What my best looks like today....

I've just read another "unplug and pay attention to your kids" blog. And I love those. There are moments I'm struck by the finite time I have with my children while they are young. I'm struck by the fleeting moments that are being sucked up by Facebook, chores, work, commitments, and sometimes, just plain old boredom, irritation and exhaustion.


A few confessions:
I do not like to play Barbie's. Didn't when I was a kid, still don't. Worse, One Philly Daughter is a strict director, and sticks to her plot line. There's not a lot of room for creative license when playing with her.


I suck at video games, which One Philly Son excels at. Like, he's not good for a 6 year old, he's good. I've beaten him exactly once at Smash Brothers and when we play Mario Brothers, more times than not he carries me through a majority of the level. And, I don't mean figuratively. I mean his Mario picks up my Yoshi and carries it through the jumping and leaping and dodging. And he still beats every level. I have to beg him to stick to Worlds 1 and 2.


I'm not terribly entertained by many of the things that absorb my kids.


But. I am absorbed by them. And, so, there are many times I make the effort to play, be engaged and express interest in the things that interest them. Because the people are precious to me, even if I don't care much for the things that they care about, if we're being totally honest. And many times, I'm there. I play the game and we laugh at my gaffes. I play Barbie's and do as I'm told. And we build memories and connections and laughter.


I think that's what is lost sometimes in all these messages that implore us, lovingly remind us, but also, let's be honest, sometimes chide and scold us for scrolling Facebook, focusing on our jobs, cleaning our house, seeing our friends, or just plain zoning out.


Sometimes, checking out a bit can be a kind thing, to both myself and my kids. Sometimes, I'm at the end of my rope. Sometimes, a mild disinterest is kinder than a mean snap. Sometimes, indifference is kinder than anger. Sometimes, going through the motions is kinder than exploding with frustration. Sometimes the polite "mm-hmmm" is what I can offer.

And, no, I don't recommend making Facebook a priority over your kids everyday. Or ignoring your kids for work all the time. Or never making eye contact in favor for a screen or something else.

But, sometimes, the tank is empty. The nerves are frayed. The effort has been made and there's nothing left to offer.


So, when you see me rolling my eyes or blankly nodding, please don't doubt I adore my kids. Please don't question my dedication to my kids.


Sometimes, when it looks like I'm being a distracted, indifferent, unloving mother, I'm still offering my best self.

No rest for the weary, more or less....

I'm tired. I know, we all are. And not the "I'd kinda like to rest for a minute" tired, but the squinting at the computer, straining to understand the words on the screen, kind of achy, slow brain, bone tired.

And that's cool. Cause I should be. I have a recently new job (less than 7 months old) that I love. It invigorates and motivates and challenges and engages me. Awesome. So I put in extra hours. But those extra hours are noticed and appreciated. Also awesome.

I have 2 kids, 2 dogs, an active social calendar and a house to keep up with. There's  dance and gymnastics, end of school concerts and picnics, recitals, rehearsals, and teacher gifts. And don't forget summer camp registrations, payment due dates, health forms and emergency contact forms. Vacation plans, packing and again, payments and forms. Wedding plans, outfits, schedules, gifts, and celebrations. A yard that needs tending and an HVAC system that needs replacing. Car inspections and registrations. All also awesome.

All these converge together to create a blessed life. A messy life. A good life. A full life. A life that sometimes has me just feeling a tad numb to the bulk of all that needs to be done. And, most of the time, my reaction has been to just TRY HARDER. DO MORE. DIG DEEPER.

Ah, but Dr. Brené Brown has another idea. Instead of digging deeper, pushing harder, making it work, she suggests we just chill out. Another blogger reviews her thoughts on the idea here.

As put in her books, Brown suggests we  "get Deliberate, Inspired, and Going" - so instead of taking the malaise of a slow energy day, and forcing through the list of to-do's, she suggests we get deliberate in our actions (if you're tired and mindlessly scrolling Facebook, why not just be honest that you're pooped and do something that will actually invigorate you? instead of feed the malaise?), "inspired to make new and different choices" (is your schedule full of stuff you really don't care about? find a way to unravel your commitment to those things) and "get going" (take some action!).

I like this approach because it encourages mindfully being aware of what actually energizes your soul and investing your self and energy into that. It means being honest with yourself, and shaping a life that YOU want, not that someone told you to want or you think you should want. And if you're defining it, others' thoughts on that life become less and less important.

And, it also leaves room for how you define those things to change. What feels like a lifetime ago, I worked at a place that taught me a great deal. My time there ended abruptly, when they determined we were no longer a "good fit", but, as with many things that end, my time there, and the ending was a gift. A wise person there told me that, over time, the things that were important to him didn't really change, but the way there were expressed in life changed drastically.

A word like "fulfillment" may be important, but will mean vastly different things to a 20 year old, 30, year old, 40 year old. Add a few more variables regarding kids, homes, etc, and that definition changes even more. For me, fulfillment at 26 meant being single after a long relationship and really learning who I was. By 30 it meant investing in a wedding that One Philly Daddy and I could pay cash for, and a home that didn't max out our income. At 39 it means a career that offers flexibility, advancement, and stability, so I can provide for, but also have time to enjoy my family. Most importantly is that these are MY definitions. You should make and honor your own. No cheating!

So, yes, I'm tired. My house isn't as clean as I'd like it to be (read: not as clean as I think YOU want it to be, or as clean as my mother would like it, or as clean as my friend keeps hers. As clean as I'D like it to be.) but, I can handle that. My calendar is full, but I'm choosing what to fill it up with and what to leave out. My career is busy, but so, so, so fun and fulfilling for me.

I am busy, and I am tired. But I am choosing what's making me tired, and I'm also choosing what to let go of. I'm choosing how to rest my weary soul, so that it can thrive another exciting day in a life that I DESIGNED. That I chose and built along with One Philly Daddy.

Because, if you build your life for you, you can be freer to decide what can wait until tomorrow. Maybe your sink is full, but writing a blog will make you come alive. Maybe the clothes in your washer are starting to mildew, but your legs and lungs really need a run. Maybe the dust bunnies qualify for their own caucus, but you really want a cup of tea on the patio.

Here's the secret: that blog, run or cup of tea will give you MORE energy for those dishes, laundry and dust bunnies. Feeding your soul allows you to bring MORE to the table of your life. Pushing when you're tired means less to give, less joy, less presence and less YOU.

So, there's always going to be LESS and MORE of stuff. Chores or joy. You or someone else's standards. Things you want to do and things you feel you have to do. Things that fill you up and things that wear you out.

Together, let's try to decide in a deliberate, inspired way what we will build MORE or LESS of. Then, when you're tired, at least it'll be energy well spent on your dreams, instead of someone else's.

Blessed by my burdens and burdened by my blessings

Sometimes I have those days when the sound of my own children chattering, bickering, arguing, negotiating, debating, whining over every god. damn. thing. makes my skin crawl.

But, I'm only too aware that I'm actually blessed with all the riches in the world.

So I'm not saying my kids don't drive me nuts. They do. I'm not saying I don't have crap-tastic days when the work is too much, the mess too high, the noise too loud, and the demands too much.

I'm just also crystal clear that my burdens are in fact my greatest blessings.

So when crap starts to hit the fan, I like to think like this:

My kids have a toy to fight over
My kids have air conditioning to let out the door
My kids have food to refuse to eat
My kids have band-aids to put on their imaginary (and real) boo-boo's
My kids are driving me nuts, not someone else
My kids have beds to refuse sleep in
My kids have shoes they refuse to put on their feet
My kids have brushes they refuse to apply to their teeth

So yeah. Sometimes I lose my mind. And my blessings are burdens and my burdens are blessings.

I used to think I was aiming for a time when I'd never be stressed or burdened. But I think better is finding a way to see the blessings within the burdens.

It's easy to see our burdens, but happier to see our blessings. 

Class is now in session....

I’m trying to decide what I’m teaching my kids by accident.

Yes, the words that come out of my mouth are full of love, and value and support. But what does the rest of me say? One Philly Son suffers those extreme mood swings I mentioned last week. And when I expressed concern in the form of “where he would get these crazy notions” to a dear friend, she honestly and distinctly told me that my words might not be saying those crazy notions, but I might still be teaching him these things.

Eeep.

I’m listening to The Gifts of Imperfect Parenting by Brené Brown. (Whom I totally love. I am going to learn so stinking much from this woman.) She speaks of the difference between guilt and shame, of what we inadvertently teach our children about their self-worth. By how we treat ourselves.

Oh shit.

She states that what we ARE teaches, and that we can’t give our children what we don’t have ourselves.

Shit, shit, shit.

Her work is researching shame, compassion, courage, resilience, and many of those other amazing intangibles we desperately want to instill in our children, and I find I can only listen / read a little bit, and then not revisit her books for a few weeks. I think I’m just slowly integrating these ideas.

So. What we are teaches our kids what they are. And, our actions are more important than our words. The example she gives in the book goes something like this: Imagine your child makes a mistake. You say all the appropriate things – “Its ok, mistakes happen, I love you, we can fix this together, I made this mistake once too!” And your child hears all these messages of worthiness. But later that day, your child sees you make a mistake and you call yourself and idiot and your face shows an expression of anger and frustration and shame. And your child sees you not loving yourself, encouraging yourself, supporting yourself.

Shit.

This event is more powerful and impactful on your child’s conclusions about self-worth and value and worthiness than your words.

Effffffff………

Wait! I get it!

I mean……… That’s a cool idea! I’m so glad I learned this! I certainly had no intention of inadvertently teaching my children conflicting ideas about worthiness. My ever-present exploration of the art and science of boundary setting and self-care is ready to take another step! My intentions have been nothing but good, and my heart is in the right place, and I love my children. I’ve come by this mistake honestly, and now I can make efforts to improve. Awesome! I’m so proud of my effort and willingness to learn.

So. My kids are my best teachers. If you’ve read before, you know there are a few feelings swirling in me that I might rather my kids NOT learn. And my words alone are not armor enough against the Trojan Horse of my own emotional undermining of worthiness, love and value.

You see? To teach my children, first I must learn. For my children to believe, first they must see. So, to protect my children, instill in them a sense of worthiness, a sense of resilience, and sense of self and the ability to connect to others in this world, first I need to do those things myself.

See? We’re all learning here.

A bruised toe, not a bruised heart

So what I've learned is, the things that drive me most nuts, are the things that have the most potential to teach me something new.

One Philly Son is curious, kind, sensitive, intelligent, emotional and energetic. He can also have wicked mood swings. Like major you-don't-love-me meltdowns, maybe-I-should-die meltdowns. And they drive me NUTS, for so many reasons.

1) I hate that he's in anguish. Plain and simple, whatever the cause, I don't want him to hurt, not like that.
2) A part of me is furious. I built this life so he'd NEVER have to guess if I loved him or not. It hits a deep nerve to hear him say that we don't love him or that he feels unlovable.
3) A part of me is jealous. I don't know if he feels free or not, but to me, who numbed most feelings for years, in an odd way, I'm jealous that he's so overrun with his emotions and so connected to them that he can't help but let them out. I imagine he may wish he had more control, but control isn't always the answer.

So I've struggled. To convince him we do love him, more than anything to the moon and back. One Philly Son, don't you know you're my everything? I've expressed frustration and anger - One Philly Son, HOW can you ask that? Don't you KNOW how good your life is? Don't you KNOW how much I love you? I've felt defeated, that I failed. I feel my efforts are futile and that I am powerless. One Philly Son, I've tried, I've tried and I don't know what else to do to make you feel safe and strong.

But, of course, you know those reactions have A LOT more to do with me than they do One Philly Son. He's living his life, experiencing HIS experiences, expressing himself. In many ways, it has NOTHING to do with me.

And the feelings of anger, frustration, futility and that I feel are keys to ME, not him. We were concerned about his expressions that seemed to be laced with self-loathing, and consulted a doctor. And his advice, was to teach, by modeling and conversation, the underlying emotion that One Philly Son was feeling. So that he can learn to navigate own his internal storms without turning the raging sea onto himself.

The other day One Philly Son invented a game of trying to toss his bag of popcorn into the basketball net outside. It is a full height net, and he's only 6, so it was challenging. He kept at it for nearly 5 minutes and didn't give up. For him to show perseverance, even in a task like this, is something he couldn't always do. A few short years ago, he'd likely refuse to try, already convinced he "couldn't do it." But, finally - he got the bag of popcorn into net!

And the bag of popcorn got stuck in the net!
And, in an attempt to get the popcorn out, he picked up a rock, and threw it.
And, the rock landed on my toe.
It was a big rock. Involuntarily I yelled "OWWWW!" 

One Philly Son immediately began expressing some real self-loathing. Immediately his face was crest-fallen and he started saying "I'm terrible, you shouldn't love me. I should never get another snack or popcorn again. I can never have screen time again."

And I can empathize with the roller coaster he was on, I've experienced it myself. Inside the space of 5 minutes or less, he went from the excitement of trying something new, to frustration and doubt at his ability to succeed, to dedication and commitment of not giving up, to relief and elation of getting the bag in, to dismay at getting it stuck, to pride at creating a solution, to horror and shame that he hurt his Mom.

Or at least, that's what it looked like to me, in the dim twilight of evening as I saw my son wander and speed through these many emotions.

One Philly Son is someone who has always been very, very hard on himself when he does something "wrong", and hurting his Mom certainly counts as something "wrong."

So rather than express my frustration at his warp-speed emotional journey and my hurt toe, I tried to express those emotions I surmised he was feeling. And he was able to come back from self-loathing rather easily.

Sometimes, these experiences are just exasperating, frustration, annoying, and downright infuriating for me. But, when I'm able to step back, and view the experience as an opportunity for ME to learn, for ME to be taught something by my son's experience, I find that I am pushed to be in touch with MY feelings. To identify where I am, how I feel, so that I can help him identify where HE is and how HE feels.

One Philly Son showed no intent to hurt me. He showed no neglect in considering those around him. There was no "fault" to be assigned. So for me to express anger or frustration in this situation would merely have added proof to his pudding of being bad and wrong, that mistakes are not to be made, that accidental hurts are not to be forgiven. We made sure to discuss not throwing large rocks for any reason, and that it is important to be aware of those around us when we are playing. But we did not blame or shame or even remind him later of the error he'd committed.

So as much as I try to help him, the experience is just as eye-opening for me. As nuts as he makes me with his extreme emotions, maybe he's here to help me get in better touch with my muted emotions. To help me find the words when maybe I'd rather just rush onto that roller coaster of I'll-never-be-good-enough.

Just because it's a gift, doesn't mean I'm ok with it....

To clarify.
I HATED the idea that what happened to me, my family and my siblings was a gift. (And this time that word is laced with sarcasm,disdain, anger and disgust). I resisted it, and railed against it and fought it with every logical and irrational argument I could throw at it.
What happened in the walls of my home was a sin against humanity, and a crime against many laws as well. It was revolting, disgusting, terrible, unfair, and filled me with feelings of injustice, despair, anger, helplessness.I'm not glad that terrible things happened in my home.

But, when I viewed those events and people as evil, disgusting, hurtful, painful, I became, to myself, only a product of those things. I became broken, less than, not enough, incomplete, broken, dirty, disgusting and only able to bring hurt and pain to those I loved. The hurt of those early days and the confusion and realization that this was not right coursed through my veins like a life force of its own. At least one of my siblings always had the awareness that this was not right, but I didn't. It hit me like a ton of bricks when I learned, realized, was taught, that this was not right.

It colored how I saw the world, events, and mostly, myself. I was broken, and hadn't even realized that I was. How could I trust anything, anyone, at all? How can I know say that experience is a gift?

Because the truth is you, me, even my father, we are all gifts. We all have in us the chance for beauty and more and love.

For a variety of reasons from his own likely abuse, to a lack of understanding of bipolar, and even a bit of his own refusal to consider the beauty of life, my father was not able to be much of a gift to me in the traditional sense.
Many of my personal characteristics that are strengths today : kindness, empathy, an even-keel (in public), strength, acceptance, optimism - were deliberately cultivated as a response to the lack of their existence. They were not always modeled for me to absorb naturally.
But. I am still a gift. I am brimming with potential to love, connect, grow, learn. 
And that is how my youth can be a gift. Those things that happened to my siblings and I will NEVER be a gift. But I AM A GIFT. And YOU ARE a gift.  
And you,and I, we have the choice, to take those disgusting, horrible painful things,and survive them. Grow through them, and to take something ugly, and turn it into something beautiful. Because, we are gifts, all of us.

Maybe my gift is the realization that no matter how sure you are that you have nothing to give, in fact your gifts are endless. Maybe my gift is the thought that, even if your father tells you "no one will love you" and insists on keeping you, and your world small, you can BLOSSOM, and GROW and bust out of the bullshit lies you were told.

I'll never be grateful my father was ill. But I'm grateful always of the lesson that my worth is not determined by his actions. That my worth and value is an inalienable right. That no matter the mistakes I make or hurts I inadvertently inflict or things I get wrong, my worth is the same.

And so is yours.

If you've suffered pain or hurt or unfairness in one or many forms, the concept that that experience is a gift is down right offensive. It was to me for a very, very long time. How dare you suggest that those frightened years have somehow made me better, how DARE you?!?!?! 

I'd have given just about anything to see the world through eyes that didn't see what I saw, that could feel love with a heart that didn't have to build a wall to protect itself from its very source, to expect life to unfold in a beautiful, fair, fun, enjoyable way instead of always being on guard for the next attack on my body, soul or both.

But. I can empathize with a woman who never felt support from her mother and struggles with it decades later. I can look a child in the eyes and tell them, with full belief, that they are amazing, no matter the horrors of their life. I can fight, and fight, and fight to build a world that is how I hoped mine would be. I can see the value in struggle, the beauty in imperfection, and the worth of each one of you.

And that, is, in fact, my gift. Don't lose your gift to keep the pain.

Daring to dream....

Do you dream?




Do you dream big, or do you keep yourself small? Do you limit yourself and your greatness to fit into the box that has defined you? Maybe you built the box, or maybe others built it for you. Maybe it was built for you when you were a child before you even had an awareness of who your "self" was. Maybe you built it slowly over time, one board at a time, so slowly that you aren't even sure how you ended up in this box. Maybe it was built in one horrifying instant, with the walls so high reaching you can't see the sky or the sun or the birds anymore. Maybe you don't even dare to pull your eyes off the floor of the box, and aren't sure if it reaches the sky or if you could step right over it.




In many ways, I'm living big, huge dreams. I come from a home ruled by mental illness and decades upon decades of shame, secrets, anger, fear. But I'm building a home with love. Security. Laughter. Toys, food, clothes, and play dates. These things aren't the glitz and glamor often associated with dreams, and yet. Once upon a time, these were the biggest dreams I dared dream. Nothing else was more important, nothing else farther out of reach, nothing more important to achieve.




Now I find myself wondering: Do I dream small? Where could I go, if I dared dreamed larger. If I harnessed a thought, an ideal, a "me" that energized me and motivated me and pulled me out of bed? Made me so excited, that I couldn't wait to run up hills, and jump out of bed?



The more I consider these thoughts the more I embrace the idea that the sky is the limit. I'll be 39 years young in a few weeks. In those years I've embraced the ideas of thriving. Of growing beyond the pains I had no part of inflicting.




But. I viewed those pains as burdens to bear. Obstacles to overcome. Experiences to explain. Pieces of me that would always be broken. Something that pushed me accomplish, so I could prove my value. Convince the world that I, in fact, did have value. That I had value, and could add value. In ways I often haven't considered, I've been living my life as an attempt to prove I didn't deserve the events of my youth.




Recently a revolutionary idea has been introduced to my world, that I resisted mightily for a time.

What if all the events in your life, regardless of how painful and horrific, were gifts?


What if they were put there to teach you things? Bring you to a higher place? Grow you into something more?
What if you could dream bigger than the box that has been built around you? What if the box was never really there at all?


What would you dream then?