changing expectations
February 3, 2017 § 2 Comments
When we moved, our family began creating new expectations for one another and ourselves. The speed of change left us all a little bewildered and we settled into the discomfort of not knowing the otherwise predictable parts of our days with curiosity.
My children were used to me knowing what comes next. My routine circled my children’s in a way that kept me distractedly tethered to their needs with an invisible thread of communication between home and school. It was a once necessary open-ended energy that had been left running like a forgotten switch to a burned out bulb.
In our new space we had to trust one another to move through the murky unknowns, alone; to lean on strangers and navigate new challenges outside the familiar relationships of old experiences.
There were times it was tempting to exercise old habits, for myself especially. To draft messages that lent insight and history to our new community of teachers, but it was the occasions my children spoke for themselves or muscled through the difficult frustrations independent of my support that we fell into true appreciation and greater pride, humor and humility.
Some were substantial, like the morning the school called and my phone volume was muted because we no longer carry our phones like life lines. There were simpler occasions, too, of classroom confusion or forgotten materials. Then, there came the novelty of my decision to return to work and the subsequent patience and independence that guided my children to look further within when they might have previously reached out.
Yesterday as the hour of our daughter’s band solo neared, I marked the minutes with borrowed nerves; internalizing my daughter’s worries and dancing around a temptation to interrupt her attention with words of encouragement. Only, it occurred to me I was hijacking her experience with my eagerness to help.
Instead I waited for the impossibly long end of day to collect my daughter’s story in the lines of her posture and the angle of her smile. I listened as she talked about running late and loosing her place, the judge’s critique and the unexpected kindness in a stranger’s encouragements. Each moment was a gift I watched my daughter unwrap in her telling, something of her own to share.
It is perhaps an overdue epiphany, one I procrastinated passively out of a sense of purposeful self-importance. What felt like a kindness, protecting our children from emotional struggles, was quite possibly an error of affection. I’ve begun listening more than I speak, leaning quietly into a posture of faith that informs an expectation of strength.
Changing my expectations of self.
listening clearly
September 28, 2016 § 5 Comments
Years ago our daughter told her elementary school nurse that she was home sick. The nurse and secretary called me so that I might offer encouragement, but our daughter patiently explained to me that she was the kind of sick that needs to go home.
It was a time when our daughter’s language was jumbled in order, when we had to listen intentionally to the entire thought and then double-check her meaning.
Less patient teachers, family and friends would finish her thoughts, rush the pattern; leap to false conclusions in their best efforts to demonstrate understanding. Most times our daughter gave up, burdened by the frustration of being misunderstood, and waited in silence to unpack her feelings at home.
Our daughter is no longer flagged for needs, her diagnosis no longer invites intervention or special care like her older brother. There are still long pauses and endearingly obscure turn of phrases, but she’s become better about speaking out and standing up for her thoughts.
It’s made her a more generous listener, more conscientious speaker; it’s made me a better listener, too. Sometimes.
I was thinking of this during our son’s school conferences. Specifically, the manner in which we are constantly assigning and infusing meaning with little clarification or confirmation.
In two classes our son had fallen behind, but both teachers spoke generously of his ability and gently of his anxiety. The language of his grades was an incomplete picture of his relationship with his teachers and classroom experience.
I had attended the evening’s conferences with a list of worries and questions, but I found myself listening, rather than speaking, to an unexpected pattern of meaning. Our son was repeatedly identified as a perfectionist with extreme anxiety over performance. He was noted as a respectful student and a thoughtful peer. A young man with artistic ability and unique math skills struggling with an internalized set of doubts and fears.
In the space of an hour I stopped worrying about performance and became immeasurably curious about our son’s emotions and the gaps between our conversations.
What I wanted to see was secondary to what my son might need his father and I to know.
The past couple of days I’ve been speaking less, listening more; changing my expectations and asking new questions. I’m assigning a different value to those worries I used to dwell on and double checking red flags for meaning.
Listening clearly.
parenting character
September 21, 2016 § 2 Comments
In so much of parenting, success is a bit of a mystery. We see the difficult consequences of perceived error, but the evolution of accomplishment is not always confined to the tidy measurements of academics. Character is something we craft from challenges, not ease.
Our son is struggling in a particular subject, one I could not fathom performing myself. It is a class he has chosen for himself, work he has struggled through alone. By all accounts he is succeeding in his college preparatory choices, failing at mastery over material.
Our daughter is forever eschewing those interests others deem valuable to her future in favor of her own less notable interests. Recently this created a rare opportunity for her to mentor another from a place of ability in an exercise I had undermined by over-valuing the paths not taken.
Tonight as I juggle a poor grade and unexpected messages of praise, I’m thinking of the way we speak validation and encouragement for personal success in moments of struggle. The ways in which we parent for character over accomplishment and the work of recognizing the difference.
worth
August 17, 2016 § 3 Comments
I could measure the moment in minutes or miles, dollars or degrees. It was a hot day in an empty parking lot, only the space of regret between the water park and home. My teenage son was vacillating between the underwhelming energy of the nearly vacant park and a newly recognized wish to chase stolen moments of summer down winding slides.
He wasn’t sure we should splurge on a day’s fees for a moment’s indulgence, but the cost of passage was more an investment in joy. A lesson in listening to the little voice of intuition.
It isn’t easy to show up to our wants when we cannot hide our tenderness. Wanting to play with the exuberance of youth in the long limbed expectations of a cumbersome sense of maturity. How often do we dismiss joy in the name of reason?
Without ceremony I asked only what he might regret more, squandering a dollar or missing an opportunity? So he flew, up the stairs and down the slides in a tireless parade of contentment until there was no more pull to march the long, curving path to the top; only a restful readiness to return home.
lost in thought
August 4, 2016 § 6 Comments
Here, where I so often safeguard my thoughts by documenting our days, there have been broad expanses of quiet in the gentle busyness of summer distractions. It has been a time of indulgent simplicity, but also one of complicated questioning as my thoughts perpetually snag on a memory from earlier this summer.
It is a day I have hesitated to sound out but cannot exclude for its relevance to our experiences.
One evening in June, my husband and I found ourselves caught in an uncomfortable conversation with acquaintances who were guests in our home. They spoke in narrow platitudes and their conviction challenged our tolerance. I was tempted to end the evening, to name their prejudice and sit in judgment of their words.
I might have called out the offense, but their children were playing happily upstairs. Their daughter has been a kind and generous, thoughtful, friend to our daughter as she settled into our new community. And so I hesitated, wondering:
Is it better to offer a safe space for different beliefs or the illusion of a controlled environment? Could I refuse our children their friendship or were they stronger for the questions their differences might inspire?
There was no easy answer and I bristled against the trespass with a self-righteous indignation. How could we allow our child to spend time under the influence of those whose beliefs contradict our own? How could we not?
What if the greatest gift we could give our children was the ability to acknowledge the good within others to better speak through our disagreements, respectfully, with empathy? To see and be seen in a world that feels mapped by lines of hate.
I returned to these thoughts, day after day, as news stories kept these questions present in my doubts. I began to wonder what might happen if instead of responding to hate with anger we paused in our speech to listen. What if the ugliness in our world is really an echo that might dissipate in silence?
Of course my optimism might be oversimplified, but the work of offering uncomfortable kindness in place of polite performances of tolerance has created a different expectation of self.
This week, as our daughter celebrated her twelfth birthday, we included the child whose family’s beliefs are so very different from our own. I listened as the small group engaged genuinely on topics that invited conflict, but were met with genuine acceptance and realized that our children are living a kinder truth.
In the noise of so much heartache, our children (collectively) are offering empathy where others might close their heart to compassion, exercising kindness where adults so often struggle against anger. Extending patience when emotions are passionately challenged.
They are listening and learning from our hopes and fears more than any of our certainties; sounding out their own truths, choosing their own friends.
four
May 2, 2016 § 2 Comments
Lessons come into my life at the exact moment I am open to their wisdom. They may feel familiar as the universe nudges me gently on the shoulder, but they become my own only when I allow myself to relinquish my defenses and create unhindered space for understanding.
In hindsight, there are almost always clues that inform a prelude to learning.
My first clue came in the form of a casual read as another writer estimated it takes about 90 seconds to shift perspectives and allow emotions to pass. It was a well-articulated, personal reflection that I respected for insightful honesty. I let this first nudge pass uneventfully.
At almost the same time, in an online course, Brené Brown coached me through a lesson on creating space with conscious, structured breaths for recognizing emotions. I breezed through the exercise detached without something urgent to release. Even as the powers that be tapped my shoulder, I couldn’t quite make the connection.
I was taking note without, yet, recognizing the value in the lesson. Opening myself for the work of practice without the immediacy of necessity.
On Friday my son alerted me to a momentary frustration; a situation symptomatic of an ongoing misunderstanding. I cannot speak enough to how natural it is, as a special needs parent or just a parent, for me to move from empathetic listener to veteran problem solver.
Reactive over receptive.
In those moments when I rush to action, worry communicates to my son he needs my intervention while simultaneously cautioning the school that I stand in judgement of their fallibility. Sometimes help looks a bit like control.
Last week I surrendered in four breaths to a curious evaluation of the emotions I might otherwise act on. Worry, fear, frustration, doubt. These are not the foundations I would choose to advocate for my child or his school. I wanted to feel curious and connected, engaged and empathetic to better facilitate communication for learning.
It’s hard to listen when you’re talking, so I kept breathing quietly into a place of patience; assuming the best for more genuine cooperation.
In that unplanned moment when I consciously created space to learn, the scale of my emotions and the urgency of my reaction shrunk to accommodate a mindset of possibility over reactivity. Peace over panic.
I don’t have a perfect number of breaths or an easy answer to my son’s experience, Friday my only answer was four deep breaths. I’m learning.
stand by me
January 25, 2016 § 7 Comments
It began at the end of school last Friday. My daughter was faced with a decision to muddle through a commitment to others while feeling ill or honor her commitment to self and disappoint others. She chose the latter. Not feeling well, she skipped play practice and headed home.
We each navigate a million different versions of this decision everyday; self or others. I was raised to be a people pleaser and move through the motions of responsibility to others even when resentful of the personal cost. It is easy to understand then that I almost missed the importance of my daughter’s choice.
I was quick to consider her irresponsible before weighing the maturity of her self-awareness. Ever one to get run down and sick, she recognized the early signs of exhaustion and chose self-care.
I’m sad to say it took me too long to appreciate my daughter’s awareness of her body’s needs and acknowledge the world would keep spinning on course despite the trajectory of her departure from expectations. Thankfully my emotions played out in the privacy of my living room with only my husband as witness while our daughter made the trip home by bus.
By the time I saw my daughter I could appreciate that this was not the decision of an irresponsible, insensitive child, but an act of self-care by a sensitive child who worried about disappointing a teacher she respects and a friend she cares for. In missing practice and letting down a friend who needed a ride, she was highly attuned to the consequences of her choice.
Still, she made the best choice she felt she could and then let go of guilt for confidence.
My daughter chose to risk being excluded from her school play for her absence and was validated by a thoughtful message from her teacher acknowledging the integrity of her decision with respect for health and well-being. I still don’t know how my daughter’s friend felt or if they will be ok today.
Last night, Friday’s actions were close in my daughter’s worries. She feared out loud that her friend might still be angry and that it would be uncomfortable sitting beside someone you care about knowing they might be mad. She dreaded the class where she could not escape the uncertainty of her friend’s feelings.
Growing up is hard, it isn’t easy finding balance between our needs and others. I’m thankful my daughter could make a difficult decision efficiently and wade through the complicated consequences mindfully. I love that she understands her self-worth with the same awareness she values others.
In fact, I’m pretty sure I could learn from her practice of self-compassion and trust in others. Mostly, I’m glad she let me sit with her through it all; however it all turns out.
living brave
January 13, 2016 § 4 Comments
As I approach exercises in Living Brave, I am reflecting on my core values and those individuals who guard my heart and honor my tenderness with safe havens of trust; beginning with home.
If living wholeheartedly means being vulnerable and present in genuine connectivity, then home is the place where we are invited each morning to show up in love and honor what is important to those most important to us. It is the place we first learn we are worthy regardless of our imperfection because we are loved unconditionally.
It is the place we are first brave.
In considering how I live bravely among my values and relationships in the context of home and family, it was quite simple to identify my intentions. Accountability, Compassion, Gratitude, Integrity, Joy, Learning, Love, Perseverance, Reliability, Respect, Sincerity, Trust.
Words like poetry that promise a sacred appreciation for and responsibility to my blessings. It is much harder to look to the places where my actions have not always aligned with my beliefs; where beautiful words spoke to broken promises.
Over the past few years, I struggled to mother against external expectations. I gauged myself against other’s examples of importance and fell into the danger of comparison. In these moments my children were held to an unfair example and I was bound to an impersonal standard that did not reflect my values.
On these occasions I discounted independence and curiosity for submissive conformity. Thankfully, my children remembered my early lessons and knew they were safe to challenge the contradiction in my expectations.
We do this for one another, offer save havens to fail so that we may try again.
This summer life contrived to offer me a second chance. In the chaos of living between houses, we carried the space of home in one another’s company. Our attention was intentional, like those early newborn days. Love and trust in moments of sleepy, disorientation. The entire world condensed in small moments.
More often now I find myself breathing into the difficult moments; softening against frustration to more purposefully cultivate days guided by a kinder attention.
I am more the mother I first chose to be; tender to those I have been entrusted great dreams and simple needs. I want to know that my children are armed for the world with confidence and kindness, that they move through the unknown certain of their worth and brave in uncertain adventures. That work begins with me.
role reversal
January 8, 2016 § 2 Comments
It started in a moment of mothering, an emotional unraveling that derailed my intentions. I was reacting to fear, rambling over my worries with too many words, when I recognized my son modeling the very behavior I was forgetting.
He listened patiently, without interruption, as my voice rose; accepted his responsibility without excuse; offered genuine remorse. He also proposed, independently, to rectify the wrong. He had received the difficult message and respectfully assumed the weight of his error.
When there was no anger left in my posture, my son cried and I saw the little boy who always smiled from the truest, most joyful, part of his soul. The toddler who had to climb and explore, to push boundaries and move fearlessly in creativity. The boy with ideas bigger than his years.
The teenager who is not quite ready to grow-up and desperate to be taken seriously.
Then I considered the problem at hand. Something so much smaller than the scale of my reaction and the scope of my son’s day. An incomplete assignment became a lesson in presence.
I was so busy teaching that I almost missed the demonstration of mastery. I forgot the spirit of the little boy whose shoulders are now taller than my own and the character he has not outgrown. We aspire to shape our children for the world we anticipate, but they create a world bigger than our experiences with uncomplicated wisdom.
We are each greater than our mistakes.
chance & choice
August 25, 2013 § 8 Comments
This week I was reminded of a valuable lesson: chance presents opportunities, choice empowers us to create change. One small act of faith accompanied by a series of intentional decisions have created an opportunity for our family to embrace uncertainty and for me to see myself more clearly.
I hesitated to share my last post, to speak of a new academic worry openly and to label an educator closed-minded. When I did, I wrote: I admire uncomfortable honesty. I write often of challenges to mark my children’s experiences and to center myself in greater self-awareness. In honoring our story I share difficult truths, this time I uncovered reflections of self of which I am not proud; my own uncomfortable truth.
My initial instinct in response to a brief, hurtful encounter with an educator was to shuffle my son’s schedule to avoid heartache and headaches. I wanted to shield him from unkindness or shortsightedness to create an atmosphere where discrimination wouldn’t clutter potential. Sometimes chance highlights choices to help us better see ourselves.
I was also hiding from the struggles I knew would shadow our school year. I labeled another but didn’t name my own shortsightedness. As the mother of a special needs child, when faced with the responsibility of advocating for my son and similarly challenged peers I chose an easier path. Chance humbled me with a difficult choice. I could leave my son in a classroom with a teacher that did not yet understand his needs or I could place him in the company of an unkind peer who had systematically bullied him for over a year.
Measuring experiences against uncertainty, flushing out potential from fears, weighing worries for the lesser of two harms I realized I could not so easily avoid the discomfort of an uncertain classroom. In both instances there is a threat of harm, an absence of control. The greater truth is we cannot so easily orchestrate our lives to avoid our fears.
If one choice hadn’t created new conflict I would have hidden from an opportunity, overlooking my son’s strengths and our abilities as a family to navigate a difficult experience. In focusing on protecting my child from harm, I almost overlooked his ability to inspire and inform. I expect this year will be riddled with challenges, more so for the uphill struggle, but the possibility that we can make a difference is encouraging. I am taking a chance and making a choice. I cannot shield my son from every unkindness, but I can have faith in his ability and my own to navigate difficult experiences with integrity.
scribblechic 