scribblechic

In moments of conflict my thoughts are cluttered by contradictory emotions; indignation challenges insecurity, sadness undermines anger. My younger self imagined growing into an armor of thick skin, an impenetrable shield woven from experience and wisdom that awaited me in adulthood. Instead motherhood has created an unnerving vulnerability; I have found fewer moments of peace as I wade into conflict to clarify the social language of harm, hoping to instruct my children in awareness and forgiveness.

The experience of role-playing and labeling conflict, spontaneous lessons in social behavior, have made me hyper-sensitive to secondary conflict. We sit within a moment among words, sorting the harm between us in a safe place to identify recognizable pieces. At times my nerves are raw for the absence of tenderness or presence of ignorance outlining poor behavior.

My son has learned the language of unkindness in much the same way he memorizes pages of texts. He understands unkindness as it reflects experience and recognizes harm in betrayal. In moments when a friend is unkind or a harm is said in friendly tones, the contradiction creates new wounds. My daughter hears harm unspoken and feels others’ unkindness even when the wounds are not her own. Often the most difficult part of navigating the language of conflict is the unmarked, endless space of tomorrows.

The absence of a tidy resolution, letting go when a harm is too tender to forget; this is the challenge of finding peace in conflict. It is a lesson I am still learning myself; to walk in the world with strength of self and faith in others.

Note: This draft has lingered unsettled for a while, a thought more than a certainty, written at a time when both children were finding their way on a difficult day. Rereading my reflections I am reminded that we must revisit old harms and weigh their relevance in moments of peace to reinforce the value of time and perspective. Learning and growing at each opportunity.

This morning the sky is cast in gray, the clouds pregnant with excuses to curl indoors. Stacks of books and board games, paint brushes and chocolate chip cookies promise to mark our hours between raindrops among friends. Nestled in my chair, warm coffee cooling beside me, my mind drifts to another rainy day not so long ago. My daughter’s hand in mine, her giggles bubbling up as we splashed in puddles.

Every once in a while it feels indulgent to get caught in the rain without a care in the world for the inconvenience. Some days rain is the perfect companion to sunshine, an open invitation to escape expectations for the possibility of something else.

I wish there were a way to whisper words of wisdom to my younger self that would have lent greater compassion and clarity in moments of mother-daughter conflict. I couldn’t imagine then how small my discontent was in respect to the scope of your love and generosity. I think back to the moments I was present but unaware, wishing I could do over what cannot be undone. Motherhood has gifted me humility for the heartache that fills the space between expectations and experiences; moments when we scavenge shattered hopes for the beautiful pieces that demonstrate love while mindful of sharp edges. In hindsight I can see the gifts between hurt, understanding filling the empty space between us.

Tomorrow I will count the yesterdays, measuring them as only a mother can, with compassion for the little girl who grew into motherhood and gratitude for the woman who guided me with love.

Thank you.

There is a casual certainty threaded between conversations among mothers, a sisterhood of fallibility and earnestness. These women who were strangers to me until our children were clustered by happenstance into a collective sameness. We met over the tops of toddlers’ heads in crowded classrooms and chaotic end-of-school-day dismissals. Over the years we have come to know one another while perched on miniature classroom chairs and in the perimeters of extracurricular events.

Our conversations are often fragmented, pieces of unending exchanges littered between passing. We pick-up threads of conversations only to leave between thoughts to be continued another day. Like tin can telephones stretched between homes, we pour our doubts and fears, hopes and wisdom into spontaneous sharings. I am tied to each of these women, grateful for the easy comfort of their company.