ramblings
February 3, 2013 § 4 Comments
The first keystrokes today are a blind search, easing into the undercurrents of my thoughts. Sifting through pieces of our family’s days, beneath the distractions, gathering the details of our story into a place of remembrance. This past week my fingers and thoughts have felt clunky and awkward, directionless. My mind and heart have been weighted by worries for those I love most.
We are standing in a place of transition and the growing pains that accompany discovery have made me more sensitive to our collective vulnerability. My husband’s brow is creased with worries and his eyes bright with hope for career changes that hint at a promise of greater possibility. My daughter is on the edge of academic accomplishment, her efforts often mismeasured by irrelevant gauges. My son is slowly assuming greater responsibility in advocating for his needs academically and socially; reaching out into the uncomfortable intersection of awareness and need uncertain how his requests for assistance will be met by those individuals, friends and teachers, who are central to his success at school.
Even as I try to neatly summarize this moment, grasping tightly to the possibility nestled within uncertainty, I am aware these new experiences carry the emotional charge of daily disappointments stacked against the light at the end of the tunnel. I see my husband moving through joyless workday routines to provide for us, our evenings as a family a small reprieve from the disappointment of his days. My daughter struggling to master reading and math skills discouraged by the ease with which her peers seem to exercise knowledge she demonstrates more slowly, swallowing her own disappointment beside those who flaunt the ease of the task at hand. My son seeking friendship and trying to please others by following social rules that are often contradictory in their logic; too often tangled in another’s joke, hurt and yet determined to remain a part of his peers’ play.
In the weeks ahead my husband will learn if a new career opportunity will provide greater stability and inspiration, while he goes through the motions of life as is. Our daughter will make slow steps towards progress, her potential greater than her classroom demonstrations, frustration accompanying her dedication. Our son will sit beside teachers and support staff helping to outline the education plan that will inform other’s of his daily needs, speaking for himself while other’s speak of him.
Individually, and together, we must believe in our capacities to create our own destinies while navigating the challenges that exaggerate our fear. As a wife and mother I will be in the background lending encouragement and love while holding my breath, my heart and nerves stretched to encompass the fears and anticipation that accompany uncertainty. In quieter moments I will tap away at my computer keys to mark our path, capturing fragmented moments alone with my thoughts.
snow day
February 2, 2013 § 2 Comments
This morning the snow is falling gently, soundlessly, into elegant curves hiding the dark lines of earth below. The trees proudly hold their arms high, nestling the new fallen snow into their boughs. The world is beautiful and unmarred, hope and possibility framed on a blank canvas in want of children’s imaginations. My heart feels just a little lighter anticipating the delight this discovery will inspire when my children wake to play.
main characters & supporting roles
January 29, 2013 § 5 Comments
My daughter has been home, under the weather, our normal school day routines replaced with restful inactivity. Yesterday the hours passed quietly as she slept through most of the day. Today her eyes alert and body sleepy I picked up a book title we had recently begun eager to fill the hours of the day and curious to follow our story to its end.
We met our main character, the story’s narrator and a big sister to a little brother with Autism, in the quiet darkness of bedtime. That first evening my daughter’s face registered surprise and comprehension.
Mom, her brother is like mine.
Her words were not accusatory but rather a statement of self. Through the wall of her room came my son’s voice volleying an equally firm statement:
He is nothing like me.
Main characters in their own shared story I was determined to meet my children in the middle, supporting each of them with a neutral acknowledgment that similarities allow for differences. Both children accepted this fortune cookie truth with a sense of validation.
The second night that we read from the book, my son was quiet. There were no arguments or defensive proclamations of self to distinguish himself from the young man in our story. I wondered at his silence, but resisted an urge to draw out his thoughts and emotions. Instead I let the story unfold between the wall that divided my children hoping that each child might hear one another’s voice in a shared story.
Today I allowed the quiet of our empty home to give my daughter room to speak between the lines of the main character’s story. In recent years the weight of looking after her big brother has created an awareness of imbalance between my children. On the most difficult days her needs are sometimes misplaced in the chaos of her brother’s behavior. Curled away in her art she waits for us to complete a teaching moment with her brother, a lesson that all too often she, his junior, has mastered.
This story seemed to create an exaggerated sense of normalcy for experiences that sometimes leave our daughter sensitive to the differences between her story and her friends’ experiences. Despite an unconditional love that binds each of us as family, there exists an unspoken subtext of secret wishes for simpler moments uncomplicated by needs outside our control. Even in the silence I could hear my daughter’s wish that her brother might out grow pieces of himself.
Today, without her brother listening in the dark from the other side of her bedroom wall, it was safe for my daughter to share words like embarrassed and angry without letting go of the word love. For just a moment, art imitated life, and we acknowledging our own stories as main characters with supporting roles.
the weight of silence
January 24, 2013 § 2 Comments
For the last two evenings I have been reading a book with my daughter whose characters have gifted us insight into the weight of silence. A young man born without the gift of speech created a dialogue of silence that has settled into a thoughtful distraction.
I often think of silence as a living organism that fills space and noise with value. Without the delicate balance of silence, sound would be hollow.
Today my mind was preoccupied by the thoughts we shape into words, crafted with intent, and the words we steal away for ourselves into silence. Words of comfort we do not share, apologies we hide beneath defensiveness, honesty cloaked in polite clichés. Of course there are also those words whose harm is more damaging than silence.
Recently another’s words and silence have allowed me a glimpse of truth reflected in the space between us. I think of the words I wish I could take back and those I wish I could have shaped into sound beside the words they’ve chosen, all the while realizing the lessons I have gained in self and friendship.
It is a small moment. Nothing novel or noisy in its truth, but a timely reminder and a moment of clarity at a well placed intersection in my life.
all of me
January 23, 2013 § 2 Comments
Divided by the threshold of another’s home I listened with rapt humor and mild mortification on Sunday as my daughter spilled pieces of our private selves dramatically and unapologetically to her friend’s mother. So often I try to tidy myself for the world, presenting my best self, conscious of my shortcomings. My daughter gathers her charm and challenges into each conversation offering everything at once.
The reality that I should be empowered with the responsibility of raising impressionable minds to become a confident individuals seemed a task of impossible portions. Truth is my children were born with a fierce strength that inspires me to grow into myself, repairing tiny tears in my own spirit.
In much the same way I once daydreamed about my children before holding them in my arms, I have gathered visions of the woman I wish for myself and my family into my heart and mind, inviting her to be present each day.
Wanting to be strong but recognizing my weaknesses, I measure potential between fears and insecurities. I name the harms I once held so close my balance was compromised by their weight; giving form to the shadows of old ghosts, shinning a light into corners to cast out fears that grow in the dark.
I use what I am not to create who I could be; inventorying weaknesses to shape them into strengths. Old experiences informing new experiences. It seems impossible that such strength could exist among weakness, but I am a contradiction of dreams and fears.
Standing witness to my daughter’s passionate declarations of self to her friend’s mother I realized I still leave parts of myself tucked safely away. This is one of my greatest gifts as a mother, my children are mirrors of honesty that reflect all of me without apology. It is up to me to recognize each piece of myself and strive each day to reflect the woman I want to be.
new day
January 22, 2013 § 4 Comments
The day began with sleepy steps and hope. My son woke slowly, his long limbs curled beneath his comforter as if he were hiding from responsibilities, silently petitioning his dreams for more time. My daughter woke achingly tired after a night spent wrestling the discomfort of a cold; her floor littered with tissue snowballs. My husband woke eager for a new experience, his nerves and hopes as crisp and tangible as his carefully orchestrated attire.
Today each member of my family woke needing a particular measure of space. My children needed space alone, one to wake and the other to fall back to sleep. My husband needed space to prepare for a step he has been anticipating anxiously for some time. I moved among each loved one gauging needs and guiding them into the day. One to school, one to bed, the other toward opportunity.
As the house settles into quiet I will wait for my family’s path to wind back toward home where goodbyes and hellos intersect and our hopes and dreams collect in the space between us.
accidental friendships
January 20, 2013 § 6 Comments
My experiences as a mother are a collection of accidental friendships, unique individuals who lend compassion and acceptance; knowledge and inspiration. Perched quietly on a park bench, between grocery store aisles, poolside on summer afternoons, and in obscure unpredictable everyday locations these women have become companions who walk beside me through my most difficult days with a silent strength and warmth that fortifies my spirit.
Just as I do not use my children’s names in this space as a gesture of respect for their privacy, I also endeavor to tell their stories without labels. Both of my children have special needs that complicate their days while simultaneously providing endless opportunities for me to experience their world with the blessing of unique perspectives.
Before these small wonders made me a mother, I existed in the margins of my own life; lost to uncertainty and individual interests. I curled myself into invisible corners without daring to move into the forefront. Then with an all-consuming love that only motherhood could provide, I slowly learned to step into the noisy chaos of the world. This adventure into vulnerability and need has unlocked the well guarded spaces of my heart and invited accidental friends into my life.
Recently a new acquaintance, a reflection of myself during the earliest days of diagnoses and doubt, has gifted me knowing and insight in unplanned conversations. We lose track of time revisiting the past and unraveling shared hopes and fears that accompany our journey as mothers; the hesitation to relax into peacefulness for fear we will tempt fate to disrupt harmony, self-doubt and uncertainty over contradictory treatments, even practical pieces of our days often foreign to family members are common between us.
When a conversation is interrupted by muffled ringtones each of us reaches blindly with well-practiced efficiency to check our phones, the early signs of worry hiding in the corners of our smiles. There are those who know my experiences as therapists and those who are witness to my story through friendship, but this woman whose smile hides so many of the same fears is a beautiful accident of fate.
quiet strength
January 19, 2013 § 4 Comments
Two women I respect for their generous acts of kindness and emotional investment in their children have lost their way as friends. Each woman bears hurt feelings and I navigate the space between them cautiously, wanting to keep their easy council as our children’s school years stretch across our futures.
Without either party asking me to abandon a relationship with the other, they have made hurtful statements against one another that has hallowed out the pieces of our friendship that used to bring me joy. These women are not those I call first to celebrate an accomplishment or for strength in the face of difficulty, still they are familiar to my days creating comfort with predictable patterns.
This falling apart has created lingering discomfort that I first attributed to exaggerated silence during the noise of school day dismissals. It took me a while to realize it was my own choice of words and silence that has left me uncomfortable.
I am disappointed in myself for not standing more confidently in my own beliefs. In my efforts to reflect understanding I have created hollow conversations that hint at validation. Rather than speak simply I have danced around a difficult subject underplaying my own opinion and alternately projecting my frustration with passive aggressive posturing that makes me look silly and feel contradictory.
I ask my children to do what I failed to model. I did not say what I meant and I have allowed others to make assumptions without daring to speak up.
I want to be someone who walks among challenges with grace and humility creating space between conflict for compassion and communication. I want to model strength and integrity by holding true to a sense of self while accepting others for their differences. I want to move mountains with a whisper.
to my son
January 16, 2013 § 11 Comments
In the earliest days of motherhood I marked your milestones on calendars, each independent accomplishment was cause for celebration. No one cautioned me that there would come a time when acts of independence would create moments of conflict – joy for your competence and loneliness for the company of your tiny hand forever tugging me along.
Over the years small exercises in independence, natural lessons of choice and consequences have created an awareness that accompanies you in my place. You were intended to let go of my hand and move ahead of me as you create your own path. When loneliness challenges joy, I use that free hand to applaud your strength so that I do not interrupt your progress.
In those moments when I do block your path, it is not an absence of faith for your strength that informs my action, but rather old habit. The murky gray social experiences that we have always navigated together have made me accustomed to interpreting the chaos of the world around you. There is never a question of your ability or character; you are foremost kind and curious, you have a goodness that is pure and solid.
At twelve you still believe in things you cannot see, but you question the decisions of adults whose actions contradict their words. Your opinions are unbending and unapologetic, you have not learned to form yourself into other’s expectations. Your interests are solitary but you give friendship generously with complete loyalty. Even when you brace against a boundary with sharp words or challenge an expectation with a choice, you explain yourself before apologizing – trying to create understanding while acknowledging others’ feelings.
Your father and I in our uncool, sometimes authoritarian rule, impose ourselves on your day exercising our right to claim your time and mandate behavior. We hug you when you feel too big, dictate actions, and question your decisions even as we permit you freedom to fail. For a child that sometimes struggles with social inconsistencies we are creating contradictory expectations of independence and submission.
Here’s a secret: we have forgotten much of our adolescence and we are new to parenting an adolescent. We are forever making choices for the adult we hope you will be while trying to honor the little boy you were. Somewhere in all of this we are getting to know the boy in between who is finding his way. On the days it seems we do not understand and that we are hopelessly unfair, I hope you also see the hands that are forever reaching out to guide and applaud as you find your way in the space between our expectations and your own ambitions.
Love, Mom
du jour
January 13, 2013 § Leave a comment
Over the years our children’s food preferences have shifted, open-minded experimentation has faded into short-sighted favorites. Most of the animated anxiety over dinner time offerings suggests an undercurrent of self-awareness. I don’t like that a statement of self hidden in criticisms of my culinary offerings.
I would love to say that in a zen-like consciousness it was I who created a solution, but in fact I was lost to the struggle for control over mealtime mumblings. Tired and uninspired by the chorus of complaints that met each meal I missed my cue. It was my husband who recognized an opportunity to shift the weight of responsibility and invite a new experience to our table. He proposed that once a week we would plan and prepare a meal as a family; from choosing the menu to grocery shopping, cooking, and cleaning.
Yesterday morning we introduced this new expectation, beginning with selecting a meal so that we could inventory ingredients to create a grocery list. For this particular meal there were fewer opportunities for each child to participate in preparation, something we will have to amend next time, but I was pleased to note the division of responsibilities between children. Where our son helped shop for ingredients and prepared the table, our daughter cleaned up every last dirtied dish wrestling the heaviest of cookware.
At day’s end there were only questions rather than complaints. I wonder if this change would be consistent or sporadic, the enthusiasm contagious or fleeing? Could the initial division of tasks represent individual interests? I am curious for the weeks to follow and inspired by new opportunities to share a meal with my family.
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