The Relentless Pursuit Of Peace At Home.

Originally posted July 1, 2014

It's a new month today.

I'm sure you already know.

My house is a disaster that would probably only take three hours to really clean - laundry and all - if I stopped everything and hustled.

Which isn't happening right now.

Because I'm sitting here writing.  Because I don't want to.

My tone is deflated, can you hear it?  New months are mini-new-years to me, bearing excitement and a feeling of clean.  I like new months.  Everything feels possible again, twelve times each year.

I'm struggling with my son.  This morning and the one previous, my husband has woken with him and taken him for early morning walks.  They've been out of the house before 6:00.  My husband is a miracle in that way, willing to embrace the early morning when he decides he must.

We want our son to thrive.  We're both doing the things we think we should.  Tim with the walks and the evening baseball in the yard, me with the from-the-gut patience, the keep-it-loose tone.  

We've determined that the only way to get our son to behave like a person we want to be around is to show him, relentlessly, that we want to be around him.  This has been hard for about two years.  There have been spots of reprieve, yes, and when we're in them I can scarcely breathe for fear that my exhales of relief might blow the whole thing over.

I've spoken vaguely about this before, and I'll vaguely say again that our magical, spirited boy is the greatest teacher I've ever had.  He is also relentless in his physical and vocal energy.  And sometimes, he seems to go away from us in his mind; he seems to become so focused on maintaining the manic energy his body is thrusting out through him that his eyes start to look different and he begins to laugh in a way that makes me want to cry.  

He doesn't feel good in those moments.  I know that.  Some book somewhere said something like, "A child who feels good, behaves well."  I want to give that book the finger.  Because I can't figure out why he doesn't feel good.  Have I failed him?  Surely.  Have I said no when I should have said yes?  Of course.  As a relentlessly analytical mother, I hyper-observe myself constantly and while I see missteps and reasons for apology, mostly what I see is good parenting.  Our mistakes do not seem to equal the behavior we're seeing in him.

Last night my husband said that we need to find a child behaviorist.

"It would be good to know if this is age appropriate stuff.  Even just knowing that it was a phase would be helpful."

We're spinning it already, trying to see the angle from which our son is fine.  And while I want him to be fine more than I want anything else, it occurred to me this morning that instead of fine, I almost want an official person with fancy frames hanging on the wall to tell me that, indeed, something is amiss.  Because if something is amiss, the totality of my son's behavioral struggles won't be on me.  I'm so weary of every perceived behavior issue being caused, in my mind, by something I've failed at as his mother.

I'm going to do the thing you're not supposed to do for a moment - look at the very real fact that I have another child who behaves very differently.  When I'm alone with her, I'm consistently reminded of how different parenting her feels.  It's easier, yes, but it also feels like I imagine parenting should feel.  When I tell her she can't do Hidden Pictures on the iPad, she gets mad and huffs and puffs.  She cries and when she screams too loud, I tell her that's too loud and she knows I mean it and she stops pushing.  Then she mopes some more and tells me she's bored and that she hates my rules and I matter-of-factly tell her that she needs to find something fun to do.  I give suggestions.  She takes one.  And then our day goes on.  

I can do upset children.  I can handle them being angry at me when I make decisions they don't like.

But I often feel like I live on the edge.  Like glassy eyes and petulant tones and pointed defiance are on one side, and a life in which I've loved my son enough and in just the right ways are on the other.  It's clear which side of the edge I want to land on.

The stakes just feel so high.

The only thing I can think to do is keep scooping love from deep inside the well; the pure kind of love that's been sitting in my middle for eons.  I'm going to keep pouring it all over my kids.  I hope this kind of love can buoy my daughter and I hope this kind of love can heal whatever's been wounded in my son.

And I hope, in the pouring, that I spill a little bit onto my husband, and maybe some drops onto me, too.

For the Love,
*E

Some Day In November.

Originally posted November 14, 2013

I am the mom at the park with my kids on the cell phone, writing.

It is that day.

The day where I feel gone, far away from what I know, questioning the very thing I want to think I know. Which is that maybe I'm okay.

My months look something like this: I'm okay for a week, I'm a mess for a week, and I'm in the middle for two weeks.

I just exited okay and am sliding toward messy, the gut full of doubt and failure and useless.

I know that only I can find the remedy.

This morning I wished to be a dog. Simple looking at what was around me, simple awareness without the intent for self-destruction or judgement or the knowledge that change is required, preferred, desired.

I don't know how you in-tact-self-worth, in-each-moment people do it. Do you simply will yourselves to believe you're enough? I need instructions.

Last night, my husband pondered aloud the idea of my desire to create a persona, instead of simply being a person.

This morning, a friend pondered aloud if perhaps it was time for me to retreat into the actual life that I have for the winter. A bit of a hibernation. That maybe that would help me in creating the outer world I seem to think I need.

Inner before outer.

I know.

Also? You don't have to be here reading this, you know. Even if you know me and love me - which, thank you - please don't be here if you roll your eyes and sigh every time this happens. I know I'm a lot. I burden myself, too. And I question whether or not talking about all of this publicly still makes sense. Sometimes it feels wildly self indulgent, and sometimes I can feel and see connections deepening. Two sides.

Of course.

The children have created a rocket ship and are encouraging me to board to escape the monster.

Which is clearly something to consider.

*E

On Therapy and Birthday Prayers.

Originally posted November 19, 2013

Getting back into a regular therapy routine has been profoundly awesome for so many reasons.

First, my therapist is badass. She's like this guru-ish, f-bomb dropping, wise goddess. I was steered toward her more than ten years ago, and have seen her off and on since then. She got me through my dad dying. And she's helping me, now, to actually heal some of the old cracks that have been oozing, to some degree, forever.

Also, I just really like having predictable, regular things in my schedule. Kids in school Mondays and Wednesdays. Therapy on Mondays. Work Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday. Triple espresso every morning. You get the idea. Regularly starting my week with this focused brain exploration and flushing-out is so good for someone like me, who often gets mired in the loop of my neuroses, anxiety, and bad habits.

So yesterday, I'm sitting there and she asks me how things have been going with Osi. I'd been there two weeks ago talking about him - about the uneven balance of power in our home (how his volume + his passionate nature + his physicality = eggshells for all), about the rage I've let explode a few times after being triggered and not keeping my shit in check, about what that shit is, and why it's there. Last time, I'd decided that the thing that mattered more than anything else was that I take the time to appropriately deal with Osiah's behaviors and moods, no matter what. I knew that it would take twice as long as I wanted it to, and that it might feel hard to emotionally disengage from his age-appropriate behavior. But losing my mind because he wouldn't listen/was screaming at me/had dumped all of the LEGOS out simply was not an option anymore. It was off the table. Take The Time - it was my new mantra.

Back to yesterday. I tell her things have gone really well, that I haven't become charged at all, really, by my kids behavior. They've driven me crazy, yes, and I've felt frustrated and angry, yes, but their behavior hasn't felt personal - it hasn't felt at me. I tell her that I've been able to look at my kids when they've been whining or carrying on about not wanting to put their socks on (because it's "soooo hard now!") and just see them as people having feelings. Not my kids having feelings about me or at me - just humans in the world feeling things and expressing them. I tell her I've been able to console Osiah while setting the boundaries he needs. I've been pretty easy-breezy with them, even if they haven't been with me. My constant loop of "is this okay? Am I scarring them? Are they okay?" has been really, strangely, quiet.

I tell her all of these things.

And then she says something.

She says, "Wow. This is healing. You have healed something," and my throat starts to tighten, my eyes burn, the tears come to the edge and then tumble down. Then her eyes turn red and her voice cracks and we both sit for a few seconds inside the reality that something has healed.

These seconds are full of the weight of grace.

I say words of gratitude and thanks and awe.

Then we dry our eyes and plunge into what's next.

:::

The other night I wrote this. I think it's a poem.

Maybe it's a prayer.

And since today is my birthday, maybe it's my birthday prayer.

I want to land in your softness, the light of your insides, the longing I can’t describe but know when it touches my hands.

I can’t breathe. I flood. I die. And then it all washes down river, away, when you make me laugh like that, your voice deep down and your hands steady.

I want to roll up into all of it, nestle myself in the crook of the neck of all of it, sleepily looking up at all that is inside this minute. I want to stop time, accelerate just enough, slow down so I can see every cell.

I want to cover myself in gauze, wrapped around until I’m stiff and strong. I want to unravel, unfold until the last tethered edges fall down and graze my battered ankles.

I want to stoop and crouch and fall to my knees in thanks. I want to scrape the gravel to my flesh, draw blood, watch it gather and ooze and drop. I want to watch my skin scab and heal, grow new and pink and alive.

New and pink and alive.

I want to land.

I will land.

:::

Happy day.

All of the love I have, I'm gifting it to you today.

*E

The Miracle of Discomfort.

Originally posted December 24, 2013

"At the beginning of 2013, you were so sure it was going to be 'your year'. And you know, it hasn't been in the way you thought it would be, but it's still been your year."

As soon as she said it, I knew she was right.

I felt proud.

When the dawn of 2013 arrived, I saw on its horizon a year of success and sparkle and grins and sun-drenched moments of "in it" joy. I was sure that it was the year my blog was going to become famous, that my kids would sail into the easy zone, and that my marriage would be gleaming and covet-able.

Instead, 2013 has been, in a word, uncomfortable. It's been fucking hard. My blog? Still little and local. Which is fine, of course. It's the least important thing on the list of important things. My kids are being exactly perfect in their kid-ness, learning and making mistakes and teaching me how to be patient and ever-more human, just like them. My marriage has visited new places of, "Really? We're here?" We've looked at each other and seen strangers. We've been silent in ways that gave me chills.

And yet it was still my year. Because I did it. I sat inside of extreme discomfort. I didn't erase it or shove it outside of the frame. I went to therapy week after week and raged and cried and had moments of incredible clarity. I sank into moments that felt hopeless and I got cozy there. It was sometimes horrible.

But I did it.

And that, my friends, feels like a miracle.

Pain happens in the every day. Change happens in the every day. Growth happens when we sit, when we make the choice to really exist inside of our every day.

I'm just gonna keep on doing that.

Wishing you the best, real-est moments to get cozy in,
*E

I Cry In My Car, Too.

Originally posted October 30, 2013

I obsess about parenting like some people obsess about dieting or sports or shoe trends.  It's constant, like most obsessions are, and simultaneously leaves me feeling both stimulated and diminished.  

I am always on alert, studying my tone of voice like I'm a choral instructor checking for pitchiness.   Too quick?  Too short?  Was there too much exasperation in that, "Whhhat?" even though it was the 87th "Mama, I need..." in the last 20 minutes?  I panic that rushed mornings are scarring my children, that my desire for them to simply get in the car and shut the door so we can go already is going to make it into their adult therapy sessions.

Likewise, I worry that I'm setting them up for failure because I ask too little of them.  That the reason they want me to do everything for them is because I do everything for them, and that they aren't learning important life skills because they aren't required to empty the dishwasher or fold the napkins. 

I can't tell what's real and what isn't, if I'm actually, generally, the kind of mother that I want to be, or if I'm simply aware of my potential as a patient, appropriately attentive, supportive-in-the-right-ways parent.

And so this afternoon, I sat in my car and sobbed.  Because I love them so goddamn much.  And because I don't know how to be gentle with myself.  And because this shit is just hard.   I sat there, like so many of us do, heaving in the incubator of those four doors, grateful for the stillness and the containment.  I sat there and cried and I wanted answers to wash over me.  Things like this - like life - don't have them, I suspect. 

Just relax I hear myself say, which is obviously an impossibility here.  If I could just relax about the most important job I will ever do, I would, of course.  Instead, I know that this obsession, which is really just tangible fear and uncertainty, will guide me somewhere good if I just keep paying attention.

But shit if this "being human" thing doesn't take you for one hell of a twisty ride. 

In solidarity,
*E