A River Runs Through It

I never really think of myself as particularly "artistic," mainly because when I draw or paint with my three year old son, well let's just say I haven't progressed much in my rendering ability since my childhood. But, I've recently begun to realize I tend to think in pictures. When I'm having discussions with people, and I'm articulating my point, I usually have distinct metaphorical images in my mind.

Today as I was explaining the place that I now find myself in with my oldest child, images of water swirled in my brain. In the past, particularly while I have navigated post-partum depression, parenting has felt like the ocean for me: vast, unknowable, unending, with forceful waves relentlessly pursuing me at the shore, threatening to tug me under.

But, at the moment we have reached this place where things have evened out for both myself and my son, and parenting doesn't feel so much like the ocean, as it does a river: twisting, always surprising, where I will at times find roaring and frightening rapids with jagged unseen rocks to navigate, only to find just around the bend a serene and smooth stretch, where I regain a sense of wonder, and peace, and I can rest. Presently, I'm floating seemingly effortlessly along with the current. I'm blissfully in the moment, not fretting about what has come before, nor nervously anticipating the geography of the landscape ahead.

While an ocean indiscriminately covers and conceals the terrain, its depths largely unmapped, its tides powerful and unceasing, a river is a different force; a river changes the surface of the terrain. A river has a plan, that flexes to the land, but doggedly pursues its end to create a "wide, flat valley where it can flow smoothly towards the ocean."

In those moments of peace as I am carried by the smooth waters of motherhood, I appreciate the grooves and valleys that the River has carved, and marvel at the steady force that has reshaped the topography, leveling mountains in its wake. In those peaceful meanders I restore myself for the rougher waters ahead.

Photo by Jim's outside photos

A Constant Gardener

My husband likes to say, "track-record, track-record," when referring to the true nature of people. Many times I protest that he is being overly cynical, but I have to concede that often times he is correct. My track record is that I am a "serial starter," but not always a faithful “finisher." This probably causes me the most angst when I'm trying to find my way, whether that is figuring out how to parent, or how to realize my intentions and goals. I often feel frustrated that the bloom of enthusiasm can so easily wither on the vine. The metaphor is apt, because without care and tending, what started out with so much potential can be allowed to degrade and ultimately die out. As a mother, that keeps me awake at night, fretting over every misstep and implication of my bumbling through the daily challenges of raising my children. But surprisingly it isn't a given, and this gives me great hope.

We are blessed with a large and beautiful backyard. Our house needs a lot of TLC, but we bought the place because we could see our kids in this backyard. While we have sacrificed and scrimped a lot to be here, and to live our lives according to our values, one of the luxuries we allow ourselves for now is a gardening service. The gardener, and his father before him, has taken care of this yard since the original owner, and each occupant has kept him on. I have a little plot within our larger backyard where we like to plant flowers and herbs. The gardener largely leaves this area to our whims. Once, as a gift to me, my husband made a detailed plan and planted several carefully selected varieties. We tended it well for a good deal of time, but nevertheless over time, our attention drifted, and some things flourished while others did not survive. We blamed this on our lack of a carefully disciplined approach to tending the area. If we had tried harder, and held ourselves more accountable, things would have turned out better we scolded ourselves.

Once, someone gave me a mini rose bush, and we planted it there. We had planted at least one other before, that died, but we put another out there nevertheless. We didn't really over think it, just planted it and let it grow. This weekend, out on the porch, while enjoying the first of the beautiful spring weekends to come with my children, I noticed, really noticed, that the rose bush had grown and thrived. My husband told me that the gardener often goes and tends the bush, even when we are not being as attentive as we should. It seems he simply cannot help himself.

It gives me hope that even when we get lost and inattentive, there is a constant gardener looking out for our little rose bushes.

The photo is mine. Please ask permission for reproduction.

Inside Voice(s): Sometimes It Gets A Little Loud and Crowded

I had one of those snarky interior dialogue moments today talking with another mother (well actually more listening, she was doing most of the talking), where I thought to myself, "Well, don't YOU just have it ALL figured out..." Thankfully, my inner editor was on the job and saved me from uttering this pretty rude observation. My inner moralizer also popped up to chastise me (always quick to join the fray) , and helpfully explain to me, myself, and I, that I was just jealous about what I perceived to be someone who was having an easier time of it. Then the inner rationalizer joined the party upstairs (it gets kinda crowded in my head sometimes) and started picking away at the conversation by pointing out the challenges this woman lacked (and I have). Truly, I wanted to tell them all to go to...well, you can finish that sentence.

The part of the conversation that really pricked a nerve (aside from that this child ate ALL vegetables and fruits, rarely if ever eats ANYthing from a box, has never had A PIECE of candy, apparently never has had a sniffle, sleeps PERFECTLY, AND doesn't act up EVER) was when I was commenting that my son and I share a passionate nature and have, um, a temper. To this she speedily responded oh no, not her, she just isn't "emotional." Evidence of this offered was that she and her husband have never in their thirteen years together...fought...ever. Now this woman is really pretty sweet, honestly, and on most days I find her chatter pretty non-ire inspiring, but today I am feeling, well, a little emotional and I had the most unseemly urge to duct tape her. I was in no mood. You can imagine the uproar caused upstairs in the critic's loft from that particular thought.

It went down hill from there (inside my head). We parted ways a little while later, and I proceeded to try and not become irrationally irritated navigating my son through the grocery store with his own little cart he so so loves to push all by himself. On the way out as two wine bottles narrowly missed being strewn across the floor, my emotions and nerves were shot, and I chalked it up as one more day I needed to go home, pull some of my manuals down and remind myself how to raise my passionate and emotional kid without murdering him myself first, and hating myself.

Don't mind me, I'm just being emotional.

Photo by brogananneramm

Depression is Not a Life Sentence for Your Children (I Pray)

Recently an article in the Los Angles Times reported, "Evidence is mounting that growing up with a depressed parent increases a child's risk for mental health problems, cognitive difficulties and troubled social relationships." This is one of my greatest fears. That's because in my own experience I know this to be true. As I read this article, it definitely struck a chord for me. It's something I worry about often, and in those moments when I fail to hold it together as a parent grappling with my own demons, I beat myself up stridently for this reason.

Depression runs in families. I am certain that my father has suffered from undiagnosed and largely untreated depression for most of his life, and I suspect that it started very early on. He had a troubled relationship with his father, whom he idolized, but had a difficult time connecting with. Things got to the point that my grandfather took him to a therapist with the goal of finding out why my father "hated him." The therapist worked with my father, and ultimately told my grandfather that his son did not hate him, and in fact worshiped him, and helped the two to ultimately have what my dad described as "a wonderful rediscovered relationship." But this new found father and son connection was tragically arrested when my grandfather had a massive heart attack and died when my dad was barely 14 years old.

In the years that I've known my dad he has been prone to intense anger, has at times been both verbally and physically abusive, and has fallen into deep periods of hopelessness, punctuated by terrifying threats of suicide. My husband doesn't quite grasp my aversion to the guns he enjoys in a sporting fashion. My father always had a sawed off shot-gun just under his sweaters on the top shelf of his closet, and I believed that he could and would use it at any moment growing up as a child. Guns represent violence and insecurity to me.

As I age, I also suspect that my mother also suffered, and continues to suffer from depression. But she manifests it very differently. She withdraws from everyone and everything. She prefers to give her care and attachment to animals, with whom she has a deep connection and a beautiful gift for healing. To this day, my mother largely remains a mystery to me. Whereas my father, a deep lover of history, regaled me (repeatedly) with stories of his life, when I would ask my mother about hers, she would vaguely and flatly tell me she "didn't remember." I remember looking at photos of my mother as an obviously spunky and stunningly beautiful young woman, making up the stories that I knew were there, feeling very hurt that she chose not to share them with me.

My parents are both still living, but I consider myself all but orphaned. They emotionally abandoned me long before I physically left them. That's how it feels to me anyway, although I know they disagree. We don't have any kind of functional relationship now. This is largely their choice. For years, I stayed silent about how I felt about their distance and estrangement from me, fearing that they would completely cut off what little relationship we did have. That was until this year, just after the birth of Little Kidlet, whom they have yet to meet.

I finally, in the twilight of my thirties, had mustered the courage to tell them how much it hurt me to be estranged from them, to not know what was happening with them unless I made it my business to find out, and to ask them why they didn't seem interested in their grandchildren, let alone their only child?

It was my fear realized. My mother flatly rejected that they had not expressed care and concern as parents, that if anything happened to them, "I would be contacted," and that if I needed them to tell me that they thought about me, or loved me, then the problem was mine. End of discussion. As I sat on the phone (on speaker so my husband could hear) trying to control my body shaking sobs, my father tried to soften the precise blows just delivered by my matter of fact mother. But, we have not spoken since that day. I periodically send them updates about the boys, but that is the extent of our relationship. I can't manage much more at this point. Looking at it now, and the timing of that conversation, it factors as a trigger for the depression I'm now moving through.

Instinctively I know they do not mean to hurt me, but it doesn't lessen the pain of feeling unwanted. My ninety-plus grandmother, who always sees the bright side of things (how else to survive losing your husband, and raising two teenage boys alone, put them through college, and live to be the last of your immediate family), sees the fact that they don't contact me (or her for that matter) as their attempt to protect me. And I guess she has a point; they must know that I was and am miserable in their world, and was happy to leave it. I do consider the day I left home for good at nineteen, as an escape from the frequent and explosively angry arguments between them, fear, and sadness that was pervasive in their home. I returned briefly a few years ago to help nurse my father after a surgery, and I could barely breathe before I was able to get back to my life again.

I work a lot in my prayer and biblical study trying to give them and myself grace for this. It is really only through the lens of my own depression that I can even attempt to do that, to understand how you would want to shield your children from your own darkness and despair.

Reading about the effects on children identified in the article, "learned helplessness," resonated, but not in the way many would think. It is true that from my experience of my father's expression of his depression, I felt, and feel the lure of fatalistic helplessness, of succumbing to the belief that no matter what I do, I am not able to "fix it." But from my mother's expression of her depression, I learned a complete revulsion of helplessness (she often complained about this fact scathingly regarding my father). I learned that if you wanted to fix something you had to do it yourself, and if you failed, you only have yourself, and your weakness to blame. This leads me to the feelings of shame that I am not somehow

"strong enough" to, as my mother would say, "grunt and bear it." She never had any patience for my intense sensitivity and tendency to cry, and secretly, neither do I. I fight that feeling myself now at times as a mother, and focus on being a "soft place to fall" when my emotional toddler is melting down.

But even though it runs in families, it's not a foregone conclusion according to the findings this article reports. The overarching theme of the article is that the effects of a parent's depression on their children is to a degree combatible. The article states: "Studies suggest, for example, that changing destructive parenting practices and teaching children good coping strategies can make a big, positive difference in kids." This is a main driver behind why I attachment parent. I understand how being insecure in your relationship with your parents, from the very beginning, can lead to a profound insecurity in oneself and one's relationships with others. I know how exerting my need to control, and not setting up parameters of true respect between parent and child, can alienate and estrange them, and ultimately not equip them well to make good decisions for themselves, or worse make them fearful to make decisions at all.

As one mother who grapples with depression shared in the article: "My son is a lot more prone to worry and anxiety. He struggles with big, big feelings. He feels things on a very deep, empathetic level and is so affected by the feelings of others." Another in the comments on the article explained the extreme "empathy" they (and I to) developed as a "defense mechanism" because of the need to "tailor one's activities to the parents 'mood of the moment.'"

That hit the nail on the head of what I experienced and I worry what my own swinging emotions and moods are already doing to my nearly three year old. He shows he is sensitive to my moods, and tells me "I be a nice boy, mama" in particularly tense moments between us when he realizes he has pushed me and I show him I have been provoked. Sometimes this breaks my heart. I know how scary that can be for a kid. He doesn't need to twist and turn himself to make his mama happy, and I shouldn't make him feel that way!

The findings about the physiological effects of depression on a child's growing brain are particularly chilling as well. You are literally influencing the growth of their brains, long after they leave your physical body.

I figure that with this knowledge, both of my self and my struggles, as well as the effects it can have, I need to parent in the best possible way to counteract it. As the author also writes, ""Not only do children fare better if they are taught not to blame themselves for a parent's depression, they also flourish when caregivers can give them plenty of attention, says Beardslee."

I often write about my faith and God, and what place does God have in all this for me? The answer is a lot. Although faith was absent in my parents house, I was exposed as a young child, and have never lost that deep sense of connection, one I can't always explain. In my darkest moments, God was and is a constant for me. Many people that grow up in unstable homes easily fall into addictions and substance abuse. While I had other issues, I never ventured, nor wanted to venture in that direction. Frankly, I think I feared the lack of control. But, I also felt "guided," for lack of a better term.

When I worry about these issues, I am reminded that before I was my parents' child, I was God's child, and the same is true of my children. So another "coping mechanism," in fact what I believe to be a truth, I will teach my children is that they are loved well and wholly, even when mommy doesn't do such a great job of it. They are not here to complete, fix, or reflect me, but to live out the love and purpose that God has for them, and them alone. I am not the true compass of their lives, God is.

As an adult and a parent that has made plenty of mistakes, I also find hope and comfort for myself in my faith, and especially when encountering this challenge of circumstance and biology. It is a daily exercise in trust for me. Trust that I am intended to be just who I am, that my trials and triumphs have purpose, and that I am loved in my brokenness.

So, bottomline, I believe that depression can be encountered and combated for myself and my children. Just because I struggle doesn't mean that they cause it, or are doomed to also, but I will continue to work to try and protect them from the darkness, by showing them a light out, and showing how their mama fights through it, with every breath I have. God willing.

I always appreciated this iconic photo from the Great Depression, housed at the Library of Congress, but as a mother I "get" it.

Defusing the A-nger Bomb

The common saying is so disappointingly true, "you always hurt the one you love."

A lyric by the Mills Brothers referenced in an journal abstract captures it well:

You always hurt the one you love, the one you should not hurt at all;

You always take the sweetest rose, and crush it till the petals fall;

You always break the kindest heart, with a hasty word you can't recall;

So if I broke your heart last night, it's because I love you most of all.

I need to hit the "reset" button; I'm in a rut. I need to find a way to jettison the trained responses of my childhood coupled with the missteps of my adulthood, and chart a new road previously untaken with my kids.

I guess the biggest practice I can think to take each and every day is challenge myself in my most vulnerable moments, and ask: "who am I really angry with?" Nine times out of ten I would venture to say that it's not the kid in front of me.

I may have to revise that assessment when they are teenagers I realize.

Photo by gilesclement

The Checkout Line: Bread, Milk, Cheese, Self Worth

I don't know if this is your experience, but I tend to reach for my writing pen, virtual or otherwise, most often when I'm not in a good place. I think overall it's to find a place to vent it, to look at it a little closer (read: over analyze it with a view towards blowing it into an international incident), or just to hear myself yell. It doesn't take a psychoanalyst to puzzle out why I use this device--as a kid if I uttered what I was really thinking and feeling I was liable to get smacked. Hence, railing somewhat uselessly at the blank page commenced early on. Nevertheless, the fact that I feel like I'm bitching so much really rankles me. Yes, I'm bitching, about bitching.

For many years now I've had an etched plaque with a saying that has sustained me through many a rough patch. In fact, when my husband and I were in our early relationship, going through some pretty world rocking stuff, I fairly drove him nuts with each and every utterance of this sage advice: "Very little is needed to make a happy life. It is all within yourself, in your way of thinking." I'm sure he appreciated hearing it repeatedly very much, but we survived it, so, annoying--yes, but also useful. What you choose to give your attention to does often determine the direction of your life.

So today I want to bitch and moan about some pretty trivial, but nevertheless making me angst ridden stuff, but I choose to write about something else.

Today, I took Big Kidlet on a walk and I needed to go to the grocery store afterwards. He's not a nightmare in a grocery store, but it's pretty much like wheeling around a wild motormouth octopus some days. I've resolved to let up the reins a bit now that he's approaching three and is exhibiting some better listening skills, and a modicum of impulse control. In other words there is a slight stutter step while he thinks about it before he runs into traffic; a glimmer of a reasonable being is emerging. It's not easy for me. Did I mention that my mother thinks that really there was no problem using a dog run as a playpen when I was a kid? Yes, my example has been a clear owner/owned kind of paradigm, so although I resist it, I have to school the instincts every living day as I make my way through early parenthood.

Anyway, so back to the grocery store. As we approach the store he asks/tells me that he wants to "walk himself" today inside the grocery store. Previously my response pretty much can be summed up as an automatic with alacrity, brooking no argument whatsoever, "no way, no how, not gonna happen." But, these days I'm being a lot more aware of when I decide not to let him try simply because it might be a huge hassle for me. I'm looking long term these days. So I said, "sure, with a few ground rules," which we took a moment to review before we entered. To mark the occasion, I led him over to the "customer-in-training" mini shopping carts, which I previously had jealously eyed when other cute little children sedately (to my eyes) wielded them through the aisles after their (to my eyes) relaxed parents, and regarded as absolutely unrealistic in my lifetime for my spirited little boy. I can't describe the look on his face. I wish I could have a snapshot of it to remind myself each time I decide that he can't do something.

Aside from having a minor coronary every time he came in range of a wine bottle display (seriously this place seemed like it was wall-to-wall wine bottles!), he more or less walked behind me, full of pride, as I placed our groceries in his basket. It was a thing of beauty. He proudly stood in line , handed the groceries to the checker, and generally looked to stand about a foot taller.

It was a good lesson. For today that plaque in my mind says: "Very little is needed to make a happy kid, it's all within themselves, when they are allowed to try, and know they can."

Funny, all those little bitchy things I wanted to write down are like vivid dreams that become hazier and a vague echo upon waking and getting on with it. And my day with my kids has been a lot easier.

• Macro Goal: Be present for my kids, and do some personal remodeling.
• Micro Goal: Be aware that I and my kids are what I choose to focus on. Try and focus not on how much my kids need to test their boundaries can be a pain in my tuckus, but on how great it is that they don't have fear to do so.

Photo by beardenb

Breaking Up The Pity Pinball Party

"If Mama ain't happy, ain't nobody happy."

The old adage is so very true, and more than a little grammatically painful for me to utter. One thing I hear repeatedly from my fellow friends who are mothers is how easy and detrimental it is to continually put yourself last. In my case, sometimes it becomes a weapon of (self) destruction: overtired martyr mom. Run for the hills people, it's not pretty. This week, in a fit of maternal exhaustion and frustration I told my husband that I felt like a giant pinball machine as a parent. Of course I had to describe the game I was visualizing to my husband in the throes of my tantrum, because my completely spun out brain couldn't remember the name of the dammed thing. That's a whole other post: Mommy Brain. But Mommy Brain on full tilt meltdown is a thing of unparalleled dark humor if you stop to actually listen to yourself. Honestly, I don't know how my husband holds it together listening to me sometimes.

The pinball metaphor is especially apt for me. When my husband plays pinball, he is strategic and focused on his timing when flipping those paddles to keep that little ball in play. And while he is fully engaged and wants to win, he doesn't sweat it when one ball drops through the slot. Now me on the other hand, I start off carefully and tensely flipping those paddles, but as time goes on and I get more and more frustrated, I start pressing those buttons wildly and fiercely. That's usually when the ball usually shoots straight down the chute and I don't even get a flipper on it. Game over.

Mothering small children and infants is intense, at least it is for me. While I practice attachment parenting and support its principles, I struggle with balancing my own needs. I jealously watch my husband disappear to the shooting range, and lets face it, the office a lot of days, and envy him what I imagine to be an escape. But at the same time, the thought of not being with my kids daily literally makes me lose my breath. I chose this path, I still choose it, even when I'm ready to get in the car and drive away. But it's really easy to become hyper-focused and let a lack of self care snowball into a ball of exhaustion fueled resentment that I'm sure my little ones don't understand, and my husband certainly doesn't appreciate.

Tonight I took a break, and it was good. I returned from an evening with friends, and I didn't dwell on the fact that my five month old was still awake, I could once again appreciate that he was really eager to see me and be held BY ME. I am the center of his world right now, and for now I am OK with that.

• Macro Goal: Self renovation and repair
• Micro Goal: Take a mommy break a least once per week to restore sanity

Photo courtesy of Rev. Xanatos Satanicos Bombasticos (ClintJCL)

A heavy-hearted Mommy day

I only have ten minutes to write. but I have something to get off my chest...

I fear I'm screwing up my kid.

Why? Because I somehow neglected to deal with all my "stuff" before he was born, and now, poor kid, he's along for the ride and suffers from some of it to. I feel like he deserves so much more than me as a mother.

I feel that it's my fault that he still is pushing other kids. I feel it's my fault when I go to pick him up from his care program after my weekly Bible study and I get those resigned looks, and those reports of how "he didn't have a good day." I feel like sinking into the floor holding his little hand as he stands there and hears his mom given a report of his difficulties in the room. I want to simultaneously hug him hard and tell him not to take it personally, that I know his heart and he is not a bad little kid. I also want to shake him hard and tell him to just please quit it and follow the program like all the other kids.

I read what I've just written, and I see the prevalence of "I." What about him, what can I do for him so he isn't cast forevermore as the "difficult one."

This is where it gets really really hard.

My ten minutes are up, and now it's time to go figure it out, one minute at a time.

Show Don't Tell

Actions speak louder than words.

I had one of those "I'm a crap mother" days today. I've had an uncomfortable number of those lately. You know the ones: when you finally get your kid into bed and you feel about as good about yourself and your mothering as disgusting gum on the bottom of your shoe, and have a strong impulse to get yourself into the confessional booth (even though you're not Catholic), and better yet, if they could flog you a little bit, you feel that would be richly deserved. Yeah, that kind of day.

I wish I could simply say, "that's life with a nearly three year old," but I fear that places the blame in the wrong place. Sure, my kid is a "spirited" toddler, with a wicked stubborn streak (wonder where he got that from), but honestly, he's a good kid. He's really sweet-natured. He just wants me to show him that I'm interested in him and what he's doing. When he doesn't get that enough, he finds ways to get my attention, any attention will do.

Now visualize that old Ram truck commercial, where two rams crash violently into each other. Yeah, it was that kind of day.

Tonight at dinner, when my kid flung food on the floor (again), and said the obligatory "sorry, Mommy," after much cajoling from his dad, I told him, I'm ashamed to say more than a little passive aggressively, "actions speak louder than words." If he was really sorry, he wouldn't do it anymore. Gee, great job Mom! When you had him repeat the words back to you, and he got stuck on the word "louder," and each time you said "louder" trying to get him to say it, he just kept repeating "speak" in a louder voice, that should have been a clue.

Yeah mom, actions DO speak louder than words!

I sat by his crib tonight and apologized, held his hands, and told him I loved him.

He forgave me with his words. I hope his actions tell me he truly forgives his very flawed mom.

• Micro goal: I will spend more one on one time with Big Kidlet
• Macro goal: I will show him I love him as much as I tell him I love him

Photo Courtesy of fudj