Parenting with Sarcasm

Photo: Melting snowman in Jackie's yard

Warning: Thinks-she-knows-it-all parenting advice is forthcoming. You are not required to agree. Try some on, keep what fits. Share insights of your own. Truth is, by the time we get around to having a live conversation about this topic, my thoughts on the matter (and probably yours!) will have evolved further and I'll be in yet another 'new place.' (Oh, I do so enjoy the ride!)

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Recently, I was trying to put a finger on just what it is about my friends that I like so much. (Because, you see, my friends rock.) Obviously, there are the usual reasons - we have a lot in common, we feel comfortable talking about the heavy stuff, we can show our whole and true selves, we share similar hopes and dreams and ideals. But what really stands out for me, what I find most inspiring, satisfying, and beautiful is that they like their kids. I mean, really like them - as in they show the same respect and enjoyment of who they are as interesting people as they show their friends.

It's a sad thing that this seems surprising, unusual. It's how it should be. And I won't argue that the vast majority of parents don't love their children, it's how that love is expressed, how the parent-child relationship is played out where things get a little murky. I realized long ago that I'm no authoritarian, and my style is probably best defined as diplomacy. (Loving diplomacy, lest it sound high-handed in itself.) But even though I lean in this direction out of pure intuition and comfort, I have been witness to countless interactions between my friends and their children that astound me in their pureness and beauty and cause me to take stock over and over in how I treat my own children, not to mention how I treat my husband, and others in general. The age-old argument that if you give kids an inch they'll take a mile has been summarily disproven again and again, over years and years, by this handful of people whose lives are a constant testament to how things can be done differently - and I've been lucky enough to learn from them. They give their kids miles (and miles and miles) and what they get in return are kids with very strong legs.

I often wonder how to put it into words.... what is different about their relationships? For starters, there is a deep, authentic joy that is present. While we all tend to puff up a little at our kids' accomplishments - which means we are taking a bit of ownership in what they're doing - the joy my friends express seems to be unattached, in that their joy is shown with and for their kids and what they're up to, not because of what they've accomplished. They don't own who their kids are any more than they own who I am. Hmmm, I'm not being clear.

The key, I think, is authenticity. They don't work to try to be authentic - they are authentic. They don't ponder each moment wondering what is the best way to handle it - their every move is grounded in strong principle and is natural and free-flowing. I've rarely seen it in action, much less as an automatic, a given, and it's really a thing of beauty.

Sadly, most examples are far less illustrious. One particularly upsetting trend, one which seems to be growing, oddly enough, is parenting with sarcasm. I surmise the premise is to shame the child into different behavior. We know we don't like to be shamed, the argument goes - so if we shame our children, they will be humiliated into making a different and presumably better choice next time (though by whose standards, I'd ask). But I also wager this isn't done consciously so much as it is borne of the parent's own insecurity. Because they feel their child's every move reflects on them, they worry - dread, even - that someone might not think well of their children, or be bothered by their behavior, or, fear of all fears, look down upon them as parents.

I see it all the time, and it's ugly. I've been guilty of it myself, and it feels bad. I think it's one of the most insulting, degrading, and offensive methods of behavioral control. And for some reason, it has taken the place of stern discipline, where the parent directs and the child is meant to obey. (Who knew I'd come to miss authoritarian parenting! I don't, though I'll take the clear lesser of two evils in this case.)

As I said, I've been guilty of it myself. Who hasn't been mortified at her child's behavior in public on occasion? But it's how we handle it that separates the evolving from the it's-not-working-yet-I-do-it-anyway folks. It helps to consider your own reactions to others' children. When I see a mother struggling with her child in the supermarket, unless she is whacking him or being extremely awful, I feel empathy or a "been there" chuckle. Sometimes I offer help, or I smile so they know I'm not there lording it over them. So why do we flake out when it's our child and others are watching? If nothing else it's an opportunity to set an example in grace under pressure. And really, if your child is doing something so incredibly awful that you can't handle it gracefully, your problem didn't start just that minute but has been building for a while, and a larger examination of your relationship is probably called for. (I know, because I've been there. Sometimes I'm still there. I might be there tomorrow.)

A few years ago, there was a week where Brady was being especially harsh toward Jonathan. Normally he's a very patient big brother, and he has been known to treat Jonathan very respectfully. But that week something was building. I wasn't as on top of things in those days, so after a week of building anger and a particularly scathing insult toward Jonathan, I went to Brady's room to have a one-on-one. Attempts at scolding him hadn't worked thus far - I knew I needed to hear him. When he finally broke, what he told me was this - "He embarrasses me." I could clearly see it pained him to admit that - he was very ashamed of saying it out loud.

Brady is my Libra child, concerned with outward appearances, conservative in his public face (though fiercely liberal when comfortable); a diplomat, who errs on the side of caution under most circumstances. Jonathan, however, is spontaneous, loud, and doesn't have it in him to consider ahead of time what others will think of him and a particular behavior - he simply doesn't have that kind of radar. He lives in the moment. So you can see how these two personalities can make for a bit of a mess at times.

What I was able to tell Brady is that Jonathan's behavior doesn't reflect on him. If Jonathan does something that others frown upon, they don't blame Brady or look to him to fix it. (They might blame me, and that's ok.) And that's how it is with our kids in the grocery store. If we have a relationship of trust and really listening and really celebrating the joys, big or small, of our children, they'll have less reason to act out. And if they act out, something's wrong, and shaming and sarcasm probably aren't the answer.

Call it permissive parenting, roll your eyes that I give my kids too much leeway, I don't really care. I value their opinions about things, I give them say in their lives, they can tell me 'no' or disagree with me and we can have great discussions about why we feel the ways we feel - and for us, it works. Compared to some kids, my kids seem the perfect angels. Compared to others, they seem insubordinate and too opinionated. I don't measure it in those ways. I see each interaction, each day, each experience as an opportunity to make the best and most respectful choices possible. Sometimes the road to that place is a little muddy, but we understand each other better in the end.

Some of the unschooling gurus I glean advice from recommended a book called Parent-Teen Breakthrough: The Relationship Approach by Mira Kirshenbaum and Charles Foster. It is an amazing book, and Rob and I keep it at the ready (read: in the bathroom - LOL) for easy reference. I highly recommend it for any parents, not just parents of teens (when it's sometimes too late to completely reverse years of relationship damage, though that shouldn't stop anyone from dropping everything and trying with everything they've got).

And on that note, what books have changed your life? I'd love to hear all about it because I just love a life-altering paradigm shift! So please share - if not here, at piscesgrrl@aeroinc.net.

So, hug those kids of yours (or spouse, or friend, or parent, or whomever) and take a deep breath and remind yourself that it's the relationship that counts and how you get there IS important. And since you've humored my know-it-all exposition, I thank you, and I welcome your thoughts on this or any other matter!

Be well. Be happy.

~Namaste~

Culture Club

Photo: Marcelo cutting open a coconut with a machete

Photo: Elsa and Ana cracking open freshly roasted cashew nuts

Photo: Brady in front of the house we stayed in

We've returned from our trip to Panama! It was an intensely rich experience - full of excitement and new exploration, and fraught with its share of challenges, none of the expected kind!

We left on a Sunday from Chicago O'Hare, where nerves were a'jumble. Rob had injured his back while training for a marathon and lifting heavy boxes in a move, and Jonathan was suddenly nervous and decided to clamp his jaws shut and stop eating for the remainder of the trip. Overall, a less than desirable beginning to our adventure. Brady, however, was the surprise of the day. He-who-had-asked-several-times, "WHY do I have to go to Panama?" was browsing for Spanish dictionaries in the Houston airport during our layover; He-who-had-balked-at-learning-Spanish was asking how many things he could learn to say in the remaining 3 hour flight time, and whether he should just focus on soccer playing-related vocabulary. I was buoyed by his new enthusiasm, as it was Brady and his - shall we say - 'sensitivity' that had us worried about the trip.

My sister Jackie - who had been in Panama during her Peace Corp days - and her husband Marcelo - a Panamanian native (they call themselves Panameños) - met us at the airport and off we went to Marcelo's finca (farm). This being my fourth visit to Panama, I wished we weren't arriving at night. I found it unnerving on my first visit to bed down in an unfamiliar place without getting a good look at it first. But my children didn't seem fazed. We were greeted by Jackie's children and Marcel's mother and some of his family members when we arrived, and after a snack, shown to our house where we'd sleep. That's "our house" in the photo above. I couldn't get a good picture of the inside because the houses are fairly dark, being made of cinder blocks and cement and with little natural lighting. Our house had been Roberto's house (Marcelo's brother), but now stood empty and was used for storage. It had electricity and a fan - a treat for us wimpy northerners - and a spicket for water out back. It was nice to have our own sleeping quarters away from the main house.

The first two days were spent at the farm, which was perfect. The kids got to know their newly adopted primos (cousins), we got to visit with Marcelo's mother Elsa and get reacquainted with his family, and Rob and I - mostly Rob - got to dust off our Spanish and try to communicate. The kids played for hours in a large dirt pile near the house while we adults toured the homestead and ate large plates of food. The Panamanians are very gracious in their hospitality. Visitors are always served food and drinks straight off. On the last night we cooked and served an American meal, and as we plated food to serve the family and the guests who came to say goodbye, Jackie would watch and say, "More... more... that's for an adult, right? More....." until our serving portions were respectfully acceptable. We didn't go hungry for a moment during the entire trip!

Jonathan was still on a hunger strike, but Brady gobbled up seconds at most meals and asked if we were going to finish our leftovers. This is quite unlike him as he doesn't eat a lot at home, and he inherited my weak stomach and often complains of upset, but the only time that happened in Panama was when he ate Americanized food... Hmmm....! Elsa was pleased that he liked their food so much. The food wasn't anything too intimidating for us. Rice at every meal, fried platanos (plantains), pollo (chicken), and bollos (ground corn boiled like tamales) are the norm, along with lentils, eggs, and homemade corn tortillas (which we sadly didn't get a chance to eat). There are cashew, coconut, mango, orange, and grapefruit trees on Elsa's finca, as well as a few other fruit trees for which I can't recall the names. My kids thought it was great to have fresh fruit at the ready, and it was fun to watch Marcelo hack open a coconut with a machete, watch Darinel scale a tree to throw down fruits, and Elsa roast cashew nuts over a fire and crack them open with rocks. (Jonathan, never before a big citrus eater, has suddenly been eating oranges by the dozen, and always cuts and eats them "Panamanian-style" now. Who knew it wasn't the orange itself, but the serving style that makes the difference!)

While at the farm, we went to a nearby river for a swim, played soccer in the yard, played billar (pool) and drank sodas in glass bottles at the tienda (store) owned by Marcel's mother, sat in hammocks and chatted with relatives, and watched the children run and play. The language barrier didn't inhibit the boys. With Ana and Madelina as translators, they managed well enough to spend days laughing together. Brady and the rest of us got a good laugh when he said he thought Joseph could understand him because when he'd ask Joseph, "Do you understand what I'm saying?" Joseph would shake his head 'no' - and Brady laughed and said, "Then how did you know the right answer to my question!?!" It became one of several running jokes that we enjoyed throughout the week.

Day three had us piling into rental cars and heading for Boquete, a lovely small touristy town near the rainforest. It was a long drive, so we broke it up with an overnight at a motel in Santiago, but it was exciting to be on the historic Pan-American Highway, 29,800 miles of road linking the Americas - the world's "longest motorable road", stretching from Fairbanks, Alaska to the far reaches of South America.

The B&B at Boquete was called Boquete Garden Inn and was just lovely. Behind our apartments - which were like permanent yurts in shape - was a river brimming with rocks, perfect for jumping. The kids spent most of the first afternoon there while we adults got settled, rested in the sun, and joined in with the younger ones. A drive through town showed Boquete to have an international population, with Peruvian, Mexican, and Italian restaurants in addition to the Panamanian fare. That first night we made a bad restaurant choice and waited over sixty minutes for our food, only to be told that two of our entrees were not available. We were in good spirits anyhow, and retired to our comfortable rooms.

The next day we were reminded of our proximity to the rainforest, for it rained in sheets for the main part of the day. So much for a hike through the rainforest. After a trip to town, we settled in with games and food and watched the rain come down. That night we ate at a pizzeria and got a little loopy - and a lot loud. We have silly pictures to show for it. We apologized to the waitstaff for our silliness - luckily we were the only ones dining at the time.

Rob's back was really acting up at this point so we found a chiropractor at a country club. When that didn't help we found a doctor who would come in to see him (it was Good Friday). The doc gave him a cortisone shot and 3 medications for pain and muscle relaxation. I had to take a picture of that, too! The entire bill was $65.

We did take a short hike into the rainforest and left Rob behind to wait. We didn't hike long and it rained on us on our way out. We kept looking for sloths - we didn't see any, but we did have some little Indian kids who live in the rainforest come and ask if we wanted their photo and then ask us for money. Jackie had come prepared with pockets of quarters.

We then took off for our next stop, Chitre - to be near the ocean. Another three hour drive with Rob's back in spasms, and we made it to our next hotel. That hotel had an entirely different flavor, what I'd call almost "Disney-esque" in a Panamanian sort of way. We spent an entire day at the ocean where the kids fell in love with the coast. During our third hour of wave-jumping, Jonathan said, "The ocean is WAY cooler than a lake!" That it is. Unfortunately, we all got burned to a crisp despite sunscreen, and Jonathan got it the worst, poor guy. He spent the next two days in a bit of a funk.

Tuckered out, with Rob in increasing discomfort, we headed back for our 3-hour drive back to the farm. Jackie and I took Rob straight into the town of Chorrera to find another doc and more pain meds, and we all felt a bit relieved to be back at the farm again. More visitors, more food, more hordes of kids in play, more attempted Spanish, and a visit from a Panamanian witch doctor to do "the secret" - chanting and tapping in a particular pattern - to fix Rob's back took up the remaining time, and other than a growing worry for Rob's condition, we were all becoming a little sad about leaving. My mom had the amazing idea to bring egg-coloring kits and the kids spent a long time doing that. They loved it, and when we made them leave so we could hide the eggs for a hunt, I am certain the adults had more fun than the kids! We paired the kids off and sent them on the prowl, and the adults laughed and laughed at their enthusiasm. I put my eggs in somewhat obvious places thinking the kids would get too frustrated if they couldn't find them. Not the others - they hid them 8 feet up in notches in trees, deep in plants, and other obscure places. The kids were diligent and they found them all!

On the last day, Brady saw a scorpion climbing the wall of 'our' house, so some adults went on the prowl to try to find it (no luck - eek). But that spurred the kids into an eager curiousity about the tarantulas and scorpions and other scary critters that lurk nearby, and next thing we know, Brady has his video camera and Joseph is pouring water down tarantula holes to try to flush one out. It didn't work (and I was wishing I didn't suddenly know just how many holes there were in a ten-square-foot area near my house!!!), so Marcelo and his brother Bebo got in on the action and succeeded in rousting one from her hole! As we all screamed (the video is hilarious) and Jackie's two girls climbed me like a tree as I lumbered off, a kid to each hip, Marcelo said, "Oh, she's just a young one." Breathe... breathe... she was big enough for me, thank you very much, no need to meet her mama. She scurried to a nearby tree and Brady caught it all on tape. Unfortunately, they had to kill her, and we felt badly about that. But when something is a danger, they don't take any chances.

Emboldened, on to the scorpion hunt again. This time, Marcelo and Bebo again helped and they found one hiding under a rock. (Again, twenty feet from 'our' house - 'out of sight, out of mind' was quickly fading as my defensive philosophy.) Marcelo even showed his party trick of removing a central nerve from the scorpion's stomach - they held it down with sticks - which disabled its defenses so it wouldn't sting. Jonathan, ever the brave soul, immediately said, "My turn to hold it!" Um, no, child. And he said, "YES, Mom, I'm going to!" Thankfully, Marcelo explained to the kids that it wasn't entirely safe, it could still sting, and since he knows how badly it hurts he wouldn't let them take any chances. (phew!) The scorpion, too, was sacrificed for our curiosity and it became chicken food.

I was happy to learn that Marcelo hates snakes and so we would not continue our "flirting with disaster" journey to include them. There are several poisonous snakes there and everyone knows someone who was bitten and died. Snakes, they do not mess around with.

That last night we served pasta and meatballs, fruit salad, steamed mixed vegetables, and rolls for dinner. (With rice, in case someone didn't like the food.) The kids got really wound up and silly and spent the evening running and playing. We got packed up and made our travel plans for home.

Jackie's family left very early as they had a different flight, and we were a bit worried about finding the airport ourselves. So several of Marcel's family members escorted us to the airport, and we were very grateful. They were a huge help as we stopped yet again for a doc visit and another injection for Rob, and when we visited a pharmacy to get something for Jonathan's oozy sunburn. They took the kids for sodas and a walk while we returned the rental car, and we had a sweet goodbye at the airport. It's such an odd thing to have an emotionally intense experience with someone and then know you may never see them again - it's a difficult thing to navigate. But the kids fell in love with the country and the people and the kids and Jonathan is already asking when he can go back. So perhaps we will all meet again.

We are super grateful to Marcelo and Jackie for inviting us to join them in Panama. If not for them, we wouldn't have these experiences - we are so happy they've included us. They were gracious travel hosts, translators, and interpretors of cultural social graces. So, THANK YOU to them.

We are super grateful to my mom, our travel companion from start to finish. She's a great travel buddy, so much help with the kids, and helped us make decisions regarding Rob's care. So, THANK YOU to mom.

And we are super grateful to Marcelo's family for taking us in and sharing their home with us!

It was a lovely experience and tempered my wistful wanderlust, at least for a while. Pictures can be viewed at Kodak.com - six albums worth!

~Namaste~

Changed

Something is different. Something has shifted - twisted - settled - rested.

I feel different. I feel.... better.

It happened gradually, but I've been quite mindful during the shift. After a year of heaviness and pain and cloudy grief, I've turned a corner and I feel my energy returning. It feels really, really good.

I still have my moments, have no doubt, but I'm able to navigate them with less apprehension and more acceptance, knowing they will continue to come and I'll survive them. Cherish them, even. I still have to be careful to not stamp this journey complete, but I feel it is in keeping with who my father was to carry on and live a full life and feel as much joy as I can feel.

The other day, feeling too confident in my new shift, the hospital scenes flashed before me for just a moment, just long enough to feel the bolt of pain that accompanies the visions and to be reminded that even though a wound may heal, the visceral memory is there for a long, long time - perhaps forever.

We had another visitation the other night, this time of an elderly cousin of my paternal grandmother's generation, Fran Spelman. She was an incredibly sweet person and it is hard to imagine a world with one less truly-good person in it, but she lived a healthy, long life, and is survived by a beautiful clan of children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. While in the visitation line, I was watching the adorable children weaving in and out of legs, smiling at their lively spirits in spite of the sadness. And when we drove off, we saw the sweetest sight - a gaggle of Fran's great-grandchildren, all dressed in their spring finest, skipping off toward the nearby park, all smiles and pigtails and untucked shirts. I commented how kids actually enjoy these events for the opportunity to be with all their cousins in one spot for several days. And what greater legacy can one leave than a brood of children with beaming smiles for each other. Fran would smile at the thought.

Since we held my father's visitation at the local high school, the principal took the kids to the gymnasium to play. He was like the pied piper, marching down the hallway with key in hand, a trail of children of various sizes following like a row of ducklings. Occasionally, one of the older kids would come out for a check-in, flushed from play, and happy for the chance to run off the pent-up energy. It was the perfect set-up, and my father would've thought the idea just grand.

I must have cried all the tears I have, because for the first time ever, I attended two visitations without crying. Ordinarily, I cry at the sight of another person in tears, at the mere thought of people's sadness, at the very idea of attending such a sad event. But I haven't cried lately. It feels odd, yet okay. I've mourned from my very soul, cried for hours and days, and plunged into my grieving with arms open in submission. And I've come out the other side.

I'm sure the journey has only begun in some ways. My mom loaned us a CD with video footage from Panama, for us to show the kids in preparation for our trip. But she warned me that my father is on it, and so it sits, unwatched. Still photos are one thing - video of him living and breathing, well, I guess I'm not ready for that.

Today in the car, as Brady changed out of his soccer gear and into street shoes, I saw him with different eyes... he's grown so much this year, and I could just burst when I look at him and see who he's become. And it struck me what a powerful thing it is, to look upon this person who came from me, who is of me. And then I thought of myself, and how I'm from my father and mother, I'm of them. And I smile. I honor the circle.

So I'm back to things that, for the past year, were either done on auto-pilot or set aside altogether - running the kids to and fro, volunteering for all sorts of events and groups, complaining about trivial things, and making plans. I am grateful to my friends for their patience, to my husband for his calm and healing presence, to my kids for honoring my need to put things on hold for a while, and to my mom and siblings for sharing their own healing journey with me.

And in the true spirit of my father, that's enough laying around... let's get a move on. Or as he might've said, "Let's hit 'er in the shitter." (Such a lovely sentiment, eh?) :-)

~Namaste~

Reserved Seating

Photo: Reserved seating

I just love happening upon adorable things like the reserved seats in this photo. We were attending a high school play to see our super-cool-fun-special-amazing-talented friend Maria perform in Annie Get Your Gun, and we arrived early to get good seats. As we waited, and chatted, and goofed around with the camera, and laughed with some of our favorite friends, someone spied these notes two rows ahead. (Those are Brady's feet, too. :-)

Kids Online

Photos: A fun find - a snow teepee at Chestnut Mountain, where we skiied a few weeks ago

I almost forgot, and time is almost up! Pictures of the boys are published on an unschooling e-zine called *Connections*! It's for subscribers only, but as special friends of mine (*grin*) you can access the site for free during the month of March. So scurry on over and check it out! To log in, use the username fflaura and password endres. And once you get into the site, go to "Snapshots" on the top right. You should also grab a cuppa tea and spend some time perusing the entire site. It'll give you an idea of what unschooling looks like. Who knows? Maybe you'll be inspired enough to join us! That would be WAY cool.

One Year

On Sunday, my father will have been gone one year. Look at all he's missing.






Dad, where did you go?

Half-Crazed Mom seeks Single White (or any color, for that matter) Germ-Zapper

photo: My and Brady's trouncing by Jonathan, future real estate tycoon

On the blog section of MySpace (yep, I have a page) there is an option to list your "current mood," with the choices ranging from accomplished to recumbent to worried. (Recumbent? Maybe if I had a laptop?!) If I were to select one right now, it'd have to be "half-crazed" after five weeks - yes, five weeks - of tending sick kids and a trying-really-hard-not-to-get-more-sick self. We're having one of "those" winters - where as soon as one gets better, another gets sick, and once it's run through all the options it starts back at the beginning again.

Brady's second doc visit in less than a week, due to getting a fever *after* meds, resulted in bad, worse, and much worse news. Possibly bronchitis he can't kick, or mono, but he wheezes "at the bottom of each breath" which means he needs to get checked for asthma. Hold on a minute - this is my child whose last fever was so long ago we can't recall him ever having one, my child who eats extremely well and never overeats, my child who has such a mindfulness and self-aware relationship with food and health it puts me and my constant striving to eat healthier to shame. So, it's to the internet I go, to figure out what our options are before a pile of meds are shoved at us, and before we go the route of "difficult to insure" diagnoses and haggling with insurance companies.

Jonathan is the one who started the downturn, with a week-long bout of strep and high fevers, followed by a short break and then a foray into bronchitis with high fever, forcing us to cancel our Super Bowl Party festivites - an extra slap in the face for good measure. As if that wasn't enough, he's sick again, perhaps having never fully recuperated, perhaps having re-caught something, perhaps trying on a new bug just for kicks - I don't know. All I know is I had to buy 15 boxes of tissues at the grocer's yesterday, and am making pots of food heavy on the garlic, onions, veggies, and cayenne, and preparing herbal tea remedies that are "nasty," according to two snuffly boys.

When I started to get sick, I ignored it and kept going... through the intense and tiring homeschooling conference, through two days of running the kids, through a day of skiing... and then I woke up the next day at noon, feeling like I'd been run over by a truck. Ok, I give.

So here we are, for the fourth time in five weeks, hunkered down, a kid to each couch, movie player at the ready, library books scattered 'round, carefully measured mega-water allotments nearby, and me fetching snacks, laundering everything but the stapled-down carpet, tucking in cold bodies, rubbing aching heads, and cleaning up piles of used tissues.

I've gotta say, I'm going a little batty.

Poor Brady - he got it last and when my mama-nurturing vibes are running close to empty. Yesterday, I had to choke down my rising anger at the craziness of it all. Sometimes, I almost relish a small fever or sore throat that forces us to slow down and cancel commitments and spend a day cozied up by the fire. But enough already!

The thing that almost broke me was when Jonathan unknowingly slept with his silly putty on the new couch and the entire egg of the stuff got smashed into the cushion. Really, I had to go into the other room and shut the door and take deep breaths and rub my eyes to keep from crying or screaming or driving away into the sunset. I wasn't angry with him so much as just pissed off about the situation of being cooped up and tired of sickness. (Oh, and I'm starting a campaign to ban silly putty. Sign my petition at www.motherovertheedge.com. LOL)

So today, after Jonathan's insistence that I "never play" with him, we dragged out the Scrabble game and gave it a whirl. Jonathan queued up a whole mess of songs on iTunes, and we turned them up and sang really loud and danced around the kitchen in between scrabble turns. It was so fun!

And it was the turning point. At least for today. We might be home-bound until the gunk passes out of our systems, but I don't have to spend the days being grouchy. We can still be silly with chest colds. We can still sing with clogged heads. It doesn't sound so well, but we're germy and you're not invited over anyhow. (You really don't want this!)

Perspective

Photo: Snowy morning in January, view from our deck

During quiet moments, even as a child, I've known I am one of the lucky ones. I've often wondered why others struggled in so many ways while I lived in relative ease and calm and comfort. Who decides who among us get born into a life of poverty, abuse, illness or tragedy? And is there, contained within my privilege, an obligation to those less fortunate? A responsibility to do something larger?

When kids in high school ranted on about how much they hated their parents or about how their lives were so miserable (and some were), I remained supportive yet silent. It's no easy task to refrain from chiming in with an, "I hate my parents too!" when acceptance and conformity were the social lifelines of the day, but it simply wasn't true. I found other ways to act in solidarity with those struggling friends without selling out my family (or my own dignity) by lying. Fact is, I had it pretty damn good and I knew it. And knowing how emotionally high-maintenance I've always been, it was even more clear that I should appreciate those who suffered me through my growing pains.

That was the thing I chose to tell Rob during our recommitment ceremony, when our church offered a quiet and private opportunity to renew our vows. We were asked to think on one thing that stood out for us that we so loved about our spouses, and then share them privately with each other. Ever the rule-breaker, I of course had a couple things to say (how can you choose just one?), but most important was my deep appreciation that Rob unfailingly stands by me through my tidal waves of emotions, and is always there on the other side waiting for me, without judgment, when I crash from the ride. And as with my parents, I know that while I can think of a zillion petty things to complain about (and do) I cannot ever claim to be alone or unsupported. Because I'm not.

I think now, those moments of quiet, when I pondered my lucky fate in life, those moments were building a foundation for future struggles. Now that life has dealt me a bit of perspective, I can work to place this pain and sadness on the continuum and see that while this past year has had its share of darkness, there has been far more light in my life. I'm not only glad I know it now, as I tentatively emerge from this dark hole of grief and dip a toe back into living again, but I'm so-so-so glad I knew it then, even before I had the opposing dark to expose the light. Because I took those moments to thank the universe for its blessings, and I accepted the responsibility contained within that grace, to feel deep feelings of empathy and love for those less fortunate and to hopefully, on occasion, express my gratitude to those who made it so.

I told my mom the other day, now I know why adults are no fun. I recall whining at my parents on occasion, when I was a teen, that they were no fun. Why didn't they go out with friends more? Why the seriousness all the time? Why not let loose and laugh until your sides hurt and act spontaneously? They just smiled.

I now understand that once that innocence is stolen, it marks a new phase. And now things that should and can be happy and joyful are tempered with worry and caution and "please don't let anything bad happen" kinds of neuroses. And while we say "Oh, you can't live like that," we know that we can, and we do. As parents, we see visions of our toddlers having tragic accidents because we turn our heads for just a second. We imagine all manner of horrid possibilities when our teens hitch a ride with a friend. We get a little nutty about knee pads and bike helmets and looking both ways a thousand times before crossing the street and not being able to look when they swing from the top of the jungle gym or an uncle tosses them into the air. Things that occur millions of times without incident, though we know it only takes that one time....

When I agitate on tragic moments, I lament that could we retrieve just five seconds, would that have made a difference...

Rob wisely pointed out that it probably makes a difference every single time. When we had this conversation, he'd just run back into our friends' house after realizing we'd left something behind, and he commented... did leaving 30 seconds later than planned save us from a tragic fate? Or put us closer to harm's way? Is there some sort of divine predetermination about these things? Are some of us destined to live only short lives while others trudge through a century of mostly-healthy years like my still-living almost-95 year old grandmother?

And so it is that another tragedy has occurred... 16 year old Kaitlin Miller, family friend, was killed in a skiing accident last Saturday. She was skiing fast, she fell down, she hit her head, and she died. When I heard the news from a friend, I had to call back a few minutes later and ask.... are you sure.... because I just couldn't wrap my head around it.

I won't attempt to memorialize Kaitlin here, to lay claim to something that is not my right. But when one of us loses a child, we all lose a child. And the pain we all feel for the Miller family goes as deep as any pain has ever gone. There are no words to say, no deeds to lessen their sorrow. We can only grieve with them and for them and let them know they are not alone through this.

Life can be so incredibly cruel. And while this tragedy doesn't lessen my pain for my father, it adds another layer of perspective to it. That was the "proper" order of things - my father was supposed to go before me. Just not yet. But this... the loss of a child shakes every foundation and shows just how little control we actually have.

But Kaitlin knew what she had, too. Her parents found notebooks she'd kept, containing all the little inspirational notes her father had written and left for her at various times ("She was my project," he told us), but also notes of affirmation she'd written for herself, acknowledging her weaknesses to be worked on and her strengths to be celebrated. What amazing insight for so few years.

So, while it's difficult to see in the looming darkness, the examples are still before us. Be grateful for what we have. Acknowledge the goodness that is our fortune. File it away for when the time comes to draw upon the strength of it. Seek light and bask in its warmth.

And to Kaitlin and my father and all those who travel on ahead of us.....

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields.... and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~Namaste~

Masquerading Sadness

Photo: Jonathan with his regular order - a bacon cheeseburger

When we're tender from tragedy, grief wears many disguises. One can attend a function on auto-pilot and have concerned friends misinterpret it as "handling this so well." We can get annoyed with one another for not intuiting our needs. And anger can crack like a whip over seemingly trivial things.

The early days of grieving were marked with much confusion and little activity, and so it may have been an act of insanity to attempt anything so bold as an outing with the kids. But in a misguided move toward normalcy, Mom and I struck out one day, only two weeks after my dad's death, to take the grandkids to see a movie.

I didn't have the mindfulness thing quite down yet at that point, it was much too early. With time, I've become more discerning in discovering the triggers we all have, and therefore can back up and mend fences before the cows run amok. Most times. On the movie day, though, I let a simple thing turn into something big and ugly.

Hungry but not in the mood to cook, we stopped for sub sandwiches after the movie. A video gaming shop was next door, so Jonathan gave a quick order and the older kids left to browse gaming shelves while we picked up the food. My mother and I made our executive ordering decisions (we had five more at home to feed, in addition to our movie-going group) and ordered four big sandwiches, one of which was similar to what Jonathan asked for.

The dinner time was a loud affair, with mom cutting fruit, me cutting sandwiches, and the kids tossing all the couch pillows on the floor for some jumping. I served Jonathan his sandwich slice and even picked off the tomato since I knew he'd frown at it. Well, the sandwich had some kind of sauce spread on it and he complained it wasn't what he'd asked for. So I began offering all sorts of remedies. I'll scrape the sauce off. I'll get different bread. I have ham in the fridge and will make a new sandwich. But he continued to explain, tearfully and red-faced, that this wasn't what he'd asked for.

I wasn't angry or frustrated, and I was lovingly "fixing" the problem. Well, he refused to eat the sandwich, refused my offers for something different, and decided not to eat anything at all.

Jonathan's grandpa had died, unexpectedly, three weeks before. We were all extraordinarily fragile right then. Jonathan hadn't eaten any food before dinnertime on one single day since my father had died. And this movie-sub sandwich outing was our first venture back into life outside our dark grief. And I ordered the wrong damn sub.

When I told an acquaintance about it, who had, incidentally, just lost her daughter to cancer, she said, "I've been taking many, many deep breaths and reminding myself ***DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY!*** and soon it's really not about the sandwich anymore, it's just sadness leaking out disguised as anger and frustration."

I went to Jonathan and I held him and told him I was sorry I didn't order the sandwich he'd asked for. I'd made a mistake. I should have ordered the right one. He said, "Ok" and we were better. Not fixed, but better.

It might sound crazy, but if it wasn't for the amazing insights I glean from people further down the path than I, people who help me see how even - or especially - the slightest change in perspective can improve our lives, that scenario would've ended much differently. That night, Jonathan had one of his worst nights yet, coming to bed with me, choking back tears, saying he couldn't sleep, didn't feel well, and fidgeting late into the night. Everything makes a difference. And that day's lesson woke me up.

Dear Watcher

Today, as I was working on a column to submit to a magazine, I needed to find an old column I'd written. So I went to Brady's computer (my old computer) to find them. This activity, of course, led me WAY off-course, as I read through old documents and got lost in the memories. One delightful little tidbit I came upon was a letter I wrote to my "Watcher" - that nasty naysayer who lives inside my head. You know the one... The Voice who tells me I'm not good enough to be a writer. The well-disguised 'distractor' who pulls me away from my focus.

I find the letter to be still relevant, though thankfully less so. I believe it was a writing assignment from "The Artist's Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity " - a book by Julia Cameron. I highly recommend it if you have any sort of creative block. (Or even if you don't.)

I had something similar hung above my computer for a while, a reminder to stop worrying and fretting and to just do it. Finding this letter was an interesting opportunity to think about my watcher, see if it has the same hold on me. I'm happy to say it doesn't. It's still there, but I'm more apt to knock that shameless naysayer smack upside the head. Who is your watcher? What would you say to it?


Dear Watcher,

I’m not even sure what to say to you, because I’m not sure yet that I write often enough for you to get a good hold of me. Or maybe it’s you I’m grappling with, who tightens the feeling around my neck when I can’t write about something, who keeps me away from the computer and busy doing laundry and floor sweeping and other tasks that seem more important but are really just an excuse.

Perhaps you wouldn’t mind leaving me alone for awhile. I mean, you just made me go back and delete that extra space in the word awhile, between the ‘a’ and the ‘w’, even though I’m supposed to be writing stream of consciousness and not worrying about editing. I know it’s because I’m on a computer and it’s easier to go back quickly. But I think that during these exercises I’m supposed to just go on, and not edit. So if you would, please, settle down – we can edit later.

I would also appreciate it if you would not be so hard on me when I read the work of another. You immediately start telling me that I’m not nearly as good as that writer, that I don’t have a grasp on any subject like those others writers do, that I have no expertise in any area that would give me permission to write about it. I know all those things and it makes it worse that you confirm them. Why don’t you kindly nudge me to try anyway? Why don’t you tell me that perhaps I can tackle a subject in a different way, a way that might grab different people from the ones who are reading the "competitor’s" work? And why did you just use the word competitor? That’s crazy. We don’t need to see it like that any more.

Please don’t expect me to grasp the ‘wow’ of a passage and get to it on the first attempt. Writers have gone raving mad while trying to write, get their deepest thoughts out, make their best story gel together. Why should I have any less of a time with it? Of course I’m going to screw it up more often than not. Do you think painters or potters are any different? Do you think they pump out perfection each time they work? Isn’t it a constant journey toward betterment, but never achieving perfection?

You need to allow me to write more often, and you need to stop telling me that laundry and dishes are more important, because they’re not. They’ll still be there later, but my spark of an idea for a column or story may not. You need to remind me to carry my notebook with me so I can jot down those ideas that came to me all week but didn’t write down because I was thinking like a writer but not acting like one yet. You need to support me in the attempt and not be so hard on me when I write nothing but drivel. And you need to focus on me, not on others. I am having trouble justifying my need to write and I need someone in my corner, not adding to my fears.

If you could try a little harder, well, that would be lovely.

Warm regards,
Laura

Word Cloud

Here's my word cloud from snapshirts.com, where they search my blog for the most oft-used words.... Fun!

Expressions

Photo: Lone Tree that caught Brady's eye

As I sat down to write this morning, I found my time taken up instead by perusing old writings. I have several book beginnings (but no books), many journal entries, and columns written for newsletters, magazine submissions, and this blog. Reading through my writings on grief, I was taken back to the earliest days and the heaviness of that time. I'm grateful I penned much of it, because already I'd forgotten some things. I only wish I'd written more, and more often. It is good to remember.

Somehow, that's a difficult thing for me. I can recall emotions and feelings and senses about things, but not necessarily the particulars. Those are better kept by journaling - if only I'd stick with it more regularly. One particular journal entry I titled, "Expressions." I share some of it now for the beauty it contains, a small memory of the kids and some ways they processed their own grief during the intense, early days.

"My life is a topsy-turvy inner struggle right now, as I shut out the world and wrestle with the demons death has rained upon me. I'm having incredible dreams, and so many thoughts are visiting, so many things to ponder, memories to revisit, new feelings and experiences and perspectives to absorb and sit with... I feel like I've shed my old skin, and it will be amusing to see what my new skin looks like in time. For now, I am home - tending my mother, making muffins, barely getting dressed, and screening my calls. I feel like I'm visiting every ounce of sadness I've ever known, and taking the long rest that I've needed for a long, long time.

The kids' expressions of grief have been incredibly moving and powerful, even when they seem simple. My niece Ana (7) wrote a letter to my mom asking if she should sleep with her, and she drew a picture of grandma alone in bed and wrote "Lonely Grandma" above it. Niece Maddie (4) drew a picture of her and Papa John, with hundreds of tears streaming down their cheeks and onto the ground, even though she had declared, "Everyone is crying for Papa so I'm not going to cry." My son Brady (13) says he has conversations with his grandpa, and feels comfort in hearing his voice. He also decided to play basketball because Papa John had just taught him how to shoot baskets, 4 days before he died, and told Brady he is a natural. And my son Jonathan (9), true to his quirkiness, picked all the hard-boiled egg pieces out of his tuna sandwich, formed them into a sad face on his plate, and said, "This is my face ever since Papa John died."

I worry about my mother, and that gives me reason to rise in the morning and something to tend to. She is so scared and lost. There is no place where Dad's absence isn't deeply felt - he was everywhere, very very present. Funny, we used to complain about it.

Dad was quite the busy-butt, and he was *everywhere*. So his absence is so great and obvious and painful. There were 2,000 people at his visitation! I met people whose names I'd heard my entire life, since Dad was quite the storyteller. I only wish I'd met them under different circumstances, of course. Oh how Dad would've loved all his favorite people in one spot. He was a tried and true extrovert, who loved everyone he met. So many people said to me that Dad was the only person who ever treated them like they were human beings. The outpouring of love and sentiments and stories has been very healing, and very surprising. I knew Dad knew many people, but really.... "

The days have grown a bit easier, finally... the highs get a little higher each time, while the lows catch me more and more by surprise when they strike. The other day I attended a conflict resolution session, sure to be rife with emotion. I was fine up until the moment I walked in, when I suddenly felt very weepy. It seems I can operate if things are on an even keel, but if I have to dig into anything, it slices me wide open. This fragility is difficult.

And on we press.

~Namaste~

Pondering Patterns

Photo: Walking the labyrinth at Sinsinawa Mound, Women's Retreat

I've always needed help discovering my own rhythms, patterns, and needs. Countless times my mother has wisely interpreted my situation, pointing out the simplest things before they registered on my own radar. Usually, it's when I get sick or "hit a wall," as I call it. I will wonder why I've suddenly crashed and Mom will gently point out how busy I've been, how many things I've been juggling, how it's no wonder my body said "no more." And then when I think on it, I see she's right. Funny how someone else can see the inevitable crash coming, and I haven't yet learned to always sense it myself.

That's probably because I've got a lot of my father in me. I can go and go and go... and then things get all a'jumble. I start forgetting things, I get weepy or easily angered, and bam - I crash. But Dad rarely crashed. I don't think he ever crashed in the early days. He just kept on. That man had more energy than the rest of us put together, and it made for some unreasonable expectations. I once told him, after he'd complained about the lack of work ethic in someone else, that his comparison was unfair since his work ethic was not only off the charts, but so far off into the ozone as to never be seen with the naked eye. That man could work.

Not just physical work, though that was his forte (my Dad is probably one of few who'd regularly utter things like, "Why use a bulldozer to take down that silo when I can do it with my bare hands?" - and damn if he didn't actually do it), but cognitive 'work' as well. My father was a "man with a plan." No, not 'a' plan, several plans. He was always planning, and if the physical labor under his heavy hand didn't wear us out, his "I've been thinking...." did. If he wasn't making plans for the upkeep of the family farm, or my brother Matt's future, or the extra acreage I've let grown wild, or for the school district funding, or his insurance business, or Rob's career in insurance - and so on - he wasn't awake. He couldn't stop himself, we know now. It was a compulsion for him, as thrill-seeking is for others.

But he slowed down in the later years. Finally. It'd been a long time coming, and perhaps, too late. He drove himself too hard. For too long. He looked tired. He was tired.

And now without his intense energy and constant oversight, we struggle to get our bearings. We create new patterns, though for most of us, at a much less frenetic pace without Dad hovering over us. Not so with sister Jackie. She has taken over Dad's role as farm manager, and as if that wasn't enough to learn by immersion, she also took a part-time job with the Natural Land Institute. This, from my introverted, content-with-the-simple-things-in-life, mother-of-three sister. And I, the one who thrives on busy-ness like my father (though still out of his league), have grown more and more quiet, seeking solitude in the quiet spaces that I didn't notice before in my mad rush of living.

And Mom, well, now I'm the one to notice her patterns as they unfold. One particularly striking one is that at the moment when we notice, "Wow, she's doing really well today," we now follow it with, "Too well," as we've learned it's the high before the plummeting low. And we struggle on with our own unreasonable expectations and compulsions. Jackie, to fill the spaces with farm work, farm business, and her new job, and Mom, to "be fine" when she's really not.

My new patterns have brought some good from the bad, though, and I can't deny it. In my quietness, I've learned that in all my seeking and searching "out there," I have what I need right in front of me. It's made me not only appreciate but finally understand that I can easily miss what's right here when I'm so focused on other things and other places. It's brought a sense of calm I've never known. When I'm not pulled in a million different directions, I can more easily attend to the tasks at hand, put more of myself into them, give more than just a fleeting, scheduled, allotted-amount-of-time sort of attention, but rather the full me.

Everything takes on a new depth and meaning with this sort of acuity. Cooking has become less harried and more nurturing - both the ingredients chosen with greater care, and the actual meditative and therapeutic act of preparing itself - as I engage with more mindfulness. Tending to daily tasks can remind me to be appreciative that I actually have the time and I'm not doing them in a mad rush or with rising resentment, as was often the case. And answering a child's request for attention with actual undivided attention is a gift of presence, and serves to give on many levels.

At my last women's retreat, a friend led us in meditation. Many of us were rather new to it, and wondered if we could actually accomplish the 20-minute goal set for us. I was more able to settle than I expected. Before, and not so long ago, I'd have fought to contain my fidgeting, struggled to focus on something other than those around me, and spent most of the time trying to get relaxed so I could begin. But this new awareness, this new mindfulness, allows me to have a sort of tunnel vision that is freshly satisfying. It's not even something I asked for - it's something I needed and didn't know it.

Is this the sort of silver lining that comes from tragedy and great pain? I don't know. I know now that I can't control all the changes that come from such a life-altering event, and I see now that the lessons that come from pain are very different from the lessons that emerge from joy. When we experience a transition that is joyous, such as marriage, or the birth of a child, or having a new friend, the lessons come of willingness and eagerness and seeking. When our transition comes from pain, the lessons come of survival.

On an unschooling e-zine I read last night, a reader asked unschooling mother and author Rue Cream, "What’s something you keep in mind to help you be the kind of mother you want to be?" and she replied, "Memories."

She shares her fond memories of childhood with her children, but she also suggests that we know not which moments become the fondest memories of our own children, and so therefore ought to make each moment meaningful. Or put a different way, to be mindful so every moment and its choices are based in love, freedom, and respect. Put that way, how we answer our child's request for yet another drink of water provides an opportunity to deepen a pattern of mindfulness or a pattern of angst. Which shall we choose?

Finding this solitude within myself is a true gift, and it soothes that restlessness that I once saw as a 'given' part of my make-up that I must accept and obey. If the loss of my father has given me the gift of awareness, then his giving to me doesn't stop with his absence. It continues on. As we will continue on, taking up some of his patterns, like storytelling, and discarding others, like taking down silos with a sledge hammer, and ever mindful that through his example and in these days of retreat and healing, we continue to grow and become better.

~Namaste~

Tucson, AZ Trip Photos

Photo: Before our jog, to work off all that food!
Photo: dinner date
Photo: a work of art - Key Lime Pie at Wildflower restaurant
Photo: The fountain at the Westin La Paloma resort

Tucson, AZ Trip

Photo: amazing bougainvillea outside La Fuente Mexican Eatery
Photo: before final night dinner reception

Photo: rest stop on Catalina Mountain hike