truth is
December 29, 2012 § 2 Comments
Last night I endeavored to guide my daughter’s behavior with information and experience, appealing to her common sense with critical thinking. If A, then B.
The topic of conversation was secondary to the posturing between us. I was doggedly determined my daughter defer to my logic. Sleepy and stubborn her body language told me my words were tumbling into the space between us, lost.
Letting go of the irritation nagging me along, I changed tactics confessing in a tone clear of sarcasm and heavy with humor: I understand that at 8 years old you feel like you know everything and it seems I, so much older than you, do not know as much as I think.
The response was instant amusement. A brilliant toothless smile and easy laugh, followed by my daughter’s own admission: I do think that a lot.
More giggles, this time from both of us. Laughter splashing against logic.
Humor and humility resulted in an amusingly honest exchange. Truth is, I don’t mind being fallible or looking silly so long as my daughter is listening.
finding words
December 3, 2012 § 2 Comments
On an unexceptional evening, on a nondescript day, a small request lead to a discussion I had not imagined and an experience that reminds me we are always gathering strength and courage for days we cannot predict.
It began when I wasn’t looking. Snuggling beside my daughter, lost to a late night movie, her voice found me in quiet, urgent tones: Mom, I have something I need to tell you. I’m worried about how you will feel when I tell you this and how I will feel when you know.
My little girl for whom language is often a tangled riddle spoke clearly with a hushed urgency. The quiet in her voice contradicted the noise in my head and I felt myself center squarely in the moment. Clicking off the television I turned to my daughter and began with a promise. Making certain I had her full attention I held her eyes and hands pledging, There is nothing you could say that could change how I feel about you. Period.
Her pause was tangible and my nerves frayed by the weight of what rested unspoken. Not wanting to lose the moment I mothered gently, offering: I am going to look away so that you are not worried about my reaction. When you are ready, tell me as much or as little as you wish.
Her words came quickly. My little girl’s words filled the room and I collected my thoughts and emotions while she shared a difficult experience. At eight years old she had found herself trapped in an uncomfortable dilemma with a trusted friend.
Cautiously, aware this is the first in a series of crossroads that will map my daughter’s lifetime, I began my response by thanking her for trusting me and reassuring her that she had made the right choices. Then I briefly celebrated the markers my daughter used to navigate her experience: listening to her inner voice, placing boundaries between herself and harm, seeking someone she trusted to hear her story, and reaching out for support. Despite feeling overwhelmed and helpless, my daughter had exhibited the very strength she was seeking in my confidence.
It has been a week since her sharing and I have honored her confidence debating how and if there is a space in my story that allows me to preserve this moment in my daughter’s story. In the end, I hope this marks a unique moment at a tender age when my daughter discovered the balance between strength in her own abilities and vulnerability in sharing. I hope this will read one day as a letter of love to a little girl who was and is stronger and braver than she feels.
paper play
October 29, 2012 § Leave a comment
Saturday evening my daughter requested a cardboard box. Putting our dinner reservations on hold my husband humored our daughter by unearthing a recycled box and reconfiguring it from its flattened form back into a rectangle capturing potential between taped together folds. The assembled box was then quickly cut with long slits on each side and the bottom per our daughter’s instructions. We left for dinner as our daughter scurried off box in tow.
Long after our meal was finished and the credits to our movie had ended we peeked into our daughter’s room. Resting on her desk chair was a puppet theater. Long strips of lined notebook paper carefully tapped together and fed through the slits in her cardboard box told a story in pencil sketches, each end rolled around taped together toy silverware from her play kitchen to create rods. On the floor beneath her chair colorful paper alien creatures were taped to colored pencils.
Scraps of paper and bits of clear tape littered her work space, but my eyes and heart were measuring a gift of nothing – a box made into a vessel of imagination.
can & cannot
October 25, 2012 § 4 Comments
This week my daughter asked her peers for help spelling a word; aware she often twists her letters out of order and wanting to feel more certain she asked those she trusted for help. Instead of supplying the answer to her question, they judged her for not knowing; laughing and measuring her abilities loudly and unkindly as a group. With honesty and vulnerability my daughter shared this moment from her school day; a lone tear and prideful posture tugged at my heart, but rather than allow my daughter to nestle in a place of Cannot I guided her towards a faith in Can. I acknowledged her feelings then quickly discussed our alternatives for handling moments of harm. As some of her peers move more quickly towards new abilities my daughter must be prepared to practice self-compassion for her weaknesses in the same measure I would ask her to exercise humility for her strengths. Rather than ask others to be more sensitive to what she cannot do I asked my daughter to begin always with what she can do; approaching each moment from a place of strength. Admit openly what you cannot control and insist on kindness. Allow yourself your emotions, but do not let them undermine your ability to move forward. Never, ever measure your worth against others’ abilities or judgment. Then I spelled the word that had created the opportunity for our discussion: G-I-R-L.
to my daughter
September 25, 2012 § Leave a comment
Yesterday my phone buzzed with an early morning message from your teacher, eager to celebrate a classroom success. In an area where you often struggle, you had demonstrated mastery. Your accomplishment cast ripples of joy across the day connecting those of us who witness your determined efforts and discouraging challenges.
I want to capture this moment in a snapshot, saving this well-earned success for future reference; to unfold these lessons and write them on the walls of our home. We succeed not because of what we know, but by the way we approach learning. Our strengths are not measured by what comes easily, but how we face that which challenges us. Our accomplishments are a reflection of our choices, not chance.
You, my sweet girl, worked hard for this moment. Hold tightly to this knowledge, the sense of satisfaction and pride that accompany long evenings exercising new concepts. Be comfortable with the discomfort of working through confusion to find clarity. In life these lessons in resilience will bring you strength in the face of adversity. You will do well, not because life is easy, but because you move through your days consciously embracing opportunities to learn.
personally, impersonal
September 8, 2012 § Leave a comment
There are moments of injury, unintended, whose wounds create tiny cracks in a smooth facade. Sitting in my daughter’s classroom for curriculum night my heart swelled with tiny injustices. As the teachers outlined cleaver ways to incorporate writing, reading, and math facts into the home environment to nurture skills that create academic success my head spun with my daughter’s reality. Sitting nestled between her peers’ parents balanced on tiny chairs around neatly gathered desks I felt the discomfort my daughter has so often expressed experiencing in her classrooms. The sense of otherness that creates embarrassment and shame, suffocating joy and challenging confidence.
The teachers encouraged us to use math in practical settings and in moments of stillness. Similarly they invited us to have our children write letters and make lists to practice writing. I wanted to raise my hand and proudly site each instance of such practice in our home, to celebrate our love of learning. Instead anger and shame licked at my mood, it seems unfair that my daughter who is never without a book, a pencil, or a quick calculation stands just far enough behind her peers to feel the shadow of failure before the light of success.
I guide my daughter with words of encouragement and unwavering faith in her abilities, keeping my own frustration reserved for these moments of written reflection. Until curriculum night. Rather than tuck my emotions beneath polite conversation I drafted a letter to my daughter’s teacher outlining my daughter’s efforts and expressing honestly and openly our shared frustration in search of compassion and patience.
This year will march forward with new challenges and old frustrations, but I am making room for friendship in our partnership between home and school. Just as my daughter’s teachers outlined simple activities to nurture academics, I shared simple gestures of kindness to foster greater emotional support for the little girl hiding her fears behind a tiny desk. Making the impersonal, personal.
word problem
September 1, 2012 § 2 Comments
Two nights ago my daughter and I, our heads bent over a piece of classwork, slowly deconstructed the language of a math exercise; painstakingly translating the problem from words into numbers. After cautiously guiding my daughter in a way that allowed her to lead, my daughter crumbled. I was the only one in my group that didn’t know what to do.
If life were a math lesson, in this equation: Knowing was greater than Learning. In my mind, Learning is the product of Not Knowing and Trying.
This may be a difficult year for my youngest scholar. She must become more comfortable with accepting what does not come easily and embracing uncertainty. I feel her anxiety as clearly as I recognize her ability. She will, she can, she is able.
I am marking this moment for her to better gauge her growth and to celebrate the value of her effort in days to come.
bedtime stories
August 28, 2012 § 4 Comments
Last night my son was performing his weekly chore of taking the garbage and recycling to our curb. I joined him curious to see how he wrestled the weight of the bulky containers over the patch of grass. I knew he was capable, the containers are present and accounted for most Tuesday mornings. After maneuvering the first container with his own well established routine of rotating movements my son stopped and stared at the sky. Look Mom, isn’t the moon particularly beautiful tonight?
I couldn’t see the moon for the trees and had to move to find the brilliant ball illuminating the sky. It was a small moment, but a lovely reminder of my son’s blessings. This is the piece of his personality I am humbled by. Regardless of the events of the day he finds beauty and shares the moment eager to connect.
As predictably as my son finds beauty in everyday routines and meditates in a moment of appreciation, my daughter creates laughter and music.
Bath time is a lengthy and often messy production. My daughter plays beneath the shower and under the bath water with an eclectic collection of household items and toys. Last night, while handing her a towel, she proudly exclaimed, I hid the dirty elephant. I mean the evidence. I didn’t find the elephant, but I wanted to clap for the happy accidents of childhood language that linger in our home.
And then we danced. Dressed in her pajamas our daughter guided my husband and I in a new song, marching through the coordinating gestures from a music class routine. Off key and out of time we stole a few more minutes of daytime from the moon and I gave thanks for precious gifts of time with my favorite people and the boundless joy they bring me.
to my daughter
August 18, 2012 § 1 Comment
I love the sound of your giggles drifting under your door as you talk about everything and nothing with your friend. I watched you form this friendship under a summer sun, in the cool shallow waters of our public pool just before your Kindergarten year.
There have been days when you and your friend were divided by hurt feelings and days you were inseparably linked hand in hand, heart to heart. There have been times I questioned your connection and times it seemed unquestionable you were both destined for friendship. Watching you grow as a friend and an individual there are two lessons we are sharing as mother and daughter.
Letting go. Despite my wish to shield you from mistakes and guide you towards joy, you must navigate your own friendships. When you hurt I stand close enough for you to find me and wait for you to unravel your emotions until you find the kernel of harm. I balance sharing my perspective with valuing your insight.
Holding tight. On occasion I reach for your hand and pull you aside reminding you of your choices and my expectations. While you choose friendships, I hold you simultaneously to the values we share as a family creating a mindfulness of your own behaviors as an individual within a friendship.
My sweet girl, I wish you friendship that comforts you and challenges you, inspires and celebrates you. I wish you friendship you earn with others you trust. In this world where we use the word friendship casually, I hope you weigh its value with truth and love.
waiting room only
August 4, 2012 § 1 Comment
Waiting rooms are rich with practical social skills opportunities. More than chairs arranged in a sterile circle and predesigned questions this space lends endless opportunities for practice.
Adults and children ranging in need and restless for their moment with an over-scheduled doctor, my son’s psychiatrist’s practice is ripe with practical applications of various behavioral exercises. Taking turns, controlling impulsive speech, using and interpreting body language.
Yesterday my daughter shared a special moment with a little boy. Her own needs and her experiences with her brother’s challenges lend her awareness and compassion. On this occasion she used the waiting room as an opportunity to play with another child while her brother and I met with the doctor. Play in this space is interpretive; often it consists of parallel play and fragmented conversations. My daughter asked me to trust her to play rather than sit quietly through her brother’s appointment. Grasping an occasion to exercise her independence I gave her room to play, trusting she would navigate the social space of the waiting room.
Upon ending my son’s appointment, a mother thanked me for my daughter’s kindness. She didn’t enumerate on how my daughter demonstrated kindness, but I understood the language of the other mother’s gratitude; the need to acknowledge another child’s compassion. I have shared breathtaking moments of thankfulness for small acts of generosity: a child patiently listening to a series of facts squished together without room for interruption, finding humor or brilliance in an otherwise misplaced mannerism, an absence of judgement or irritation when my child acts outside expectations.
In our home we deconstruct simple interactions to decode the invisible social rules. I couldn’t be more proud that my daughter has learned to share these lessons with others through acts of kindness tucked inside childhood play.
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