story lies away from those details.  For those details are not reasons to treat the ones I love most with unthinking cruelty; with outbursts I try to convince my children not to have.  There are no acceptable reasons for them.  There are excuses.  Justifications for being a bully, for causing them fear and using it against them.  It doesn’t matter that the sadism wasn’t/isn’t my intent, only that it’s the result of my arrested development.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic.  Mostly.

You see, at the crux of my frustration is this very deep need of being acknowledged, respected, and appreciated for who I am and what I do.  As a rule I don’t seek approval from my kids – it’s inappropriate and, if you’ve been around a two year old and almost six year old you know this isn’t likely – and so I try to keep at what I love: writing.  Well, that takes time without kids.  I do not have time without kids except for when they’re asleep.  And thus my problem.  Or so I thought.

This week, instead, my family awoke on Thursday to discover my daughter had a sudden limp.  No injury, no trauma that would result in her leg buckling when she put weight on it, and palpating/manipulating the limb resulted in no pain reactions.  None.

Every fear I do my best to keep in the shadows of my mind were thrown into stark relief with the spotlight that stripped it away.  The best I managed was to interrupt every thought that ended with cancer.  Worse.  That my two year old might have it.

To allay your fears let me just say: no she doesn’t.  This was determined after one round with our family doctor (our ND who then referred us to the Children’s Hospital) and about seven hours at the hospital.  Most of that waiting in the waiting room.  Blood tests had been ordered and run, x-rays taken – two rounds – and all came back with negative results.

It was one of the longest days of my life.  One in which the relationship with my husband seemed to find stronger ground and my self awareness and wants did an about face.

I would give up anything and everything if it meant my children would be healthy.

There were no exceptions to this.  At the darkest times when my husband and I were waiting for test results in that little room in the ER I even told him writing didn’t matter.  The kids did.

It is easy to think these words.  Possibilities ripe with horror or relief waiting and warring to see which would come to pass have a tendency of creating momentary change in the best of circumstances or for those who experience the horror that change is necessarily permanent.

We are lucky.  It was not to be that my daughter be diagnosed with something fatal, but instead we were gifted with a peace of mind and what will be a very large hospital bill.  This relief created a new awareness for me beyond all the superficiality of what I would do (everything) and what I wouldn’t do (nothing) for my kids to be healthy.  A mental list of what I would regret formed along side the things I wouldn’t/didn’t.

I would never regret holding my children.  Never think I did it too much.  Instead, thinking of having empty arms made me know there would never be too much of this good touch – always the want of doing more.

I would always regret scaring my children.  Making them fear me, causing their justified anger and/or resentment.  Hurting them is optional and it’s something I wish to never do again.

I would never regret co-sleeping.  Those night time cuddles, the assurance of rolling over and feeling and smelling the warmth and exhalations of those (not so small) warm bodies, the knowledge that when they awake at night and need comfort it can be had without disruption.  That my son, who used to have nightmares, now says how he never has bad dreams anymore.

I will always regret rushing them.  Making them feel bad (or angry with me) for taking the time to sort out their thoughts, to explain to me in their own words what their observations or feelings are about a situation.  The space these negative experiences I inflict upon them I likewise always regret.

I will never regret quiet moments of story telling or having a cup of tea at Canterlot Castle.

I will never regret saying “I love you” several times a day because these are words I can only hope I communicate so often that they can take them for granted.

I will always regret when I tell them “a few more minutes” as I tend to technology.  For it is another moment I treated something/someone else as more important than them.  And there isn’t.

I will never regret breastfeeding my child until she was ready to ween.  That it is natural and beautiful; a place of steadiness and comfort as well as nourishment especially in times of stress.

I would always regret hitting my children.  To have caused fear and pain instead of teaching the strength in kindness and empathy.  That respect is not the same as fear; love does not require fear in order to be had.

Love is its own ends.  Perfectly justified and everyone is worthy of it.

With this fresh in my heart I renewed my vow to work on a year of not yelling.  Tonight at bedtime I asked my almost six year old son if I had yelled – I thought I had – and he said no and that it was good I hadn’t.  It was the only encouragement I needed to continue into another day and adding more days to that goal.  One day of no yelling.  One day of not causing fear.  One day where more distance wasn’t created.  One day where the cuddles weren’t to soothe, but to enjoy each other’s company.

Just as I know that one day will come when I will not see or be with my children every day, that those days are fast approaching even during the slow days of tantrums and illness, I know that the things I won’t regret have everything to do decisions I made from the love I bear them.

The Innate Wisdom of a Spirited Five Year Old

While learning is all around us there is no place that highlights my own issues – as a parent and simply as an individual – quite like the playground.  When I’m there I have a chance to see so many other families, how they interact with their kids, and how the kids interact with other.  Some days I have the opportunity to behold my son doing a pick up game of imagination with others as my littlest runs around and tests her mettle and strength against all obstacles on the playground.  Even the one meant for kids older than five years old (she can climb most of it and go solo down the slides).  

I learn from each child and their experiences there by forcing myself to observe as much as possible, but it is in watching my oldest and the other kids he tries to play with sometimes wherein so much of my learning and nail biting comes from these days.  The helicopter parents, getting between my son and their’s – ensuring conversation was discouraged through simply ignoring the kid running around and being incredibly outgoing- was a difficult one for me to swallow today.  That this happened with a few different sets of kids and parents alike was a little offputting.  Through all my relative solitude seeking tendencies it never dawns on me to stop my child from playing with another UNLESS I see an unprovoked meanness being displayed by another child.  Don’t get me wrong, I certainly fall into that coaching tendency all too much sometimes, but I do not block simple interactions with other kids.

My first reaction in seeing these parents was one of hostility.  It’s hard to not be frustrated in seeing that these individuals, inadvertently or not, communicate callousness/discourtesy as a way of life.  That it is my child who is learning of its receipt while these other children are seeming to learn to fear simple play and interactions with kids they don’t already know is a form of hurt.  I want to protect – terribly – and instead have to sit with the knowledge that there are some social cues he’s simply going to have to learn from experience and often times some hurt is involved.  The best I can do is support him in the lessons as he learns and articulates them.  

But I can’t help but be left with the concern of how these children will grow up fearing others, fearing “those” people outside their predetermined circles, and mourn a little.  There is nothing particularly good being taught there.  Rather it perpetuates the ills so many people rail about online.  Treating people who are “different” with fear or with intent to segregate.  Ostracize.  There are certain demographics that people currently rally around; whatever is politically defined as a minority.  These titles still encourage labeling and still acts as a way of discouraging thinking of each person as an individual.  People without titles or labels who don’t mesh with what we are used to socially/politically are left out.  

Many people have felt the sting of this separateness.  This seeming punishment for being nothing other than their genuine self is just that – a way of teaching conformity, of rewarding certain constructs of thought and behavior REGARDLESS of its ethics (or lack thereof) so long as it’s what EVERYONE ELSE DOES.  It is about destruction.  Destruction of the spirit of each individual by promising the lie of acceptance; that you can have it so long as you are not yourself.

My oldest handled individuals like this at the playground in much the way I still do – go over to the swings with people he trusts (me or his father) and play with them/by himself; an almost solitude of comfort.  And so he did until a little boy seemed friendly and outgoing, the father allowing play to happen organically as we did, at which point he took off and engaged in an hour long spontaneous play session that involved imaginary play and much cooperative efforts on some of the tougher obstacles.

Through that roller coaster couple of hours I realized something about myself: One doesn’t have to take in the actions of others, no matter how unthinkingly cruel or rude, as a personal affront.  That these issues are their’s and their’s alone despite how it might impact others.  My son seems to know this and simply goes about finding the best way he can to return to his play and his joy; that not all people are like this he discovers as he starts up new conversations, hopeful.  Such a lesson I have only begun to learn.  And I’m learning it in a playground from my five year old.  

 

Old habits die hard if indeed they die at all.

Too often I’ve caught myself in some sort of sadistic or masochistic loop lately.  That horrific moment when I realize the voice coming out of my mouth isn’t mine, the words aren’t ones I would consciously decide to use, and then the words coming back at me from my child are ones I would only dare think as a kid.  And then the horrid realization that I defend the wretched notion that “he should not be saying such things” because “if *I* had said something like that when I was his age…” comes right out and smacks me in the face good and proper and, sad to say, in much the manner I believe I deserve.

Regardless of all my ardent support of peaceful parenting, knowing that positive reinforcement is the way to go, there are moments I find myself taking on a flippant/derisive tone or all out yelling if the situation seems to merit (pushing the toddler over with five year old feet certainly being one such instance).  Not that the yelling solves anything mind you – really it has no agreeable benefit.  The quick outburst hurts my throat and either scares my oldest (albeit briefly) or I immediately get greeted with violence and anger.  Which, again, I feel I fully deserve for being a menace to him.  Needless to say this exacerbates things on another level as well – my drive to punish myself for sins (such that they are) having been committed against my children leaves me vulnerable to accepting violence being done to me quite readily all while trying to rid myself of the inner voice that is aching to fight back to save or defend myself.  A justified righteousness in the violence I contain within me.

This leaves me being tied up with ropes pulling the binds in two different directions simultaneously.  One part pulling me toward the powerful draw of punishing and the other a guilt racked self demanding I punish myself for such thoughts/feelings.  Until recently nowhere in my emotional travels have I found a ready knife to cut my way through the binds.  Binds *I* managed to wrap myself in.  If my therapist were alive today he’d probably give me a pat on the back for that awareness while giving me a hug and some gentle encouragement to explore both the guilt and the limited view of self power coming in the form of violence.  Instead of applause or accolades (two things I definitely don’t deserve) I’d rather have a daiquiri.

Yesterday, however, I had neither a daiquiri or applause when I had a break through of sorts.

It was a rather horrible battle in my house – although I feel certain that my emotional recollection is far worse than the course of actual events- revolving around my son declaring he’d rather be stinky than take a shower.   You see – he prefers baths and we didn’t have time for that.  Lots of threats were made and, in the end, hubby and I both decided it’s our son’s body and so he’ll have to live with the consequences of his actions.  In this case it’s no coming into Mama and Dada’s bed in the middle of the night (seriously – he’s stinky).  He’s now chosen this course of action two days in a row and it’s getting easier for me to take this in stride.  The drive to control, to make him do what I know is better, is huge but ultimately teaches nothing when exercised other than forcing my son to do with his body what I tell him.  Not exactly a lesson I think he should learn.

But back to that moment.  That one crystal clear moment where I got *it*.  Anger and rage were running through me, the typical blend of self loathing and violence, when I realized a power I had not really gotten before: responsibility.  It was my choice to let such battles define my relationship with my kids, to be tyrant and make them bow to my will OR I could choose to lead and encourage better choices and bodily autonomy by constantly reaffirming it is his body and, even if I don’t want to be so close to him when he’s stinky I’ll still love him.  It seems as though the only knife that worked for cutting the ropes in this double bind had self ownership on the handle.

There’s no doubt in my mind that all issues of power for children comes from the need to find out how much they have as well as making sure they will still be loved.  While I may wish that kids didn’t find ways of unerringly finding the chink in the armor of my resolve to peaceful parenting and unconditional love there seems to be a very large gift in return for being open to the lessons such events bring with them.  Sometimes the lessons are easy, sometimes not, but the lessons are sure to benefit the entire family.

 

 

In the beginning…

I don’t know when it happened, if it was one event or moment or simply a step off the well worn and plotted path I had perceived for myself, I simply know it did.  I lost myself.  If indeed I had ever found myself.  It was only recently as I discussed the nature of being a stay at home and homeschooling mother to my husband, a man who works entirely too much, that I realized how close I was to a breakdown.  And by breakdown I mean ready to run away from my life and all that was in it – including my children.

As a person who prides herself not only for her masochism, but her ability to forever work like a clydesdale it was almost shocking.  The need to rant, cry, scream, say cruel things were horrifyingly part of my every day stream of thought and, on those really bad days, became words spoken or yelled.  Frustrations at being left alone so much with my never tired or sleeping children and no mental silence were simply taking their toll.  A toll I had blissfully been ignoring the existence of with the help of our new found extended cable package.

All things I had loved to do – read, write, dance, play music – were gone.  I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed with my kids.  The last time I felt like I mattered for anything more than a conduit for my children’s learning and nutritional needs (a pacifier more than I liked thanks to teething).  Even when I attempted to write again there was this sick need for approval and so I’d go running off to my husband asking him to proofread my material hoping his discerning eye wouldn’t catch the occasional shoddy narrative and simply drip praise lavishly into my lap.  Heaven knew I didn’t warrant it for the son who seemed bent on my destruction.  After all – if I were being hit I had done something to warrant that, right?  And when I calmly sent him to his room the calls of how he wished he’d never see me again – well, they were my fault, too.

I’m hoping some of this will be gone soon – the discovery made that perhaps this uncontrollable violence is related to blood sugar as it always happens at the same time of day – but the pain is how invested I now feel in the abuse.  That I *have* done something to warrant it regardless of my attempts at peaceful parenting.  And that subsequently I do not deserve the positive attention I do get occasionally.

Within all of this turmoil, the trauma and work load, I found that I no longer know who I am.  That every paradigm shift I’ve experienced in the last year or so – since having my youngest – has resulted in all previous truths of self to have been destroyed and no foundation rebuilt.  Every piece of what I now held as truth and with great value was left floating in the breeze.

This blog is my place to be honest with myself about all the emotional and philosophical experiences that are shaping who I am and, hopefully, leading me to a place of peace and self acceptance.