Something That Came to Me Last Night

Last night, as I lay next to the children, helping them ease into sleep, an idea came to me.  I watched it play through my head like a movie - in images and in words and also in feelings.  It was intense and it haunted me.  I shared it with my Mom today and, as I described it to her, she said it sounded like a poem.  That was surprising and reassuring.  She told me that what I shared was something she has never thought of in quite that was and so perhaps it was an original idea, and we don't really have control over our ideas, so perhaps it was meant to be shared.  That was inspiration enough for me to write it up as a poem.  I hope you enjoy it.

How God Sees it, Maybe

At this moment she is experiencing the greatest sorrow of her life

And at this moment he is celebrating his greatest joy.

At this moment he is holding his child, who has just died

And at this moment she is holding her newborn baby.

At this moment a new life is being conceived

And at this moment someone is ending a life.

At this moment a scientist is working to improve the human condition

And at this moment an addict is shooting heroin.

At this moment an artist is creating her masterpiece

And at this moment someone is hitting a child he loves.

And all of this is happening in one moment

Every beautiful awful thing.

And God is in all of us

And so God is in all of it.

And we

God’s greatest work

His beloved

We do all of this

And still

We are his Beloved.

An Ash Wednesday Story

Today is Ash Wednesday - the first day of Lent.  My family and I are Catholics and I typically both look forward to and dread this season of "giving something up that I really enjoy" (technically, though, it is referred to as the season of penance, alms giving and fasting).  Each year the children are more aware and capable of participating in the season and I enjoy sharing it with them.  In the past, they would participate in the alms-giving by putting some of their allowance in a donation box that we give to the church on Easter which supports the charity Catholic Relief Services (CRS).  This year, they have engaged in many conversations about what to "give up" for Lent.  My six year old son decided to give up Nutella - a key ingredient in his favorite breakfast.  My nine year old daughter has chosen not to share her sacrifice and that is just fine with me but has inspired her brother to launch numerous suggestions her way, all of them received with barely concealed contempt and dramatic eye-rolling.  I like Ash Wednesday.  It is not a requirement to attend church on this day, but I always do so because I like the tradition and I like to take the children with me.  So, we all went to church before school this morning and we all got ashes on out foreheads. 

I have never felt weird about having them on my face (even though at some point in my day some stranger will inevitably pull me aside to advise me that I "have something" on my forehead), but this time the children were really self-conscious and didn't want to keep them on at school.  My daughter was especially upset. She hates to attract attention to herself under almost all circumstances, and at her age I suppose attention for being "different" is the worst kind.  I also think she was afraid I would be disappointed in her for feeling that way. I felt disappointment, yes. Thankfully, I was able to sort out my own feelings quickly enough to let her know that I was only disappointed that she wasn't feeling the happiness inside that I was feeling, and that I would not be upset at her if she wanted to wipe off the ashes before she went to school. She apologized over and over, and I said, "Please don't apologize to me.  You don't owe me an apology.  You haven't done anything to me and I am not disappointed in you."  "I know," she said.  After a pause, I said, "Do you think you might be disappointed that you don't feel the same way I feel about the ashes, and maybe you wish weren't worried about what others will think or say about them?"  Amazingly enough, she said "yes" to that, and so I said, "Well, that is ok too.  You can pray about that and maybe some day your feelings will change or they won't, but either way they are your feelings."  When we got to school she hugged me and thanked me for taking her to church. It was sweet. I am so grateful that I didn't get all authoritarian on her and thereby force her to sneak off and wash her ashes off in the school bathroom and then be left feeling ashamed, like she had done something wrong and had to hide it from me.  I am glad I didn't ruin Ash Wednesday for my daughter.  It can be so hard sometimes to know when to hold the line and when to bend, but in the end, my children's spirituality has to come from inside of them and it has to resonate with their own beings.

Becoming Aware of Reasonable Yet Unrealistic Expectations

My son gets credit for being the catalyst for my expanded awareness on this topic.  Yesterday afternoon, in almost every way possible, he failed to meet expectations that I believed were quite reasonable, but in hindsight clearly were unrealistic.  

I sensed the truth of this, vaguely, at the time, but felt the gears of my brain - the old beliefs grinding against the actual, present dynamics - processing too slowly to quell my frustration and desire to bend him to my will for him. Yucky.  I admit it.  Bad Mommy!  My old beliefs say that to be a good mother, I must set high expectations, communicate those expectations clearly, and when my child fails to meet them and does not also express dismay and/or a plan of action to do better next time, I must express my disappointment and/or disapproval, restate the expectation and extract a promise that he or she will try harder next time.  Yucky.  I admit it.  And, all of this despite limited evidence of any success with this method.  At least, not success without some pretty deep scars.  But, that is one of the definitions of insanity, right, doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result.  Well, this insane illogic-loop kept spinning while I took some deep calming breaths and then, because I was still trapped in my loop, stated my expectations calmly and, because some new wisdom was beginning to percolate through, I prayed to let go of the results.  I promised myself I would not repeat myself as evidence that I truly had let go and detached.  I reminded myself that when it comes to my son, verbalizing disapproval of him never, ever gets me the outcome I desire.  I took a few more deep calming breaths.  I managed to maintain the intention to detach, but then steeped in the repressed disapproval all through his little league practice and even barked at him to RUN FASTER as he happily lolly-gagged to first base.  Yuck.  Bad Mommy!  Needless to say, I awoke with some regrets about my parenting choices and entertained a shame-spiral as I sipped my morning chai tea.  Thankfully, I have some self help literature I read daily and today I read this:

 "The greatest obstacle to the learning process is shame. Shame is an excuse to hate ourselves for something we did or did not do in the past . . . . Today I will love myself enough to recognize that shame is an error in judgment." I know this to be true, but it helped to read it again.  

Later, I texted my Mom and shared this story with her.  She had some remarkably wise feedback.  Here is what she wrote (with some minor edits): 

"About unrealistic expectations.  Sometimes we can only see that in hind-sight. Parenting especially is like that because everyday we are faced with one of several 'people' our child is that day or even that morning versus the afternoon. What they were capable of yesterday may not be possible for them in that moment. Sometimes we are graced with insight or telling cues. Other times we are 'blind-sighted'. We are all at different levels of our best on any given day within a range of 'selves'. The wise come to know this. Children are in much greater flux and lack the insight or vocabulary to know what self they are dealing with that day, time, even moment.  So as you know, sometimes we fail, expect too much, and then forgive ourselves for being human. Over and over again."

Here is where I offer up a prayer that I can remember these words the next time I am tempted to slip into my old illogic-spiral because I know there is a better way and I trust that my son and I can find it together.

"I would not exchange the laughter of my heart for the fortunes of the multitudes; nor would I be content with converting my tears . . . into calm. It is my fervent hope that my whole life on this earth will ever be tears and laughter."  Kahlil Gibran

What has surprised you the most about the experience of parenting? If you are like me, in the early days, it was the profound exhaustion, the total loss of freedom, the new appreciation for what "24/7" really means, and the insane LOVE. As my children have grown and become more capable, I find new surprises lurk around each bend in the road. Many of these new surprises fall into the general category of "Feelings." When my children have what I like to call "Big Feelings," it can be hard to know how to handle them. I want to kiss it and make it all better (or at least turn down their volume). But, they are not babies anymore, and the hurts are much more complicated, and this is only the beginning! I am only sure of only one thing - I am powerless over their feelings. Sometimes I really hate that fact, but I am learning to accept it, and with acceptance comes the (sometimes) enjoyable and (always) enlightening process of helping them develop tools to identify, express, and eventually let go of their feelings. Living this process has given me hope - a hope that my children will come to know the vastness of their emotions without being slaves to them or enslaving others with them. This hope inspired me to write a little story for a young friend of mine. When I shared the story with my 9-year old daughter, she enthusiastically volunteered to illustrate it for me.  We hope you enjoy it.

The magic bracelet:

The Big Reveal - A Story of Christmas Magic Lost and Found

Has your family adopted an Elf on the Shelf?  We did.  His name was Charles George.  He was a good elf, who monitored the children’s behavior, reported back to Santa each night, and occasionally corresponded with the children and left them small gifts, and now, he is lost – hidden so well (by me) last Christmas Eve that I cannot find him anywhere.  For more than a week, I searched for him, alternately panicking and praying to St. Anthony, all to no avail.  Now what?  I pondered my options.  I considered buying a new elf and trying to pass him off as Charles George, but this year’s elves have redesigned faces and I knew the children would not be fooled.  I considered buying the redesigned elf and concocting a story about how this newer model came to us in Charles George’s place.  Two days ago, I drove to Target and stood for a long time – indecisive – before those alien elves.  In the end, I just couldn’t bring myself to lie in the face of my questioning-but–oh-so-wanting-to-believe 9-year-old daughter.  It seemed to me an insult to her belief  - her trust – at her age it just stretched it too far.  Though still undecided, I left the elves and headed for home, hoping against hope that our housekeeper or I might miraculously find our AWOL elf.  Alas, no. 

And now the children are home from school, busily and merrily decorating the tree while I lounge in my room with a book.  In time, my daughter wanders into my calm, womblike room and begins chatting earnestly with me about Charles George’s imminent arrival.  I close my book and raise my heart, mind, and eyes to God one last time, beseeching him for a miracle, or at least some wisdom.  The answer comes like a small stone falling into the deep, quiet pool of my heart.  I look into Gloria’s eyes and say, “There’s something I have to tell you.  I am so sorry, but I have looked everywhere for Charles George and I cannot find him.”  I watch her eyes, her facial music paused in uncomprehending silence.  Several moments pass in suspended animation.

            “What do you mean?”

            “I’ve looked everywhere,” I say softly, “and I can’t find Charles George.”

            “Are you telling me he’s not real?”  I give her a pained, apologetic grimace.

            “How is he NOT REAL?! …… It’s YOU?!  YOU move him?......... I KNEW IT!”  She is crying now and my heart hurts.  “YOU lied to me!  How could you lie to me like that?!  It can’t be you!  It can’t be!  You couldn’t do all of that!  How could you do it?  When?  In the middle of the night? (I nod)  YOU leave the candy?  The notes are from YOU?”

            “Yes.”

She is crying harder now, her sweet, bewildered face a mottled fuchsia.  She is hurting and so am I.  Each question, each exclamation another hard stone falling into my heart – plop….plop…plop.  I want to cry too, but she is such an empathetic person, I know that would be unbearable for her, so I simply pray and let the prayers and the hurt flow between us like blood washing a wound.  She is angry now.  I can feel it.  It crackles in the air.

            “How could you lie to me like that?”

            “It’s OK to be mad at me, sweetheart.  I know you are angry and that’s OK……..I just hope eventually you will remember how much fun it was to believe he was real, and the only way I could give you that fun – that magic – was to lie to you and to your brother.  And now that you know, I really hope you will help me keep this secret for your brother.”

            “I know…..I know.  He is only 6.  That would be really awful if he found out.”

            “Would you like a hug?” 

            She glances upward at me, through strings of hair that have fallen into her face and stuck to her tears.  She swipes fiercely at her face with the backs of her hands and says, “Not yet.”

            “OK.”

            Silence.

            “So, YOU wrote the note from Santa last year, saying Charles George was going back to the North Pole with him?”

            Oh, no.  I forgot about that.

            “That was you too?”

            “Dear God,” I say, either aloud or in my head.  This is spinning out into dangerous territory.  We are teetering on the edge of something so precious and fragile, balancing on a filament of belief that is stretching so thin, and I know, at this moment, one way or the other, she is going to fall.  She may fall into denial, slipping sweetly and innocently back into her magical world, or she will topple into reality and there will be no going back.

            “What about Santa, Mom?” She asks.

            I pause.  I feel I have to give her one last chance to turn back, like Persephone, to stay in the darkness for one more year.  “Let’s not talk about that right now, honey.”

            “No!  No!”  Tell me!  YOU HAVE TO TELL ME!  Is Santa real?”

            “There is a spirit of Christmas, love, that is very real.  Santa is real in spirit, but is he a big elf who brings you presents in his sleigh and climbs down our chimney?”  No, he’s not real like that.”

            Sad silence.

            “And the Easter Bunny?  And, the Tooth Fairy?  And, the Leprechaun?”

            “Oh, God.  Lord have mercy,” I say, as I watch her lurch into the bright light of a hard new reality.   A slightly hysterical giggle escapes my lips before I can stifle it, and I glance over to see if I have offended her.  “This is not funny, and I am not laughing at you, my love; I am laughing because I think I may be in Hell.”

            She looks at me and she chuckles.  My magic girl.  Our eyes meet and hers are smiling.  She has given me my miracle.  That is God’s mercy.

            We laugh together now and I feel our bond.  It is stronger.  We are allies now.

            “I know it hurts, honey, and this isn’t how I wanted you to find out, but I didn’t know what else to do.”  I explain the whole story now, of my many searches and my back up plans.  I ask her for advice.  “Should we buy another elf for you and your brother?”

            “Yes!  Yes!”  She says…….”How in the world did you do it all, Mom?”

            “I am amazing.”

            She laughs.  “How do you hide the eggs?  How do you make those Leprechaun footprints?.....How?  How?  How?”

I answer her questions.  In her eyes I see admiration and gratitude.  I see acceptance. This is a miracle.  We are a team.  I tell her that and we high five.

            It is twilight.  We leave the boy at home with a baby sitter and drive to a local children’s store.  She selects the elf.  She asks if we can spend a little more time together looking around the shop.  I agree and she deftly selects a few presents for two of her cousins.  She is a gifted shopper.  I tell her so.  I tell her everything is more fun when I am with her.  She has landed squarely on her feet, my valiant girl.  Her spirit is dazzling.  We are giddy girls together, and I find myself wondering if we are riding an endorphin and oxytocin high, released in response to the shared pain of Revelation. 

            On the drive home, we plot and plan the introduction of the new elf.  We construct his back-story.  She is thrilled that she can touch tis elf, something that was forbidden with Charles George, when she believed it would “steal his magic.”  She bubbles and froths with a million questions.  She wants answers to all the mysteries.  She assures me that it really is OK that I told her.  She likes this new reality.  She admits that this year she was “a little ‘ishy’ about the whole Charles George and Santa thing.”  She seems truly grateful.  Grateful!

            When her brother is finally asleep, she creeps out of her bedroom and finds me.  We sit together in my office as I type a note explaining that Charles George is sick and Santa has sent a new elf in his place – an elf who is “sooooo excited” to be adopted by a new family and who needs a new name……  She carefully selects a location and arranges the nameless elf just so with the note propped behind him.  I hand her two candy canes from a secret stash.  She marvels once again at my subterfuge, then places the candy canes next to the elf, one cane facing the other to form a heart shape.  It is now 9:30 – long past her bedtime – but I can see she is still scintillating with the creative possibilities of this new reality.

            “You are still wide awake, aren’t you?”  I ask.  I feel compassion for her.  I revel in our bond.  I walk her to her room.  We climb up into her lofted bed and I read softly to her from “The Penderwicks.”  I read until I feel her energy soften and I know she is ready to make her way to sleep.  To sleep, perchance to dream, once more, of magic that lives on if we but close our eyes.

"Consuming Kids"? The Answer is Empowering Parents to Just Say "No" and explain Why Not

Our local community college recently held a symposium on capitalism. One of the events on the agenda was a screening of the documentary “Consuming Kids,” which purports to “[Throw] desperately needed light on the practices of a relentless multi-billion dollar marketing machine that now sells kids and their parents everything from junk food and violent video games to bogus educational products and the family car. Drawing on the insights of health care professionals, children's advocates, and industry insiders, the film focuses on the explosive growth of child marketing in the wake of deregulation, showing how youth marketers have used the latest advances in psychology, anthropology, and neuroscience to transform American children into one of the most powerful and profitable consumer demographics in the world. Consuming Kids pushes back against the wholesale commercialization of childhood, raising urgent questions about the ethics of children's marketing and its impact on the health and well-being of kids.” Viewing this film was a very disturbing experience, but not for the reasons I expected. In hindsight, the charged language in the preview should have alerted me to the unbalanced slant of this film, e.g., describing consumer products companies as “relentless multi-billion dollar marketing machines,” who are responsible for the “wholesale commercialization of childhood.”  This was the tamest of the rhetoric in this film; later, an “expert” compared these companies to “pedophiles.” In short, the film blames the government for failing to protect children and consumer products and media companies for “exploiting” children, while paying almost no attention to parents’ responsibilities to make choices that align with their values and protect their young. 

First, the film blames Congress, under the Reagan administration, for deregulating television advertising, and points to this historic shift in Federal law as the source of our present consumerist culture and the increase in marketing to children. Then, it demonizes “corporate America,” claiming that consumer products and media companies are to blame for everything from the degradation of our culture’s values, to the sexualization of youth, to the present increases in children diagnosed with Bi-polar disorder, depression, ADHD, obesity, and diabetes. I am not a fan of consumerism and its influence on our culture’s values and beliefs, but consumer products and media corporations’ attempts to maximize profits are not "the evil"; it is, in fact, their duty to maximize profits for their shareholders. If they fail to do so, they are not doing their job and their shareholders, whose numbers include many of us, either directly or via our 401(k) plans, have grounds to sue them.  Moreover, these corporations have rights under the First Amendment, which deserve protection whether or not we like what they are saying to us and to our children. A legitimate question to ask is: Just because a person or corporation has First Amendment free speech rights, should they exercise them? In my opinion, many ways advertisers communicate with us and our children are shameful. That is why we do not have cable TV and I have stopped purchasing tabloid magazines (I had a guilty habit of both, but I made a choice to vote with my wallet, and it works for me and for our family). That said, I value the free flow of ideas, even those I do not like, because the more ideas that are expressed, the more and better ideas we get in the idea marketplace. However, as people (including corporations) push their individual rights, including the right to communicate in whatever way they wish to whomever they wish, their behavior contributes to the break down of our culture and our communities. When this happens, inevitably, some people ask the government to step in and play the role that community and family should be playing. But, government regulation of consumer behavior has proven ineffective Consider, for example, the price of gasoline in California. How many of us have sold our cars and are taking public transportation as a result?

What is the answer? Who can regulate this? Parents. Parents are the ones buying fast food for themselves and their families. Parents are the ones purchasing “Lunchables.” Parents are allowing their children to watch hours upon hours of TV and to play video games. Parents are the ones who break up families. Parents have tremendous power. Yet, the film minimizes the power parents have to ameliorate the situation. Instead, the “experts” assert that:  "Parents can't cope with this alone. They need help.” While I agree with this statement – we all need help raising our children – I disagree with the film’s conclusion as to what form that help should take. Where the film urges greater government intervention and regulation, I would suggest owning up to our own choices, educating ourselves about different options, and taking personal responsibility for how we raise our children. I believe it is our responsibility, as adults, to turn off the television, to say “No” to our children when they want to watch “too much” TV, or beg to watch something that may not be age appropriate, or want another toy. If they ask for a cartoon-branded item at the grocery store, we can say “No” and explain why not.  We can be empowered consumers and we can empower them. We can explain that companies use cartoons on packaging to try and convince children to want their product and to beg their parents for it, when it really is not any better than the non-branded item, and is often less healthful than the non-cartoon-branded item.  We can model self-control. We can guard against engaging in consistent, unabashed consumerism. We can resist shopping as a form of entertainment (at least during our children’s waking hours ;)). Have we forgotten that children, especially young children, learn almost everything by watching their parents?  We are their primary teachers and guides. We don't have to let them watch it. We don't have to buy it. Yes, media is very powerful. Yes, it is hard, and exhausting, to say “No” over and over again, but we can discuss this with our children. We can disappoint them. In fact, the more we disappoint them over the small stuff of childhood, the more resilient they will be when faced with the inevitable disappointments in adulthood. If you need more evidence, watch this timeless clip from The Simpsons:

The consumer is the ultimate power in the marketplace. Don't watch it!  Don’t buy it! Government regulation is not the answer. Community building, family building, and education are the real solutions. They are more difficult and require more time and effort for each of us than does handing over our responsibility to “Big Brother,” but they are the only real tools we have to resuscitate our culture and protect our children.