On Scarlett O'Hara, Attachment Parenting, and Prayer

Oh Scarlett O'Hara in all her crazed and delusional glory would be so very proud of me. I've been "After all...tomorrow is another day"-ing myself silly these last few weeks. We, and by "we," I mean Big Kidlet and I, have hit a mother of a rough patch and we are keeping our seats, but just barely. Each day as the sun sets, I resolve to try again the next day to navigate the deep and treacherous ruts on this particular fork of the road we find ourselves on, and not fall prostrate in the mud, thrashing and flinging it all about (metaphorically speaking of course, but hopefully you get the picture).

I should preface the rest that follows with the statement that I am a praying woman of faith. At this point I'm not so much an "evangelical" in my Christian faith, as I am a "searcher." I don't pretend to have the answers, nor do I discount the wisdom of other traditions. However, for me, since I was a small child, Jesus has always been there--He just makes sense. Never more tested has my faith been than in the difficult moments with my children, so you will understand me when I say that this morning, it was literally by the grace of God that we made it.

Big Kidlet's trigger to full scale, intensely angry, meltdowns is very very fine at the moment, as is mine frankly. As closely as I can tell, the novelty of Little Kidlet's arrival has definitely worn off, and behaviors I was relieved to not have seen early on, such as trying to hit his little brother, have emerged when he is in the throes of a temper tantrum. I get this much clearly...the little man is really pissed off when he has to do just about anything any other way than he decides to do it. Control, oh brother do I get it, he doesn't like being controlled. One of these days he'll come to the fundamental question of life that I encountered as a young college student, studying Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales: "do we act of our own free will, or are we acted upon?" Ah, I could go on about that for an age, but I'll spare you.

This morning was going fairly peacefully, and we shared a rare private breakfast together while Little Kidlet slept in. We were on track for an on-time departure for my weekly mother's Bible study and his playschool program. I'm not exaggerating when I say that I have literally been counting the days and hours until this precious break; things have been rough and it is truly something I do for me that keeps me sane. The peace was broken when he was not invited (allowed) to come into our bedroom to bounce around and all over a just awakened Little Kidlet (that's a lot of energy to handle two seconds after waking up for an adult, never mind an infant). What followed was akin to what I think it might feel like to be caught in the whirling edges of a tornado, in other words, it royally sucked. No royalty is to lowly, I'd venture to say it biblically sucked. We needed God. Right. That. Second.

And that's what I did. I prayed fervently to God to still our hearts, and minds, and voices, and hands, and show us what to do. Although my son had been previously protesting that under no circumstances would he a. let me change his stinking-to-high-heaven diaper nor b. accompany me to Bible playschool, and we were so hopelessly late, so that it was highly doubtful that there would be room for him anyway, a voice urged me to try, to leave the house, and on the double. Miraculously it seemed my son stilled, allowed me to change his diaper calmly, get him dressed and in the car without further fuss, and finish loading us up. All the while I plotted a plan a,b, and c, but come, well, hell, or high water, we were leaving this house, and now.

When we arrived, I fairly sprinted in front of another late comer with a similar aged kid bound undoubtedly for the same drop-in playschool program. I prayed that God and this mother would forgive my selfishness, but this was a mayday situation, and I needed to get him safely cared for and away from his verging on speaking in tongues mama pronto. I still feel chagrined about that one, but we both got in, and I started praying that he would be OK as fragile as he had been acting all morning. I watched that pager like a hawk for the first ten minutes, but it never went off.

As is so often the case in my life of faith, serendipitously the study being taught by a friend that day was about "Learning to pray from 'The Lord's Prayer.'" I have loved The Lord's Prayer since I was a tiny child, and I kneeled with my grandparents each morning when I would visit them in the summers. My home with my parents was devoid of faith, or at least a "don't ask, don't tell," policy on the subject. But in my grandparents house, faith was the soft click of the clock that marked the passing of each moment of each day. Each morning was begun with the prayer of The Lord's Prayer. As my friend taught, the daily opportunity for encountering God in intimate relationship through this beautiful, but more importantly instructive prayer, made me understand the reasons that my grandparents began each day by praying it not by rote, but remarkably in sincerity.

Many days I struggle to practice attachment parenting principles with my children, but I continue to try because my faith leads me to feel this is the way I am intended to parent. I see a correlation to my mandate as a parent when God invites us into a close and intimate relationship, where we are encouraged to trust that we will be loved despite our flaws and foibles. I hear the truth of drawing my sons close, firmly guiding them in how to live a life lit by God and intended just for them, assured that their mother unconditionally loves them. I picked up my son from playschool and once again had the energy to love him just where he was.

In our discussion, we spoke about prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise, and here are mine:

• My prayer of puzzle is why when I so fiercely love these children it is so surprisingly easy to hurt them in my own brokenness.
• My prayer of petition is that God will guide my son in stilling his own anger and hurt even when his parents are not capable of guiding him.
• My prayer of praise is that despite my brokenness, in those frightening moments of despair, a voice continues to tell me to try.

What are your prayers of puzzle, petition, and praise?

Photo by TheAlieness GiselaGiardino²³

Everything is Just Fine (Sure It Is)

I've been delaying posting something all day, and now it's late and I'm telling myself I'm now to tired to do anything of quality. It's a perfectionist thing. But then I remember my commitment to just write something, good, bad, or indifferent. Here we go...

I took Little Kidlet for his well check-up this morning, something that gives me anxiety for days in advance. We do things a little more alternatively than our HMO would like, but we have about as wonderful a doc as one can get within such a system. But I fret nevertheless, praying that I will be able to properly articulate our positions on things when the touchy topics inevitably emerge. This whole dance is a loaded one for another time.

And there is another reason I realized I was dreading this particular visit--the new mom "state of mind" checklist questionnaire, intended to screen for signs of depression. I knew I was going to have to lie. I've had to acknowledge over the last few weeks that I'm indeed struggling with some post-partum depression. I am not someone who has chronic depression issues, mine have always emerged hormonally and situationally, both coming to bear right now.

Why would I lie? For a few reasons. First, honestly I didn't want to be thrust through their protocol that gets triggered when you mark down such things. When I was pregnant with Big Kidlet I will never forget the fact that the combination of marking down that I had been in treatment for depression (saw a therapist a grand total of THREE times during a particularly difficult professional patch), coupled with a positive answer to the "have you had a drink since becoming pregnant" question (I had a SINGLE margarita before I knew I was pregnant) landed me in a prenatal counseling session, and a very uncomfortable prenatal visit with a substitute doc who assumed that I had "issues" based on the fact that I had had to have this prenatal counseling session. It was well intentioned, but I assure you anything but helpful.

And there is the issue of feeling, well, a little self indulgent. The narrative that runs in my head goes something like this: "c'mon drama queen, you're not depressed, you're whiny." Curiously this voice sounds very like my mother's voice. I can't imagine why. (Sarcasm intended) Suffice it to say that my emotionalism was one dimension of my person that made her muse often, out loud, how I could possibly be her child? It was not welcomed, and not tolerated. Consequently I don't have much tolerance for this "nonsense" in myself either, and feel that if I shake myself hard enough I'll snap out of it.

Except when I don't.

But a positive legacy of my childhood is that once I drop my denials, I get down to the business of accepting that I've got to deal with the demons pounding on my doors, and re-balance myself. Easier said than done with kids. Jobs, and sadly even husbands, can and are walked away from everyday. But for me, my family, the one I've created for myself, and especially those babies keep me in it, even when I feel like screaming that I want out, and it's just too painful to endure one second longer. When they aren't particularly nice nor gentle with me, take that feeling and add some exponential compounding to it. But, I also (try hard to) remain mindful that it's not their job to keep me here, it is always my choice and my responsibility.

I know I'm not alone in this little subterfuge. If I've read one obligatory quote from one celebrity new mother, I've read them all. The one that goes, "being a mother is amazing, I love it so much everyday." Right there, she just lied.

Photo by alibubba

Mommy, Mommy, Go Away, I Want Daddy Anyway

So, we're here. My almost three year old told me this morning that he doesn't "love mommy," and wants daddy to stay home instead. My friends and developmental bulletins have told me to expect this, and I "know"that he doesn't "mean" it, but it doesn't make it sting any less. If it were any other person other than my kid, the impulse would be to tell him some not so polite places he can stick those nasty words. He's not exactly my favorite person day in and day out either.

OK, lets be real, I still have the impulse, but, you know--I'm an adult, and clinging tenuously to that. My husband always tells me that because he loves me so much I can make him madder than anyone, faster than anyone.

My mother used to tell me something when I was a kid that sticks with me: "I will always love you, but I don't like you very much right now." I didn't get that as a kid...I do now.

How do you handle when your kids say hurtful things to you, whether intentionally or unintentionally?

Photo by Tom (hmm a rosa tint)

I'm Known, But Sometimes I Would Just Rather Be Liked

I had a little light bulb moment today, aided by an article by a psychotherapist on the topic of relational communication. Don't stop reading because it sounds to nerdy and technical, because this article really has some very good nuggets to think about, and applies to everyone.

As I have written about previously, I struggle with relationships, and it is a source of immense frustration and continuing pain for me. It's particularly bewildering because I have struggled to understand why, and it's all to easy and tempting to think I must be flawed somehow. But this article had some insights that have begun to shed some constructive light on this issue for me.

The article entitled, "Would You Rather Be Known or Liked?", describes two types of individuals based on how they prefer to relate to others. Those who would rather be liked are invested in keeping their relationships peaceful, stressing commonalities, and they shy away from really revealing how they may feel about things in a effort to preserve this peace. Those who would rather be known, on the other hand, crave real and authentic conversations, even when there is disagreement, and they declare their positions to see how others will react.

The problems arise when a "liked" and a "known" are trying to communicate, and the article offers some useful tips for both types to carry on with the other.

What are your thoughts. Are you in the "liked" camp, or the "known" camp more predominantly? Considering your current relationships, do you think this is a factor in whom you feel most drawn to, or frustrated by?

Photo by shadphotos

Captain Mommy on Deck Makes Me Ill at Ease, But a Good Hug Means Fair Sailing

I'm cultivating a little more of an "attitude of gratitude" after delivering a little shakabuku action to myself while rereading what I've been writing lately.

An article about a new book caught my attention about cultivating happiness in your family's life. The author of Raising Happiness, Christine Carter says to ask yourself two questions:

1. When are you happiest with your kids?

2. What part of the normal day with your family routinely causes suffering?

My happiest moments with my kids tends to be when they wake up in morning, and sometimes even more so, from a good nap. In fact, I love, love, love, the things that come out of Big Kidlet's mouth when he wakes up from his afternoon nap. It's like busy little electricians have been furiously working on the wiring inside his little head, and when he wakes up the light switches have been flipped on. In the morning, I look forward to the moment when I open his door, and he pops up in his crib, unzips his crib tent (yeah, it's only for show these days), and fairly trumpets "Good Morning, Mama!" followed by all the things he can't wait to tell me. When I lift him from his crib we share a big hug, and recently I noticed that he has picked up my habit of humming while hugging. Now Little Kidlet also comes in with me, and he grins and wiggles to see his brother, and Big Bro Kidlet is equally excited and eager to get at him and insists on choosing one of his crib animals to share with his little bro while he's getting his diaper changed. In these moments I feel so incredibly blessed.

My hardest moments are in what I'll call the "have to" moments. "You have to wash your hands," "You have to climb into your carseat," "You have to let mama change your diaper." These are when my patience is at its most stretched, and usually it is exacerbated by an equally as impatient infant close by. When I forget, or am too lazy/distracted to build in extra time for Big Kidlet to move through these transitional times, that is when we suffer, and the meanie mommy monster muscles her way into the situation. I have a snarky habit of saying "aye, aye, Captain," to my husband when he gets bossy and commandeering, which is a not so veiled reference to my childhood with a Naval Captain. Well, truth be told, the anchor didn't fall too far from the ship. Madame Captain reporting for duty.

Where do you find the most joy with your kids in your daily routine? Where do you find the most woe?

I also read a quote that is post-up-prominently-in-my-house worthy:

"Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who matter don't mind, and those that mind, don't matter." ~Dr. Seuss

Write that down...

Photo from the George Eastman House Collection

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

It's Not All About You, Except When It Is

A few days ago I revealed a struggle that I have been having that I'm not to proud of. In that post, I referenced some people in my life that I'm sure would probably not appreciate being the subject of a post, and I'm sure would have their own perspective on things. They have not to my knowledge read this post, nor may they ever, but I felt I needed to say a few additional things about it regardless of whether they ever do or not.

My intent is never to hurt or embarrass anyone on purpose, or needlessly. I never view a blog as a vehicle to inflict harm on others. My blog is my perspective on things, it's my space to work things out. The goals I had for this particular blog was to be authentic and fearless, even when what I have to say isn't comfortable for myself or others. I fully expect that people will disagree with my view of things, and that is absolutely fine. My standard for myself is "am I being real?" That being said, I'll always endeavor to be careful to be mindful of others, and have a care for their privacy, and won't reveal details that are not mine to reveal.

As is common when one is in the throes of their emotional wave, once the seas calm and one reviews things with a more clear head, the impulse, for me anyway, is to smooth the raw bits, mitigate the intensity of my feelings on the page, because in my life I have always been afraid to really expose those ugly bits for fear of not being pleasing to others. I thought about altering it, so as to soften it, or taking it down entirely, and ultimately decided that I would edit some specifics out that don't take away from the overarching tone and purpose of the post. I struggled with deleting it altogether, but even though I'm not proud of those feelings and it's not easy on my heart, it pushes me forcibly ahead in one of my stated goals--"tackling fear," as well as developing my authorial authenticity. Every writer needs a good editor, and in this case my editor self came to bear to channel and refine some of that raw emotion the writer had spewed upon the page.

Now to speak to the specific contents of that post, with the benefit of a few days to think and hear feedback. One commentator (none of whom left comments here, lest you think I deleted them) shared that from their perspective, the common denominator was me, and that I was deferring blame to others for my issues with forming good relationships. Ouch, that hurt! But, what they didn't know is that that is precisely what I fear as well. It is precisely why I tend to put so much pressure on myself about these issues, and why it is such a raw nerve for me. But perhaps by focusing so much on my own reaction to what essentially happens everyday to many others as well, it diverts the attention away from something I feel, based on other feedback, I'm not alone in feeling in the community of women and mothers.

While others may be blessed with a true north, unshakable sense of themselves, and I know some like that, I think they are the exception. Most of us are trying to navigate uncertain seas and searching for buoys of friendship to give us something to anchor ourselves to. When you can't find those buoys you feel...adrift, and it gets hard to keep swimming. This is what I was trying to get at.

Outside a small bird is flinging itself at my window. I figured long ago that they see their own reflection and see it as the enemy, and so are attacking it repeatedly, even though each time they just hit a glass wall. A few have killed themselves this way over the years. They are fighting the reflection of what is essentially themselves, beating their wings at a perceived enemy, and some have killed themselves in their misguided delusion.

Being different is hard. Being yourself is hard. It's a defining challenge I continue to struggle to surmount. Finding a way through it is the best gift I can give to myself, and my children.

Beautiful photo by nickburlett