Summertime and the living is easy...until it's time to buy a bathing suit. Bikini body, beach ready body, get your body in shape for a bikini...ugh, fuck that noise. Fortunately I've read lots of body positive articles declaring that in order to get a bikini body, one must simply put a bikini on their body. At least there are SOME positive messages out there!
Since carrying and giving birth to four children, my body has changed tremendously. I haven't worn a bikini since I was pregnant with Stella, 9 years ago when I proudly flaunted that baby bump. I've struggled off and on to "bounce back" (such a bullshit concept) but I am still in possession of a rounded, chubby midsection. I do not blame childbirth, or my love of food, because I don't believe "blame" needs to be assigned anywhere. I have plenty of friends who have more children than I do yet have firm stomachs. I know a combo of genetics, age and love of hot wings are all factors. I work out, run, eat well 95% of the time. I do not feel guilty about food: life is too short and cake is fucking delicious. I am strong and healthy and happy and blessed and my tummy does not define me. Yet...I cannot buy a bikini. There is no legitimate reason and I fully support ANY woman wearing WHATEVER she wants. I don't believe that it is necessary for women to "hide their problem areas". Please!!! Men with prodigious stomachs and bigger boobs than mine sport tiny suits and go topless all summer. Whatever!!! You do you, boo! And yet...I can't buy a bikini. What is this mental block I have? I can't let go of this body issue for myself. Apparently it is ingrained too deeply. And I know I'm not alone. Will this be the summer I conquer it? I'm not sure. I am sure I'll have another beer though.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
Bikini double standard
Friday, June 24, 2016
Chances and Choices
I didn't vote in the last three Presidential elections, or any elections for that matter, since 2002. Not out of apathy or laziness, but because legally I couldn't. Because in 2003 I became a convicted felon. Now this may be news to a lot of you, in fact, lots of family members will find out for the first time when they read this post. My closest friends and family at that time were there for the whole story and helped support me through the entire mess, and for the most part I've just tried to put it behind me. But since 2003 I have had to list it on every application I've filled out, every official document has had that little box checked. I've had to explain myself countless times and tell the story over and over again. I also had to resign myself to the fact that I wasn't able to vote. When Obama won (TWICE!) I was so freaking happy and yet still so sad that I hadn't been able to cast my own vote for him. So what did I do to become a felon you ask? Nothing, actually. I took a plea bargain for a crime I did not commit. There was an overwhelming paper trail of evidence pointing to me and I was, in fact, facing 10 felony counts. I accepted a plea bargain in which I had to plead guilty to one count of grand larceny and would serve no jail time, just one year of supervised probation. As someone who had worked in the prison system for two years, I was not about to take my chances against a judicial system that I had seen operate from the inside. Instead of fighting a battle in court that was NOT in my favor, I took the deal. I almost choked on the word "Guilty" when it was time for me to plead. It went against everything I am to lie and say I had done something I knew perfectly well I had not done. It was a matter of sacrificing my pride to salvage my future. And so I did. Here is what happened to put me in that position...
My place of employment at the time was a thriving, busy salon. I had worked there for two years, managing the front desk. This salon had about 6-8 computers that functioned as registers scattered throughout its' large square footage. In order to complete a transaction an employee had to be logged in under their own personal ID. We were supposed to log out every time we left a computer, but as anyone who has had their FB account hacked by a friend or co-worker knows, people don't always do that. Long story short, someone was deleting cash transactions that had been rung in under my name and pocketing the money. About $1600 over the course of 6 months. When I was questioned about all of these deleted transactions rung under MY ID, I was shocked, hurt and angry. Of course I denied it, but in the end, I was fired, and two weeks later two detectives showed up at my new job and arrested me. Did you know that any amount over $200 constitutes Grand Larceny? I learned that when I was facing a combination of grand larceny and computer fraud charges. I cannot begin to explain the terror and sense of hopelessness I felt at that point in my life. By the way, after the trial where I became the scapegoat and the "criminal" had been found, money continued to be stolen from the salon, in various ways. At that point an "I told you so" wouldn't have done any good and I was already convicted.
A couple of months ago, the governor of VA granted restoration of rights to a large number of convicted felons who had completed their terms and probations. I was one of those felons. I received my voter registration card in the mail today and I pretty much haven't stopped crying since. This year, in this most important of Presidential elections, I will get to cast my vote. I will vote against tyranny and hatred and bigotry. I strongly encourage all of you who can vote to do so. Don't take that right for granted. Don't say your vote doesn't count. For those who don't agree with the Governor's decision, remember that you don't know everyone's story. Mine may not change your mind or elicit any sympathy and that is ok; we can all believe as we choose. But there are those who were innocent, there are those who were nonviolent offenders and there are those who made mistakes but have served their time and deserve to participate fully in the society that governs them. See you at the polls. I'll be the one crying.
My place of employment at the time was a thriving, busy salon. I had worked there for two years, managing the front desk. This salon had about 6-8 computers that functioned as registers scattered throughout its' large square footage. In order to complete a transaction an employee had to be logged in under their own personal ID. We were supposed to log out every time we left a computer, but as anyone who has had their FB account hacked by a friend or co-worker knows, people don't always do that. Long story short, someone was deleting cash transactions that had been rung in under my name and pocketing the money. About $1600 over the course of 6 months. When I was questioned about all of these deleted transactions rung under MY ID, I was shocked, hurt and angry. Of course I denied it, but in the end, I was fired, and two weeks later two detectives showed up at my new job and arrested me. Did you know that any amount over $200 constitutes Grand Larceny? I learned that when I was facing a combination of grand larceny and computer fraud charges. I cannot begin to explain the terror and sense of hopelessness I felt at that point in my life. By the way, after the trial where I became the scapegoat and the "criminal" had been found, money continued to be stolen from the salon, in various ways. At that point an "I told you so" wouldn't have done any good and I was already convicted.
A couple of months ago, the governor of VA granted restoration of rights to a large number of convicted felons who had completed their terms and probations. I was one of those felons. I received my voter registration card in the mail today and I pretty much haven't stopped crying since. This year, in this most important of Presidential elections, I will get to cast my vote. I will vote against tyranny and hatred and bigotry. I strongly encourage all of you who can vote to do so. Don't take that right for granted. Don't say your vote doesn't count. For those who don't agree with the Governor's decision, remember that you don't know everyone's story. Mine may not change your mind or elicit any sympathy and that is ok; we can all believe as we choose. But there are those who were innocent, there are those who were nonviolent offenders and there are those who made mistakes but have served their time and deserve to participate fully in the society that governs them. See you at the polls. I'll be the one crying.
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
Orlando
What do you do when your soul is tired and your heart is heavy with loss? When you are exhausted and bone weary with the weight of the deaths of people you never met but somehow feel like you know? People more eloquent than I have expressed their sorrow with heartfelt words and I have identified with them and mourned with them and still the ache is there. People more educated and well versed in politics and policies and government and agenda have screamed and shouted about why and how this happened yet still I search. More of my brothers and sisters have died in violent and senseless deaths at the hands of men with too much ammo, too many weapons, too little love. Too many Americans throw words like "Godless" and "radicalized" around like stones without looking at the glass walls surrounding their own homes. Too many citizens still view those who are different as less than, as sinners, as ignorant. Too many believe that the answers are prayers without changes. I have prayed, will continue to pray, will always pray because I believe in its' power to heal. But the time has come to do more. The time has come to love, to stop digging heels in to protect an agenda that needs no protection because it is so firmly entrenched in our culture that we can't even see it for what it is. The time actually came years ago, the time has always been now. The agenda of hate, mistrust, intolerance and fear must end. The only answer is love and acceptance. Yes, of course evil will still exist, madmen will always rise up despite efforts made to prevent them; we cannot prevent hate. But we can damn sure do our best to thwart it instead of handing it a bigger weapon. My heart is full of sorrow and I am so deeply saddened by yet another tragic loss that I cannot shake this heaviness. The only thing I can do is try to write out the mess in my head. More love America, more love please.
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
I won't wear black...
I won't wear black to my grandmother's memorial service, even though it is the generally accepted thing to do when one is mourning. I wear black in my day to day wardrobe quite frequently; I like to wear black. But I cannot recall a single time that I saw my grandmother wear it. Honestly, I can't. Undoubtedly she did so at funerals, but I don't remember it.
She loved vibrant colors, most especially blue. Every year for the last 6 years I have given her a new hat for Christmas, all in different, gorgeous shades. Rose, bright red, cobalt blue, deep purple. She loved them all, and let me tell you, that woman could work a hat.
One of her favorite things to do was watch the hummingbirds that drank from the many feeders she had surrounding her house. She could differentiate each one, noting their markings and how fast they were, how much they drank, how often she had to refill the feeders. She loved flowers and had beautiful tea roses blooming right outside her door. In the Spring and Summer her yard was full of blooms from azaleas and clematis, Easter always meant lilies and Winter meant poinsettias.
Life, for her, was colorful and bright and beautiful. So while I am mourning her loss, I am also celebrating her life. And I don't think cloaking myself in black is the way to honor her memory. Looks like it's time to go shopping.
She loved vibrant colors, most especially blue. Every year for the last 6 years I have given her a new hat for Christmas, all in different, gorgeous shades. Rose, bright red, cobalt blue, deep purple. She loved them all, and let me tell you, that woman could work a hat.
One of her favorite things to do was watch the hummingbirds that drank from the many feeders she had surrounding her house. She could differentiate each one, noting their markings and how fast they were, how much they drank, how often she had to refill the feeders. She loved flowers and had beautiful tea roses blooming right outside her door. In the Spring and Summer her yard was full of blooms from azaleas and clematis, Easter always meant lilies and Winter meant poinsettias.
Life, for her, was colorful and bright and beautiful. So while I am mourning her loss, I am also celebrating her life. And I don't think cloaking myself in black is the way to honor her memory. Looks like it's time to go shopping.
Sunday, January 24, 2016
Joyce Elaine Ford
Images and memories are swirling around in my head like the snow flurries that have been swirling around us for the past two days. Seems fitting to me that my powerhouse of a grandmother would die during a devastatingly powerful blizzard. Seems right to me that her leaving the earth would be heralded by an act of God. Only fitting that her passing was marked by a steady fall of flakes, the sky both applauding her life and mourning her death. Symbolic that her life, full of beauty and strength, ended during a snowstorm full of its' own majesty.
It is not easy to believe that she is gone. She helped raise me from day one, always a part of me, always the center of a family of loud, laughing, passionate women. My grandmother married for the first time as teenager and began a family soon after. The mother of four daughters, three from her first marriage and one from her second, was nothing if not strong. She would never describe herself that way, but that has always been my thought. How else could you persevere through two divorces, followed by the deaths of both of those men, all while raising your four girls? She managed to survive the death of her oldest daughter, my Aunt Rhonda, to breast cancer when Rhonda was only 33. She was the primary caregiver of my great grandmother after Biggie developed dementia. After many years of marriage to my PaPa, her third husband and true love, he died too young from cancer. None of this was easy, obviously, but my GaGa soldiered on. She was no saint, by any means, but no matter what, her loving spirit never diminished.
While I was growing up, Sundays were always spent at GaGa's house. The whole family would converge there, spending the day cooking and eating, trading stories about our weeks. All of the daughters and grandchildren crowded into the kitchen and living room, laughing and crying together, picking on each other, arguing and reconciling, sharing in each others' lives. Sometimes friends would join and I would always warn them that there could be no shyness at GaGa's house: if you were at that table you were now family and you would not be left alone. I remember my poor friend Marie quietly taking out her retainer before we ate dinner once and my PaPa immediately pounced on the opportunity to take out his fake teeth, flicking his partial dentures at her to show her that he had a retainer too. I remember playing Scrabble, which to my family is pretty much second in importance only to the Bible, with all of us crowded around the table competing as if it were life and death. My GaGa never wanted to play by the rules, never would believe us if one of us played an unusual word. Consequently, she challenged us a lot and frequently lost, which then meant she would quit the game fussing at us for all being cheaters. Never stopped us all from laughing til we cried, loving every second of it. It is part of our family's charm: merciless, yet loving, teasing and playfulness. We do nothing without passion, and my GaGa was the queen matriarch of it all.
Her death is a devastating loss. It seems impossible that the world can exist without her in it. How can anyone possibly sing hymns the way she could? Inconceivable that I won't see those baby blue eyes sparkling anymore. How did the rotation of the earth not come to a screeching halt when she died? My very soul is rebelling against the idea. The sunlight glowing on the snow right now seems to be telling me that my heart will thaw, that I will move on, just like this snow will melt and Spring will eventually come. I am no stranger to the cold Winter of loss, so I know it will pass. I am grateful that I had 80 years with her wisdom, her laugh, her gentle touch, her vibrant love. I am grateful that three of her daughters are still here and are so much like her in different ways. I am grateful that my children, her legacy, knew her well and loved her so. I hope that she knows what a force she was, what an inspiration she will continue to be. Rest now, my dear grandmother, and know that your life was lived to the fullest.
It is not easy to believe that she is gone. She helped raise me from day one, always a part of me, always the center of a family of loud, laughing, passionate women. My grandmother married for the first time as teenager and began a family soon after. The mother of four daughters, three from her first marriage and one from her second, was nothing if not strong. She would never describe herself that way, but that has always been my thought. How else could you persevere through two divorces, followed by the deaths of both of those men, all while raising your four girls? She managed to survive the death of her oldest daughter, my Aunt Rhonda, to breast cancer when Rhonda was only 33. She was the primary caregiver of my great grandmother after Biggie developed dementia. After many years of marriage to my PaPa, her third husband and true love, he died too young from cancer. None of this was easy, obviously, but my GaGa soldiered on. She was no saint, by any means, but no matter what, her loving spirit never diminished.
While I was growing up, Sundays were always spent at GaGa's house. The whole family would converge there, spending the day cooking and eating, trading stories about our weeks. All of the daughters and grandchildren crowded into the kitchen and living room, laughing and crying together, picking on each other, arguing and reconciling, sharing in each others' lives. Sometimes friends would join and I would always warn them that there could be no shyness at GaGa's house: if you were at that table you were now family and you would not be left alone. I remember my poor friend Marie quietly taking out her retainer before we ate dinner once and my PaPa immediately pounced on the opportunity to take out his fake teeth, flicking his partial dentures at her to show her that he had a retainer too. I remember playing Scrabble, which to my family is pretty much second in importance only to the Bible, with all of us crowded around the table competing as if it were life and death. My GaGa never wanted to play by the rules, never would believe us if one of us played an unusual word. Consequently, she challenged us a lot and frequently lost, which then meant she would quit the game fussing at us for all being cheaters. Never stopped us all from laughing til we cried, loving every second of it. It is part of our family's charm: merciless, yet loving, teasing and playfulness. We do nothing without passion, and my GaGa was the queen matriarch of it all.
Her death is a devastating loss. It seems impossible that the world can exist without her in it. How can anyone possibly sing hymns the way she could? Inconceivable that I won't see those baby blue eyes sparkling anymore. How did the rotation of the earth not come to a screeching halt when she died? My very soul is rebelling against the idea. The sunlight glowing on the snow right now seems to be telling me that my heart will thaw, that I will move on, just like this snow will melt and Spring will eventually come. I am no stranger to the cold Winter of loss, so I know it will pass. I am grateful that I had 80 years with her wisdom, her laugh, her gentle touch, her vibrant love. I am grateful that three of her daughters are still here and are so much like her in different ways. I am grateful that my children, her legacy, knew her well and loved her so. I hope that she knows what a force she was, what an inspiration she will continue to be. Rest now, my dear grandmother, and know that your life was lived to the fullest.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Penance
I think most of us are familiar with the Mommy Wars, that annoying issue where moms judge other moms. I have tried really hard to stay out of that mess, both by keeping my mouth shut in regards to how other people parent and also by closing my ears to others' criticisms of how I parent my children. I have tried to be less judgmental of others in my old age. So the Mommy Wars tend to roll off my back these days. This post however, is about a different, more damaging war. The war I wage on myself as a mom.
I am constantly and forever trying to be a better mom. Always, every day, asking myself how I can do a better job. Which isn't a bad thing; until you take it to MY level. Am I being patient enough? Firm enough? Supportive enough? Fostering their independence while still assuring them I will always be here? Encouraging their interests? Am I yelling too much?(yes) Do I work too much? Not enough? Pretty much each day has a new problem and a new issue, and I usually come to the same conclusion: I am failing. Maybe not in huge ways, but I am failing. I am somehow missing the mark. I need to be a little bit better at this, try a little bit harder at that. Roy isn't eating a good, balanced diet- FAIL. I yelled at Stella for not following directions-FAIL. I didn't take that position on the PTA-FAIL. I couldn't take out the trash, fold the laundry, do the dishes, check the homework-FAIL. I find myself on my knees, saying my prayers, begging God to help me be better, yet falling into the same patterns I try so hard to break.
I'm tired of promising myself that I will do better.
I am tired of trying to pay penance for my perceived failings. Goodness knows, I am NOT close to perfect. I screw up all.the.time. But I have recently come to the conclusion that the fact that I am constantly trying to improve means that I have the right attitude. It means I'm doing SOMETHING right. It means I give a shit. It means I will not settle, I will always strive to do better. And ya know, I think it sets a pretty good example for my kids that I always set new goals and do my best to achieve them.
So no more penance for me. That doesn't mean I won't judge myself every single day. And I'm sure I will still find myself lacking more often than not. I do have high standards. But I think I can stop saying the Hail Marys.
I am constantly and forever trying to be a better mom. Always, every day, asking myself how I can do a better job. Which isn't a bad thing; until you take it to MY level. Am I being patient enough? Firm enough? Supportive enough? Fostering their independence while still assuring them I will always be here? Encouraging their interests? Am I yelling too much?(yes) Do I work too much? Not enough? Pretty much each day has a new problem and a new issue, and I usually come to the same conclusion: I am failing. Maybe not in huge ways, but I am failing. I am somehow missing the mark. I need to be a little bit better at this, try a little bit harder at that. Roy isn't eating a good, balanced diet- FAIL. I yelled at Stella for not following directions-FAIL. I didn't take that position on the PTA-FAIL. I couldn't take out the trash, fold the laundry, do the dishes, check the homework-FAIL. I find myself on my knees, saying my prayers, begging God to help me be better, yet falling into the same patterns I try so hard to break.
I'm tired of promising myself that I will do better.
I am tired of trying to pay penance for my perceived failings. Goodness knows, I am NOT close to perfect. I screw up all.the.time. But I have recently come to the conclusion that the fact that I am constantly trying to improve means that I have the right attitude. It means I'm doing SOMETHING right. It means I give a shit. It means I will not settle, I will always strive to do better. And ya know, I think it sets a pretty good example for my kids that I always set new goals and do my best to achieve them.
So no more penance for me. That doesn't mean I won't judge myself every single day. And I'm sure I will still find myself lacking more often than not. I do have high standards. But I think I can stop saying the Hail Marys.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Gratitude
So Russell and I have been struggling recently, as a lot of parents do, with the concept of gratitude. Our kids are sweet, loving, generous children, but they are still kids. They tend to want what they want when they want it. We have always made it a point to do family prayer every night in which we all list something that we are grateful for. We donate toys and clothes regularly, we pay tithing to our church and our kids both say Please and Thank You without having to be prompted (usually). However, we have been going through this phase recently where they CANNOT go anywhere without asking for something and being quite difficult when we say no. I have NO problem saying no. I'm sure my kids are sick of me saying no. But we have been feeling a bit beat down by the sense of entitlement and expectations our children have been exhibiting. Not acceptable. We are constantly expressing gratitude for our lives, our children, our house, our extended family, etc., but our kids seemed to be missing the point. Trying to keep realistic expectations, since they are only 4 and 6 and being somewhat self-absorbed is totally normal, we knew we needed to make some sort of change.
Then I came across a blog post about a mom dealing with the same issue. After being fed up with her daughters never being satisfied with anything, she got rid of ALL of their toys. ALL of them. She limited their screen time to a couple of hours per WEEK. And shockingly, after only a few weeks, her children stopped asking for things. Just stopped. Every so often, she would allow them to earn a toy and they would then be entertained by that one toy for hours and hours. Even on vacation, they didn't beg and plead for crap from the gift shops. Mad props to this family. Now I am not going to do this with my kids, because I don't think I need to. But we have made some big changes and after just a couple of weeks I have noticed a difference.
We started with reestablishing our rewards chart, in which the kids get stickers for completing chores, trying new foods, getting good school reports and doing acts of service. They have to get certain amounts of stickers to earn certain privileges. Then I went through and gathered 6 bags of toys and clothes and books to donate to charity. 6 bags. This on top of the quarterly donations that we already do. Boy did they have a lot of crap!!! Finally, we limited their TV to one show per kid each day. Sometimes we fail on that one, but limiting screen time more has totally helped. They are playing together more, drawing more, playing more outside. But the big kicker for us was showing them a post I saw online about childrens' bedrooms from around the world.
I don't know if you saw this post or not, but it featured children from China, the Ivory Coast, etc. and the awful, bare, desolate conditions that they call their sleeping space. One particularly difficult morning, when the kids were complaining about having to do chores, how hard it was to get dressed on their own, how they wanted to watch TV, etc, etc, I finally lost it. I broke down into tears. I was miserable, so sad and heartbroken, watching my children who have so very much to be grateful for, wallowing in this self-pity and ingratitude. They stopped and looked at me like I was crazy because they knew something had just changed. I sat them down and showed them the pictures of the bedrooms around the world. The wooden pallet for a bed, the barbed wire around a chain-linked fence, the obvious lack of toys or stuffed animals. With each progressive picture, their eyes widened, their mouths opened. I asked, "Do these rooms look anything like yours?" Both of them said no and continued to look on in shock and amazement. When we were done, all of us were in tears. I was not trying to hurt their feelings, but I felt I needed to make a big statement to them so that they would understand that I wasn't just "fussing" at them, I meant it when I pointed out how fortunate we are.
Stella immediately ran upstairs and gathered a group of toys that she wanted to donate to those children. Roy just cried. I knew it had elicited some big emotions in him that a four year old can't really process on his own. I just held him and let him cry and we talked a lot about those children. He told me that it hurt his heart, that he couldn't get the pictures out of his head, that one of them looked like a good friend of his at school and he hated the thought of her not having a nice bed to sleep in. Oh how I cried with that little man! It was a lot for them to deal with. It has taken them days to process it. Today Roy came to me and said "Mommy, I can't stop thinking about those unfortunate children. I can't. I want to help them. Do they have parents? Can we send them my toys? Then they will have nice things." My sweet babies really took this to heart. Part of me feels bad that I showed them such a reality check. Part of me is glad I did.
The changes we have made have already made a difference. I firmly believe that the most important thing I can teach my children is to understand, process and express their emotions. I try to parent in a very gentle way, without yelling, creating an open environment for them to express whatever they are feeling without judgement and then teach them how to deal with those emotions. We still have clear boundaries in our home, but my goal is not immediate obedience or for them to stop crying right away when they are upset. My goal is for them to be able to express themselves and communicate because I believe EVERYTHING else in life will be handled better if they can do so.
An attitude of gratitude. Simplistic but important. I still struggle daily with controlling my temper and having patience and truly connecting with my kiddos. But I think things are getting better.
Then I came across a blog post about a mom dealing with the same issue. After being fed up with her daughters never being satisfied with anything, she got rid of ALL of their toys. ALL of them. She limited their screen time to a couple of hours per WEEK. And shockingly, after only a few weeks, her children stopped asking for things. Just stopped. Every so often, she would allow them to earn a toy and they would then be entertained by that one toy for hours and hours. Even on vacation, they didn't beg and plead for crap from the gift shops. Mad props to this family. Now I am not going to do this with my kids, because I don't think I need to. But we have made some big changes and after just a couple of weeks I have noticed a difference.
We started with reestablishing our rewards chart, in which the kids get stickers for completing chores, trying new foods, getting good school reports and doing acts of service. They have to get certain amounts of stickers to earn certain privileges. Then I went through and gathered 6 bags of toys and clothes and books to donate to charity. 6 bags. This on top of the quarterly donations that we already do. Boy did they have a lot of crap!!! Finally, we limited their TV to one show per kid each day. Sometimes we fail on that one, but limiting screen time more has totally helped. They are playing together more, drawing more, playing more outside. But the big kicker for us was showing them a post I saw online about childrens' bedrooms from around the world.
I don't know if you saw this post or not, but it featured children from China, the Ivory Coast, etc. and the awful, bare, desolate conditions that they call their sleeping space. One particularly difficult morning, when the kids were complaining about having to do chores, how hard it was to get dressed on their own, how they wanted to watch TV, etc, etc, I finally lost it. I broke down into tears. I was miserable, so sad and heartbroken, watching my children who have so very much to be grateful for, wallowing in this self-pity and ingratitude. They stopped and looked at me like I was crazy because they knew something had just changed. I sat them down and showed them the pictures of the bedrooms around the world. The wooden pallet for a bed, the barbed wire around a chain-linked fence, the obvious lack of toys or stuffed animals. With each progressive picture, their eyes widened, their mouths opened. I asked, "Do these rooms look anything like yours?" Both of them said no and continued to look on in shock and amazement. When we were done, all of us were in tears. I was not trying to hurt their feelings, but I felt I needed to make a big statement to them so that they would understand that I wasn't just "fussing" at them, I meant it when I pointed out how fortunate we are.
Stella immediately ran upstairs and gathered a group of toys that she wanted to donate to those children. Roy just cried. I knew it had elicited some big emotions in him that a four year old can't really process on his own. I just held him and let him cry and we talked a lot about those children. He told me that it hurt his heart, that he couldn't get the pictures out of his head, that one of them looked like a good friend of his at school and he hated the thought of her not having a nice bed to sleep in. Oh how I cried with that little man! It was a lot for them to deal with. It has taken them days to process it. Today Roy came to me and said "Mommy, I can't stop thinking about those unfortunate children. I can't. I want to help them. Do they have parents? Can we send them my toys? Then they will have nice things." My sweet babies really took this to heart. Part of me feels bad that I showed them such a reality check. Part of me is glad I did.
The changes we have made have already made a difference. I firmly believe that the most important thing I can teach my children is to understand, process and express their emotions. I try to parent in a very gentle way, without yelling, creating an open environment for them to express whatever they are feeling without judgement and then teach them how to deal with those emotions. We still have clear boundaries in our home, but my goal is not immediate obedience or for them to stop crying right away when they are upset. My goal is for them to be able to express themselves and communicate because I believe EVERYTHING else in life will be handled better if they can do so.
An attitude of gratitude. Simplistic but important. I still struggle daily with controlling my temper and having patience and truly connecting with my kiddos. But I think things are getting better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)