http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lauren-cormier/the-day-my-son-gave-up-on_b_5701432.html
This blog has been making the rounds with some of my friends, and I just couldn't let it pass without comment.
I'm not a parenting expert, but I have four children. One of them, I have actually managed to get to adulthood alive, despite what often seemed like his concentrated effort towards self destruction. When you get down to it, we are all just making it up as we go, but I've been making it up longer than most, so I hope someone will hear what I am saying, and at least think on it.
We live in a time of super-intensive parenting. There is so much focus on it. So many of us really LIVE for our kids. It is fully expected that the focus will always be on "what is best for the kids", rather than "what is best for the adults" or "what is best for the family". I know several couples who have not slept in the same bed in years, literally, because a child wants mom or dad there while they sleep. I have talked to friends who said they can't remember who they are anymore. I know people who have given up every hobby, interest, and passion they had, and poured themselves completely into parenting their children. I have been guilty of this type of thing too, from time to time, and I can't help but wonder if we aren't doing ourselves, and out kids, a huge disservice.
Kids are wonderful, amazing little people. And they will take everything you offer, and ask for more. There can never be enough hugs, kisses, bedtime stories, or playdough sessions on the kitchen table. No matter what you give them, they will always want more. It's not because they are greedy, horrible little monsters. It's because they are kids, and thats what they do. You can spend they whole day doing whatever your child wants to do, and, when you put her to bed, she will lay there wailing that she just wants one more kiss or one more book or one more movie, all while so tired she can barely keep her eyes open. You could take a week off of work, be with your toddler 24 hours a day, and the morning you leave to go back, he will fling himself down, sobbing that he just wants to spend time with you.
If you try to give them everything, you will lose yourself. Your love for your child will be the siren song that lures you out, and drowns you. Eventually, you will have nothing left to give, and they will still be wanting more. At the same time, making your child your entire world is not helping the child at all either. That is way too much to ask anyone to do, much less a kid. They are either going to give themselves an ulcer, trying to make sure you are ok, or they will assume that it is their due, and become a tiny tyrant.
The mother who wrote this post worries about her son "giving up" on her. I'm more worried about her giving up on herself. There is nothing wrong with telling a child, "You had your story, and your hugs and cuddles. It's time for bed now. I love you. Good night." There is nothing wrong with telling them, "Mom needs some time to herself". Show them some examples of good self-care. Even fairly young kids can understand that sometimes, people need a little time to themselves. It's fine to say that you want "Just a minute" to really mean a minute. Just make sure that you aren't forgetting to show that sometimes, the answer is no.
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
The Ancestor
I am a writer. I always have been.
Not a writer who makes a living writing. If you define "writer" as "someone who gets paid to write" or "someone who has published their writing", I don't fit. But, if you define writing as "someone who writes", I am most certainly a writer, and I have been one nearly all my life.
For me (and for many other writers I have talked to, some of whom meet those far stricter definitions), this means I have these...characters...that wander about through my brain. Some of them are different facets of me. Some of them are entirely fictional creations that will go down on paper and live through various things for my amusement. Some of them...some of them are a bit harder to pin down.
There is one that I think of as "The Grandmother", although "Ancestor" is probably a better word. She shows up in the very late winter, enticed out by the seed catalogues that arrive in the mailbox. She whispers to me, very softly. I don't even realize that I'm listening to her, but pretty soon the catalogues are marked up with stars and circles, bristling with sticky-notes marking pages. My husband looks at me sideways and informs me that I have to leave *some* lawn intact. "I could dry these" I mutter. " I could can these, freeze these...these say they will store in a cool, dark area for up to 6 months!"
Hers was the voice that convinced me I needed pet chickens. She was delighted by my experiments making jam and pickles. Shouldn't everyone know how to sew? Knitting a sock is a skill everyone should have, isn't it? When my husband asked me if I wanted to purchase a deep-freeze so we could buy half a beef from a coworker, The Grandmother was right on board. When I think back to the cross-stitched sampler I saw as a child, reading "Use it up, Wear it out, Make it do, Do without", I picture her hand on the needle.
When the weather starts to change towards fall, she shows up in force. The first morning that carries a bit of bite to the air, I know she is going to start speaking. "Winter," she says "is not something to ignore. It's not a time to become complacent! There is danger coming!" It was silliness, but I would listen without realizing it. Even when I lived in an apartment, a block from the grocery store, the shortening of days prompted me to start stocking up. I would bring home a couple extra cans of soup every time I went to the store. Pretty soon, the tiny kitchen of my tiny apartment had no more storage space. The canned veggies, fruits, and soups took up residence in my closet, displacing my shoes. I would laugh at myself as I tried to find space, and then buy more the very next time I ventured out to the grocery store.
She whispers to me from a time and place that was darker and more hostile than the soft world I inhabit. "Your children are small and vulnerable" she says. "You must be prepared for anything." She got louder, after Iraq. Like many other veterans, I carried with me a bone-deep belief that everything could go to shit at any time, with little or no warning, and you better be ready for it, because no one is going to save your ass. I married a fellow veteran, who carried the same belief, not just from war, but from the harsh reality of New Orleans, where he worked as a paramedic after Katrina drowned the city. She was positively screaming when a spring ice storm took out the power for a week, driving us from our house because it was too cold for Sam (who was still a baby). When we decided to move to the country, I insisted on getting a generator. Between that and the woodstove, I'm pretty sure we can ride out any future power outages. At least, I think I'm the one who insisted...
This year, when the seed catalogues show up, we will be in uncharted territory. I have nearly unlimited space. I have the luxury of room for fruit trees. I have an already-established asparagus patch. The design for the chicken coop is being tweaked to allow for a combination chicken coop/goat barn. There is a woodshed full of firewood, and more waiting to be split. BJ mentioned the possibility of a pig, which would require a smoker...and he would like to try building an outdoor, wood-fired bread oven. A compost pile. A root cellar. You know, brewing beer would be a neat hobby...The Grandmother smiles, and nods in approval.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
Lilacs and Thunderstorms
In the choking dust of Kuwait, I dreamt of lilacs and thunderstorms.
It was the summer of 2003. In my dream, I sat in the passenger side of a car. Someone was driving, but I didn't know, or even care, who it was. I was leaning against the door, on the shimmering edge between sleeping and waking. The window was down, and as the car went around a corner, the smell of blooming lilacs and an impending thunderstorm washed over me. It was so vivid, so real, that it seemed to linger in the air for a few moments after my platoon sergeant's barked order woke me.
The dream came back many times over that year. A year that seemed to get progressively worse; darker, more dangerous. First we had close calls. Then minor injuries. Then major ones. In February, we lost Josh, one of my dearest friends. During the most stressful times, after the very worst days, the dream would come. I loved it for the window of peace it gave me. I hated it for the longing it left in its wake. It seemed impossible, unreachable, and oh, so desirable. When my tour was over, the dream stopped. But it remained in my mind, a symbol of everything wonderful. It felt like a goal, of some sort.
Just over ten years later, I was divorced, remarried, and expecting my fourth child. After a series of events, including multiple armed robberies and a near-fatal shooting within a few blocks of our house, my husband, BJ, and I had been talking about buying an acreage and getting out of town. We had even put in an offer on one, a shocking heap of a foreclosure, sky clearly visible when you looked up from the attic, that somehow still managed to capture our imaginations. Despite offering more than the asking price, we were outbid by someone who was, apparently, even more crazy than we were.
After that, we tried to be a bit more...selective. We made a list of what we wanted: At least 2 acres. Five would be better. On a paved road. At least four bedrooms. Fixer-upper was ok, but we wanted it to be livable at least. It didn't seem to be *that* high of a standard, but months went by, and we saw nothing we liked. It seemed that what we were looking for just wasn't available, not at any price we could hope to afford, anyway. I kept looking.
I had seen one listing several times. A red house with white trim. Just under five acres. The pictures looked amazing. But there were only three bedrooms. And it was over the state line, in Minnesota, which, unlike South Dakota, had a state income tax. And the price told me that no matter what the pictures said, there was something glaringly wrong with it. I had been looking at properties that included two barren, treeless acres and a 15 year old double-wide with pink shag carpeting for that price. Still, one winter day, I decided to drive past it. I plugged the address into the GPS and set out.
When I was directed to turn off of the paved road, onto gravel, I nearly turned around. Not only had BJ been quite adamant that we needed to live on a paved road, it had snowed the night before. The gravel road had been plowed, and recently too, but I wasn't entirely sure I trusted it. Still, the little checkered flag was said to be only two miles away, so I pushed on.
I could see it for nearly a mile. Bright red and stately against the white of the snow, it sat on a hilltop. The paved driveway stretched 400 feet from the road to the double garage. A neat line of evergreens marked out the Eastern side of the property, and a thick, wild looking shelter-belt stood to the North. I had my phone out to call the realtor before I was even close enough to see the sign. The inside proved to be immaculate. It didn't take long for us to agree that our two youngest children could share a room (the oldest was 18 and had no desire to live in the country), that Minnesota taxes weren't all that high, and we could put up with the gravel.
We bought it. I mean, that's the short version. There was all the usual nonsense with banks, mortgages, inspections, a barn that had to be torn down, a broken pipe in the house in town, and the fact that I was trying to pack up and move while dealing with an 11 year old girl who was anxious about changing schools, a wild weasel of a toddler who hated change, and the uncomfortable fact that I was massively pregnant. We spent the last months of that bitterly cold winter enjoying the warmth of the woodstove and struggling to keep the driveway clear with the snowblower that had been perfect in town, but was totally overwhelmed out in the country.
Watching spring come in was amazing. The "glacier" gradually retreated, revealing the true lay of the land. Every day brought some discovery. One day, we noticed there was concrete dish sitting on the surface of the snow...it looked to be some sort of ground level bird feeder. Neat! I thought. Over the next few days, it became clear that it was NOT a ground level feeder. It was, in fact, sitting on a three-foot tall pedestal that had been completely buried. We also discovered that the snow drifts south of the driveway had hidden several small evergreen trees and a rather pretty little rose garden.
There was a small, square garden fenced with a small, wrought iron fence. We joked, in a rather macabre fashion, that it looked like a cemetery. Despite this rather odd appearance, it turned out to be a perennial garden. The day before our daughter, Astrid, was born, it bloomed full of tulips.
In early June, I was puttering around, cleaning the house. Sam, my toddler, was playing with cars. Astrid was napping. The windows were open to catch the ever-present breeze. There were dark clouds on the horizon; that had been a near-daily sight over the last few weeks. Since the kids were occupied, I took a moment to slip outside and pick some flowers to put in our bedroom. Down the hill, through the big evergreens, through the row of hackberry trees. The wind was picking up, the light changing as the clouds came overhead. The final row of shrubs, running the entire length of the property, was all lilac bushes. I could hear the thunder now, and the wind carried the smell of rain, mixing with the riot of lilac blooms.
It was the summer of 2003. In my dream, I sat in the passenger side of a car. Someone was driving, but I didn't know, or even care, who it was. I was leaning against the door, on the shimmering edge between sleeping and waking. The window was down, and as the car went around a corner, the smell of blooming lilacs and an impending thunderstorm washed over me. It was so vivid, so real, that it seemed to linger in the air for a few moments after my platoon sergeant's barked order woke me.
The dream came back many times over that year. A year that seemed to get progressively worse; darker, more dangerous. First we had close calls. Then minor injuries. Then major ones. In February, we lost Josh, one of my dearest friends. During the most stressful times, after the very worst days, the dream would come. I loved it for the window of peace it gave me. I hated it for the longing it left in its wake. It seemed impossible, unreachable, and oh, so desirable. When my tour was over, the dream stopped. But it remained in my mind, a symbol of everything wonderful. It felt like a goal, of some sort.
Just over ten years later, I was divorced, remarried, and expecting my fourth child. After a series of events, including multiple armed robberies and a near-fatal shooting within a few blocks of our house, my husband, BJ, and I had been talking about buying an acreage and getting out of town. We had even put in an offer on one, a shocking heap of a foreclosure, sky clearly visible when you looked up from the attic, that somehow still managed to capture our imaginations. Despite offering more than the asking price, we were outbid by someone who was, apparently, even more crazy than we were.
After that, we tried to be a bit more...selective. We made a list of what we wanted: At least 2 acres. Five would be better. On a paved road. At least four bedrooms. Fixer-upper was ok, but we wanted it to be livable at least. It didn't seem to be *that* high of a standard, but months went by, and we saw nothing we liked. It seemed that what we were looking for just wasn't available, not at any price we could hope to afford, anyway. I kept looking.
I had seen one listing several times. A red house with white trim. Just under five acres. The pictures looked amazing. But there were only three bedrooms. And it was over the state line, in Minnesota, which, unlike South Dakota, had a state income tax. And the price told me that no matter what the pictures said, there was something glaringly wrong with it. I had been looking at properties that included two barren, treeless acres and a 15 year old double-wide with pink shag carpeting for that price. Still, one winter day, I decided to drive past it. I plugged the address into the GPS and set out.
When I was directed to turn off of the paved road, onto gravel, I nearly turned around. Not only had BJ been quite adamant that we needed to live on a paved road, it had snowed the night before. The gravel road had been plowed, and recently too, but I wasn't entirely sure I trusted it. Still, the little checkered flag was said to be only two miles away, so I pushed on.
I could see it for nearly a mile. Bright red and stately against the white of the snow, it sat on a hilltop. The paved driveway stretched 400 feet from the road to the double garage. A neat line of evergreens marked out the Eastern side of the property, and a thick, wild looking shelter-belt stood to the North. I had my phone out to call the realtor before I was even close enough to see the sign. The inside proved to be immaculate. It didn't take long for us to agree that our two youngest children could share a room (the oldest was 18 and had no desire to live in the country), that Minnesota taxes weren't all that high, and we could put up with the gravel.
We bought it. I mean, that's the short version. There was all the usual nonsense with banks, mortgages, inspections, a barn that had to be torn down, a broken pipe in the house in town, and the fact that I was trying to pack up and move while dealing with an 11 year old girl who was anxious about changing schools, a wild weasel of a toddler who hated change, and the uncomfortable fact that I was massively pregnant. We spent the last months of that bitterly cold winter enjoying the warmth of the woodstove and struggling to keep the driveway clear with the snowblower that had been perfect in town, but was totally overwhelmed out in the country.
Watching spring come in was amazing. The "glacier" gradually retreated, revealing the true lay of the land. Every day brought some discovery. One day, we noticed there was concrete dish sitting on the surface of the snow...it looked to be some sort of ground level bird feeder. Neat! I thought. Over the next few days, it became clear that it was NOT a ground level feeder. It was, in fact, sitting on a three-foot tall pedestal that had been completely buried. We also discovered that the snow drifts south of the driveway had hidden several small evergreen trees and a rather pretty little rose garden.
There was a small, square garden fenced with a small, wrought iron fence. We joked, in a rather macabre fashion, that it looked like a cemetery. Despite this rather odd appearance, it turned out to be a perennial garden. The day before our daughter, Astrid, was born, it bloomed full of tulips.
In early June, I was puttering around, cleaning the house. Sam, my toddler, was playing with cars. Astrid was napping. The windows were open to catch the ever-present breeze. There were dark clouds on the horizon; that had been a near-daily sight over the last few weeks. Since the kids were occupied, I took a moment to slip outside and pick some flowers to put in our bedroom. Down the hill, through the big evergreens, through the row of hackberry trees. The wind was picking up, the light changing as the clouds came overhead. The final row of shrubs, running the entire length of the property, was all lilac bushes. I could hear the thunder now, and the wind carried the smell of rain, mixing with the riot of lilac blooms.
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