You're Doing a Good Job

There was something I needed to hear. I didn’t realize it until an average weekday afternoon, when I heard it and my eyes surprised me by getting wet. Like unbeknownst to me the tears had been gathering behind them for a few strong weeks but those words put a big crack in the dam.

“You’re doing a good job.”

When is the last time you heard it? That you are doing a good job as a mother?

For me, it came not as an obligatory Mother’s Day golf clap, but on a random Friday afternoon in the midst of specialist appointments for both boys. The school principal and I had A Conversation. And it was mostly about how I have no more capacity for negative. Even if you never told me one time how difficult my child is, I would still know. I know my child. I know he bounces off the walls and marches to his own drummer and gets stuck on things inside his mind that other kids would never even notice. I know his energy can zap that of adults around him. Tell me something you like about him.

Since I was pregnant with my first hawklet, the downright-scary-at-times labels have come: “Spina bifida.” “Non-stress tests.” “Speech delay.” “Generalized Anxiety Disorder.” “Perfectionist.” “ADHD.” And with the other one: “MRI.” “Albinism.” “Nystagmus.” “Esotropia.” “IEP.”  Welcome to parenthood.

The negative is not exclusive to labels and to Different. The negative is all over the news. The Mommy Wars have perpetuated competition and finger pointing and judgment for decades. If you work, you must not love your kids as much as I do. If you don’t work, you must be over-involved in the PTA with an inability to understand guilt and trade-offs.

The self-doubt.

The wondering if what I’m doing (or not doing) today is going to drive him to drug addiction later.

The anger that the time I have to put into this takes away from that, and vice versa. Falling short. Chronically late.

Those are all scary labels, too.

A lot of what we have to do every day just to get through the motions is So. Exhausting. Sometimes I can’t help but be mad at my own child for making everything harder than it has to be. This is a huge admission, one that I am not proud of, but I’m putting it into words here because in spite of this, in spite of everything related to this, I am still doing a good job. And one reason I know that is because I can still step outside of this and remember that it is not his fault. Sometimes, stepping outside of the moment in motherhood is a herculean feat.

And I also know this is true because someone else said it.

Maybe it was the fatigue that Friday afternoon. But when this person on the periphery looked me in the eyes and told me she’d noticed that we’ve been dealt a lot with both kids that most families don’t have/know/understand and that she sees that we’re on it, that we make it a priority to keep on top of what our kids need and look for the tools available to figure it out… I exhaled. I hadn’t noticed that I had been holding my breath. I think I’ve been holding my breath for six years.

“Thank you,” I responded. I meant it. I needed to hear that. I needed to exhale.

What I want you to know is that you, too, are doing a good job. We are all given a hand of cards that doesn’t match each other’s. We only show each other the backs. All the backs match. But that only makes us eyeball each other to attempt to figure out what we’re hiding on the other side. I don’t know your cards. But I don’t have to to know that you are managing your own dealt hand in your own way with its own unique intricacies I can’t understand. You are doing a good job.

And so am I.

When Schools Market to Moms

I recently had the pleasure of speaking to a group of PR folks who communicate to parents on behalf of their kids' school districts and it served as inspiration for my next post at ModernMom.com, which I hope you'll check out and comment on! Remember that it's not just brands trying to capture moms' attention, but schools, churches, non-profits, libraries, civic organizations, and all those places where a cash register may or may not exist. And there is most definitely room for improvement, even in the absence of commerce.

What do you think schools do best when it comes to communicating with Mom? What should they change? Come on, this class is in session!

Just another day in solving the world's problems

Reid: "Substisoot! I don't have a substisoot!"

Me: "Reid, it's not substisoot, it's substitute."

Reid: "Substitoot!? We don't say toot! It's not substitoot!"

Graham: "Substisoot. Did you say substitoot?"

Hubs: "Yes, substitute."

Graham: "Substisoot. It's substisoot. NOT TOOT!!!" hehehehehehe

Reid: hehehehehehe

Star of My Everyday

Someone special is the "Star of the Week" this week in pre-school.

He loves his chicken. Though, before you go marveling at his interest in nutritious protein power, I feel the need to confess he originally said "chicken strips and French fries" but there just wasn't enough room on that line. I steered him towards the "chicken" part of his verbal answer and away from the "French fries" part, knowing this would be posted somewhere. Mom truth.

Betcha didn't know Calendar was such a riveting subject these days. Or perhaps this is just a glimpse of his meterology days to come? Lately he's been talking offhandedly about the weather and what kind of day it is outside today. Little Brother in his obvious genius has already pinpointed the phenomenon of global warming, pondering the calendar and aligning weather patterns in his 4-year-old daydreams, obvs.

His book choice of Sheep in a Jeep was a top-of-mind-at-the-time one. He seems frustrated now when people read his paper and ask him about his favorite book, Sheep in a Jeep. Child, you wrote it down! He has lots of favorites. It's a good problem. Don't box him in.

And how about when he grows up? "Dad." Yeah, hubby should shed a tear at that one. I would have. I mean, if my fictional daughter said she wanted to be mom when she grew up I'd cry a tear of joy at the thought that I might actually be doing something right. Hmm, a daughter. Sigh.

Reid William, you are the star of my week, and of my life. Love you, Doogie.

Hindsight

In hindsight, I should not have left the kitchen TV on the “E!” channel and walked out of the room.

In hindsight, that is really a waste of electricity.

And in my even sharper hindsight, coming back to the room quite a bit later only to find my kindergartener on top of the countertop, eyes glued to the pivotal climax in the movie Titanic in which Jack’s frozen stiff hand is pried from Rose’s, whereupon she watches his cold, dead body -- eyes garishly open of course -- drift downward to the black depths of the Atlantic? Um, yeah not cool.

And even less cool was the slow-motion pivot in which my boy turned to face me with his huge eyes, clearly questioning all of humanity. This was of course followed by the face scrunch, and then the alligator tears and deep-seeded wail. Like a one-two-three punch you could see coming right toward your gut.

“Why are you so sad?” I tried to play it cool. Like maybe he would forget about the melodramatic death he had just witnessed.

“Her friend Jack just died!” his finger jabbed at Kate Winslet on the small screen. He was beside himself. “And he sank into the ocean!” my 5-year-old wailed.

“Well, we need to get ready for your class picnic!” I exclaimed, as if tap dancing in front of a crime scene. Nothing to see here, folks, did you notice there is an ice cream truck over there! Hey kids, ice cream! Carnival! Santa! Fun!

“I think a shark bit his leg off!”

Well now you’re just making things up. Isn’t James Cameron dramatic enough all by himself?

In hindsight, when the tap dancing did nothing to help and I feebly attempted to provide my boy some text book logic (long time ago, wouldn’t happen today, yadda yadda), mixed with a definition of “movie magic” (actors aren’t real, Leo’s not dead, clothes are costumes, yadda yadda) I basically dug my own grave. My answers led to new questions as his little mind started weaving an intricate web, attempting to make sense of it all and bandage his broken heart, such as:

Why did the captain not know there was an iceberg under the water?

How does the captain see under water?

Did someone not tell him?

What is technology?

Do the boats we have today have technology?

So boats have computers?

Where are the computers?

Our car has a computer?

I probably should have stopped at “movies are not real,” even though the way the questions progressed made me think I was totally working at that distraction thing. But then he totally called me out on saying that this happened “a long time ago” and thus DID IT REALLY HAPPEN OR NOT???

Note to self! Turn the TV off! Particularly before loading up the car to drive to the kindergarten class mixer/picnic at the park where your still-weepy kindergartener will tell the other kids about Jack who died in the ocean!

In my future hindsight? I’m sure this will be pretty funny.

What I want for you

You came home last night with exciting news. You had already told Mimi and couldn’t wait to tell me, with a sheepish grin.

“I wrote my name on all my papers today,” you proclaimed. Followed by, “You can go ahead and cry now, Mom.”

You were so ready to see tears of elation.

You know. Oh, you know how it kills me that you aren’t more like I was in school – teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever. You know how much advice I’ve sought simply because you are so desperate to divergently walk your own path – the road less (or never?) traveled – so much so that you do these things that land you in the “safe seat” constantly, that get your name on the board, that have put me in constant contact with your teacher.

“Graham is smart,” she reassures me. But you won’t show your cards. You can do what you’re asked, but you refuse. You can finish the worksheet, but halfway through when you’ve shown you know how to write that letter G, you don’t see the need to keep going. You can write your name on your paper, “but everyone knows the one without the name is mine.” This is Kindergarten.

And oh we have so many years to go.

You exhaust me. Your brother who actually has diagnosed needs? Piece of cake compared to you. But here we are in the trenches together. I subconsciously dress myself in armor in your presence. I try to mentally anticipate your needs, your actions, before they happen. I work to diffuse your “spirited” ways. And it’s work.

I remember hosting our first Parents As Teachers meeting in our old house when we still counted your age in months and we still wore our naiveté on our sleeves. Our instructor asked us to tell her what characteristics we hoped you would have. I remembered how surprised she was that we knew so clearly what we wanted for you.

Perfectionism wasn't one of those things.

Unfortunately what I’ve found is that you are in fact more like me than what I want for you. “It has to be perfect!” you shrieked recently when your pencil line contained a wobble. “It’s not perfect and it has to be perfect!” The wobble became a roadblock and you refused to go any further. I saw my reflection in your eyes and my heart broke.

Who doesn’t want their child to do well? But you don’t believe me when I tell you that you can indeed make mistakes. You can wobble. That you only have to do your best, whatever that may be, try again, learn from it, move on. Move on.

Things are harder than they have to be. I know because I make them harder, too. I want to be perfect, too. I know how exhausting it is inside your mind, too. Trust me, son.

But while I yearn to see you as the teacher pleaser, honor roller, over achiever, what I more so want for you is to not be like me. To get off of this steamrolling perfectionist train before it’s too late and you live your life on it, mile after exhausting mile. What I want for you is to be imperfect and happy in your skin, in your surroundings, in your intellect. To have character, not perfection. To shrug glitches off, not let them incapacitate you. To write the word, not dwell on the wobbly line.

A couple nights ago, between stories and tucking in, you looked in my eyes and said, “Mom, I can’t tell you how much I love you. And the more days we get, the more I love you.” And oh my heart. My armor fell off.

Child, you slay me – with both frustration and elation. How do you do that? You do it so well… so perfectly imperfectly. This is what I want for you. If only that was all you wanted for yourself.