Auto Paralysis

Lately, I find great pleasure in quiet car moments.  Quiet, as in the car is parked and kidless.  We've made it home, everyone spills out, and I am catatonic, unable to move.  

I imagine all the noise that just shifted from the car to our house - dragging and dropping things, racing to the kitchen, everyone talking at the same time.  Quickly, the noise feels far, far away.  It's so peaceful behind the wheel, even behind the broken windshield.  

I don't worship my car like I used to as a late teen or 20-something, before "dependents" and evern before much climate change awareness.  I am not relishing in some song, or in the freedom of the road.  But this silent, grey, aged mini-van cradles me in a freedom just as vital:  the freedom to catch my breath.

Allowance versus Hornets

For a while now, I have had a mental block about allowance.  I want our kids to learn how to manage money and how to earn it!  But, I've made the whole deal a little more complicated than it needs to be.

For example, I've gotten distracted by the delivery of the funds.  Hooked on the idea that the kids retrieve their allowance via their own mailbox attached to a white fence, I also dreamed of their reaching over flowers to get it.  While the mailboxes have been there for years, the cosmos below are  from seeds planted in August!  I have definitely strayed from the whole allowance issue, but by now, the kids have, too.  After waiting so long, they anticipate hornet nests in their boxes, rather than funds.  But, we're back on track.  Sunday delivery.  After chores...

Police Officer Parenting

Today, my son begged and begged for a thing I just couldn't (and shouldn't and wouldn't) deliver.  We were at a park, and he wanted to find "Poppy," the perfect acorn.  Nothing fit the bill.  I couldn't make it right, nor could a genie in a bottle or a million dollars.  Yet, sitting with an agonized child, sitting with their agony, is not a simple task.

Also today, I begged and begged a police officer to give me a warning rather than a speeding ticket.  The traffic and construction crossing town was unpredictable, and about 1/4 mile from school, I got stopped.  I don't think the officer felt my agony, nor did he feel any agony in giving me the ticket.

I don't want to parent like a police officer.  I don't want to set my kids up to expect rigid people and a rigid world.  I want them to feel room to be creative, with words and deeds.  But, I also want them to go the speed limit, and accept cold consequences when they come, be it a lost acorn or a humiliating fine.

The No-Hit Necklace

This morning, John directed my attention to his necklace:  "When I want to hit people, I can hold my necklace and it makes me calm.  It takes my hit away."

By habit, I was initially tempted to address John's all-too-present desire to hit.  But actually, if I'm honest enough to own it, I could use a calming necklace here and there myself.

We talk about "taking the hurt away," but why not gently take "the hit" away, too?  It's sort of the other side of the coin...

So, I am refreshed by John's honesty, and I have renewed affection for necklaces.

Parent & Chicken Line-up

Recently, on a wintry day, I was struck by horizontal rows of beings, out enduring the cold.  

As our family ventured out to go sledding, there was a perfect line-up of parents right on the crest of the hill.  It was a beautiful spot, with the trees forming their own line as a backdrop.  Some people were all decked out for adventure, some held coffee cups, and all were engrossed in the action going down.  

Bundled up there in a row, the cold parents reminded me of our chickens, who likewise form a line-up, usually in the the sun against the house.  1-2-3-4-5-6.  Catching rays, pecking around.  

I guess there is something about standing side-by-side, facing the cold, eating or drinking, and watching the show.

Saying Hi. And I love you.

John made a pronouncement the other day:  "Now I'm only going to say 'hi' to the people I know."

For a while, John felt that it was his prerogative to say "hello" to every person he encountered.  These little determinations and conclusions must be exhausting for a 4-year old.  I remember Will in kindergarten had that same inclination when saying "goodbye" as he left school.  He shouted it out to everyone he slightly recognized, up to 500 yards away.  It prompted the old parental dilemma: do I just admire as he puts himself out there and other kids stare blankly back, or do I use it as a teaching moment to describe some inexplicable "code of behavior."

With my fourth child, my inclination is just to let him learn on his own and give him some positive karma, pick him up and hug him and think (though not say) how lucky those people are to be beneficiaries of his open his heart.

In that vein, I generally hope I get better as a parent at giving that love vibe more and talking less.  It is probably appropriate for me, too, to hold back from screaming across the field to my now 11-year old,  "Hi honey!  How was your day? I love you! I just think you are a shining star!"

Honestly, we're all probably right there with John: what's the code?

Wimpy Kid

I have long taken the parenting position of "simplify," "take away pressure," "make things easy," "slow down."  I have done so often to make things easier on me, but also to encourage a peaceful, even thoughtful state of mind when facing the world.  Life is complicated enough already.

On a recent trip to the ski slopes, however, I began to question the long-term benefit of my approach.  I watched as other parents pushed their kids to ski, laid on the pressure, ignored cries, dragged them down the mountain, kicking and screaming.  Honestly, maybe these kids will be tougher in the face of pressures in the grown up world.  Maybe they're developing a thick skin when it comes to immediate challenges, whereas my kids might dodge the pressure altogether.  After all, these kids do seem to be skiing.

On the one hand, I want my kids to know how to navigate, even minimize pressure, but what about the times they can't avoid it?  Will they stand strong, or run for their Boulder yoga mats? (Not that I find anything wrong with that...)

To be perfectly honest, I can push right up against that pressure threshold, too.  We were out there skiing.  I could have easily prompted (or exacerbated) a panic attack had I not:

• Offered endless pieces of gum throughout the day;
• Dangled the promise of "hot chocolate" in front of them so much that they don't even want it any more!
• Picked John up after almost every fall, rather than let him lie there and fend for himself;
• Strapped on John's little cross country skies, rather than let him take forever doing his own;
• Taken great care not to touch John as he dismounted the magic carpet ("ALL BY MYSELF!") even if all those behind him had a look of terror, anticipating a domino effect pile-up of bodies should he fall;
• Carefully orchestrated an advanced math turn-taking system for who gets on the magic carpet first;
• Lied a little.

Who really had control in our overall situation, they or I?  Honestly, I'm not sure.  And with all my accommodations, am I heedlessly dodging pressures or subconsciously still throwing my kids to the wolves?

With four kids and ten years of parenting, I don't know the answers.  In fact, sometimes the answers become less and less clear.  I just know that most of us follow our instincts and hope they are good ones, at least a good part of the time.

Close

I marvel at my childrens' pure desire for skin, for body heat, for the safety of family flesh.

This summer, as we took a roadtrip, John sat in the back of the car calling for whichever parent was in the passenger seat to sit beside him.  Just to cuddle.  Just to be close.  My girls, now 6 and 8, pounce on my empty lap.  I sit and in an instant, I have children fighting for my legs.

At times, my internal voice is crying out for space.  Or maybe even the food right in front of me that I can't reach due to the child in my lap.  It makes me laugh sometimes when Jeff comes home from work and raises his hands as if for help, wading, waist high in a swarm of flesh-grabbing children.

But when I really look close, most (not all, but most) of my claustrophobia comes from pressures in my head, not the weight of children.  I am worried about schedules, about managing needs, about the skills I lack, the things I'm not, the things I wish, faults, fears, my children's faults and fears, somehow connected to mine.  My own mental clutter is what limits my senses.

But, in that moment of their reaching out, what matters is my children and their skin.  It is right before me, pure, new, unscathed, beautiful.  And they are crying out for mine.

My wish is to soften, and to energize my own shell.  To make it present for them, so when they clamber for proximity, they can feel me close.  They can feel my belief in them, my love.  More my hopes and less my fears.  And they can know that they are more important than any distraction, even though the distractions sometimes take precedence.  And maybe, when they grow up, they will remember, they will still know the power of touch, and the magic of family flesh.

Waiting for Train

Twice a week, John and I bike over train tracks on our way home from his preschool.  We arrive at this spot mid-day, poised beside a busy freeway, breathing in lots of fumes.  But, often, we catch a slow-moving train.

It seems quite idyllic, a boy on a bike (actually in a burley), a train passing underneath.  The first time it happened, we stopped, waited for the train to reach us, and then stayed approximately 3000 minutes, in 150 degree heat, as each boxcar creeped by.  Numerous bikers rode by, cooing at the sweet sight of boy and train.

The next time, we could barely make out the train's light, miles away.  John begged for us to stop, desperate to see the train approach.  Again, oooo's and ah's from others whizzing by, but none of them stopped!  It's one thing to watch a sweet boy watching the train, it's another sit there and watch it, too!

So these days, I feel a bit cruel, racing home from school to beat the train-sighting.  We do indulge in many slow-paced things - making roly-poly habitats for hours at a time, pushing the two-wheeler bike until my back almost breaks, pushing a swing until I fall asleep standing up, throwing a football back and forth for multiple soccer games.  But, standing in fumes for 30 minutes to watch a train light miles ahead, not even sure it's moving, I draw the line.

Maybe more of us should stop to smell the roses, stop to watch the trains.  But, honestly, you have to be selective.  If you smell ALL the roses, and watch ALL the trains, there will be nothing else - no dinner, no naps, no clean laundry, no bike rides, no peace.

Ballerina Discipline

June takes ballet on Saturday mornings.  It's a little dream world.  The simplicity and the discipline is so appealing to me, partly because of the stark comparison to our everyday life:

Ballet:  Beautiful, clear music.
Home:  Music, and 100 other noises on top.

Ballet:  Fold sweet pink clothes as your get ready for class.
Home:  Throw everything, everywhere, and generally miss whatever the desired placement may be.

Ballet:  Stretch, long neck, look up, reach out.
Home:  Hunker in and scramble to move in 10 directions at once.

Ballet:  Singular focus.
Home:  Constant multi-tasking.

Ballet:  Little dancers coordinate moves, flow together.
Home:  Little "dancers" seem always to be going in opposing directions.

Ballet:  Room is virtually free of any clutter.
Home:  Not a single room is free of clutter.

Ballet:  Floor shines, reflects sweet little dancing bodies.
Home:  Floor is covered with milk and orange juice and spit up and I won't elaborate any more.

Ballet:  Everyone seems so peaceful, so poised.
Home:  Poise is not even on the priority list.  Peace is always the distant dream.

I really do love June's ballet.  She loves it, too.  Maybe even for some of the same reasons.  In fact, I have a new idea.  I think our whole family should start doing ballet.  We could experience a complete transformation.

Legs

Suddenly, Clara's legs have grown 10 inches.  I don't know how or when it happened.  She became long and lanky overnight.  Today was the proof.

First, all attempts to fit into the grocery cart with John failed.  No sitting in the driving seat up front.  No riding in the place where you put the groceries.  Even standing on the back was a challenge, especially for the drivers.

Later, as we took a neighborhood "walk," she turned into a spider on the tricycle as her knees almost reached her ears.

Finally, all the pants that her cousin passed down actually fit now.  They end at her ankles instead of bunching up like an elephant.

Clara is a runner.  She leaps like an antelope.   And despite my selfish resistance, I can't wait to watch her fly with each growing year.

I LOUD

I woke up this morning to John throwing a ball around the room saying, "I LOUD."

Yes.  My family is loud.

I don't really consider myself a loud person.  I actually love quiet:  quiet music, quiet walks, quiet places, quiet people...  In fact, lots of noise sort of freaks me out.  But still, I seem to raise very loud kids.

The loudness manifests itself in a number of ways:
1 - Sheer volume.  As in lungs.  Somehow, they've all got them.  Even when calm.
2 - Physical activity that naturally accompanies the noise.  Banging, splashing, singing, kicking balls, batting balloons, you name it.
3 - Drone background noise.  (Possibly a coping mechanism?)  Everyone has their own style.
4 - Repetition to be heard.
5 - Competition to be heard.

On a walk today, I stopped and realized that I was trying to compute four lines of thought at the same time.  Every little mouth was moving fast and was aimed at me for a response:

• Will was questioning me about sharks; 
• Clara was baiting me to see a cat with a stump tail; 
• June was whining about her feet; 
• John was desperate for my "Oh, no" response (for the 100th time) to his story about tripping on the escalator with his dad.

It's too much for even the best multi-tasker (not me!) to keep up with.  But here we are.  My life, at present, is without a doubt one full of needs and of NOISE.

I couldn't find a picture that does our family loudness justice.  But, this one presents a possible solution...

Shower Spout and a Toddler's Mind

I had the opportunity today to observe some simple, unadulterated progressions in John's mind today.  There were no siblings, no parents (Obviously, I was there, but he'd forgotten about me), no friends, no animals.  Just John and a shower spout, easily an object of great fascination.  His thoughts seemed to go like this:

Cool - a shower spout, all to myself!

How do I turn it on?

I guess I'll get the sand off my hands and feet like everyone else does.

 But what if I do this??

And this!  I can make it spray everywhere.

I think I'll get some more sand on me so I can wash it off!

 

I'm thirsty!

Symbiotic Parenting Part II - Simon Says

As I wrote in my previous post, happy parenting in our household often means doing things with our kids that all of us, in our own way, like to do.  For Jeff, this might involve orchestrating games for his own amusement, games that the kids would happily play all day long.   For example, here is a game of Simon Says, Jeff style:

Simon says...

• Line up like the Von Trapp children and sing, very softly.  (Usually, everything they do is loud, so this is a nice change.)
• Pretend you are a granola bar.
• Pretend you are a worm.
• Pretend you are a scrambled egg.
• Pretend you are a glue monster.
• Pretend you are a sizzling piece of bacon in a pan.
• Line up like the Von Trapps and sing "Mama Mia," very softly.

• And finally, give mom a gentle kiss.
• Give dad a sweet hug.