I listened to my daughter tonight, as she read her homework to my wife; in Spanish. I was having a difficult evening and my daughter was not happy with me for forcing her to finish her homework.
As she switched between scowling at me and reading, I realized how skittish parenting is. We start out hopeful, even eager to raise our children well. It's not that different from gardening. The parallels and analogies work well.
Once our plant begins it's journey out of the soil, we can only care for it, guiding it to a healthy maturity. Hopefully, the plant will ripen, ending in the separation from the vine to whatever end lies ahead.
The problem is that life often interferes with our designs. Sometimes the plant is weakened by little sun and too much cloudy weather. Sometimes they rot from too much care or improper care. We strive to provide loads of sun so that they thrive.
The point is - we have no way of telling how they will grow. Only that they will. We can only love them while we have them and let them go when they are ready. Force them off the vine too early, and I believe they will falter. Keep them to long and they will wither on the vine.
I gazed at my daughter, but was really thinking inward, wincing at my self-absorbed, detached manner and wondering how my depression was affecting her growth. My daughter nuzzled into my wife as she read her homework. My wife nodded and complimented my daughter on a particular word, gently correcting as she did; sounding just the right tone.
"Nicely done, honey" I offered. The sound of my voice seemed insincere and contrite from my perch across the room.
I only hope my wife's sunshine can balance out my dreary, grey clouds.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
struggling...
I picture myself, sitting upon my little ledge. The rocky cliff soars above and disappears in the distance around me. With my knees drawn in, I have little purchase to move around.
In front of me dangles a vine. It represents opportunity and hope. When I was younger, it had swung my way once, maybe twice. It is close enough to see but too far to reach.
Just out of reach, it seems.
I picture myself, watching the vine. It has not moved for many years. I now sit here, in my mid-life wondering why I hadn't jumped at the vine when I was younger. I understand that the rope had swung out of nowhere when I was not ready. I watched it, fearful of missing and falling. Fearful of catching it and not knowing what to expect. Fearful. I watched it go, not fully understanding it might not return. Youth was a time to believe. Midlife is a time to doubt. Old age might be a time to know.
I cannot blame anyone but myself and even not myself. No one told me to grab the vine when it came my way. There was no one to help. No one to ask.
I cannot feel bad for myself. I had my chance. We all do. Some of us expect the vine and some even wait for it. Some know what to expect and some even expect to know.
It is our lot, is it not. We all begin, believing we see everything around us. Later we begin to understand that we really did not see. We try to teach those after us, but they believe they see everything and since what we tell them is not seen it is not believed.
I watch the vine. It has not moved for many years. I do not believe it will move again. I only can wait and watch the vine reviewing what I've missed.
In front of me dangles a vine. It represents opportunity and hope. When I was younger, it had swung my way once, maybe twice. It is close enough to see but too far to reach.
Just out of reach, it seems.
I picture myself, watching the vine. It has not moved for many years. I now sit here, in my mid-life wondering why I hadn't jumped at the vine when I was younger. I understand that the rope had swung out of nowhere when I was not ready. I watched it, fearful of missing and falling. Fearful of catching it and not knowing what to expect. Fearful. I watched it go, not fully understanding it might not return. Youth was a time to believe. Midlife is a time to doubt. Old age might be a time to know.
I cannot blame anyone but myself and even not myself. No one told me to grab the vine when it came my way. There was no one to help. No one to ask.
I cannot feel bad for myself. I had my chance. We all do. Some of us expect the vine and some even wait for it. Some know what to expect and some even expect to know.
It is our lot, is it not. We all begin, believing we see everything around us. Later we begin to understand that we really did not see. We try to teach those after us, but they believe they see everything and since what we tell them is not seen it is not believed.
I watch the vine. It has not moved for many years. I do not believe it will move again. I only can wait and watch the vine reviewing what I've missed.
Sleeptime politics
My wife and I have allowed my daughter to sleep with us in our bed for sometime now. My daughter has her own bed, of course. It's a nice loft bed from Ikea. I believe she stays with us partly because she doesn't like sleeping alone, for fear of nightmares. Our bed is also bigger and plushier than hers.
Even in our king sized bed, I sleep poorly when my daughter is with us. She has a tornadic tendency for splaying her arms and legs about. Often, I surface from slumber to find my daughter, sleeping between my wife and I, has burrowed into my wife's back while kneeing me in mine.
So it was with profound relief when my daughter began laying on her side with one leg loosely draped across me.
Until, still asleep, she used that leg for leverage as she stretched as if dreaming...and knee'd me in the lower back with her other leg.
Even in our king sized bed, I sleep poorly when my daughter is with us. She has a tornadic tendency for splaying her arms and legs about. Often, I surface from slumber to find my daughter, sleeping between my wife and I, has burrowed into my wife's back while kneeing me in mine.
So it was with profound relief when my daughter began laying on her side with one leg loosely draped across me.
Until, still asleep, she used that leg for leverage as she stretched as if dreaming...and knee'd me in the lower back with her other leg.
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Hot potato for one
My cell phone is sitting forlorn in my jacket pocket which is hanging on a peg. It is only several rooms distant, but that seems very far and the cell phone a heavy burden to haul back to my cozy chair and sunny window.
I have to call my dad to let him know that we are expecting a girl in May.
It dawned on me this morning, after I checked my email and found my brother had sent me my father's phone number; which I'd emailed him for.
I've not spoken with my father for almost a year; well maybe half a year.
On my way to get the phone, another realization dawned upon me. I needed to prepare the slow-cooked dinner for tonight. You see, I go to a men's therapy group on Wednesdays; effectively stranding my pregnant wife and young daughter without food. My wife is nauseous around cooking smells and my daughter is only seven.
I hold my parents responsible - possibly unfairly - for my seemingly messed up life. My childhood was a normal one by most regards, but it lacked something vital; the active involvement of my parents.
I prepare dinner and clean up. The dreadful notion of calling clings to me like the stink from the onions I had just chopped. I absentmindedly return to the living room, not sure what to do next, but unconsciously almost frantic to find some way to avoid the obvious.
My father welds shame like a scalpel. I know that my emotions of just anger and hurt will be cast aside leaving me feeling ashamed for ignoring him for so long. He is mostly blind and living by himself in assisted housing in Duluth.
Echos of my wife saying "He hasn't called you either." circle around. Odd, isn't it, that I passively defended him by replying "But I haven't called him either."
I pick up the living room a bit and discover the book of baby names we'd just bought. I settle in my chair and start perusing names.
Zilla...definitely not...
Whilhelmina...noooo...
Colette...I like...
I bump the laptop I'm now writing on that was beside me and my dad's phone number appears, where I'd left it on the screen.
Damn...
I'd tried calling several times in the past days, but each number I had lying around was wrong. We had sent out Christmas cards to my family, but left out the christmas letter mentioning my soon-to-be new daughter; thinking it would be an insult to find out in a letter and not personally.
Putting down the baby name book, I decide to write my feelings and see if it helps. Like weeping the wound of toxins I find myself immersed in tangled emotions.
It's like playing hot potato, by myself, with the cell phone. I picture myself tossing it away quickly, watching it skitter across the dining room floor and bump into the far wall. I wait to have it tossed back to me whether I want it or not. But nothing happens.
Damn I say, walking over to pick it up.
I have to call my dad to let him know that we are expecting a girl in May.
It dawned on me this morning, after I checked my email and found my brother had sent me my father's phone number; which I'd emailed him for.
I've not spoken with my father for almost a year; well maybe half a year.
On my way to get the phone, another realization dawned upon me. I needed to prepare the slow-cooked dinner for tonight. You see, I go to a men's therapy group on Wednesdays; effectively stranding my pregnant wife and young daughter without food. My wife is nauseous around cooking smells and my daughter is only seven.
I hold my parents responsible - possibly unfairly - for my seemingly messed up life. My childhood was a normal one by most regards, but it lacked something vital; the active involvement of my parents.
I prepare dinner and clean up. The dreadful notion of calling clings to me like the stink from the onions I had just chopped. I absentmindedly return to the living room, not sure what to do next, but unconsciously almost frantic to find some way to avoid the obvious.
My father welds shame like a scalpel. I know that my emotions of just anger and hurt will be cast aside leaving me feeling ashamed for ignoring him for so long. He is mostly blind and living by himself in assisted housing in Duluth.
Echos of my wife saying "He hasn't called you either." circle around. Odd, isn't it, that I passively defended him by replying "But I haven't called him either."
I pick up the living room a bit and discover the book of baby names we'd just bought. I settle in my chair and start perusing names.
Zilla...definitely not...
Whilhelmina...noooo...
Colette...I like...
I bump the laptop I'm now writing on that was beside me and my dad's phone number appears, where I'd left it on the screen.
Damn...
I'd tried calling several times in the past days, but each number I had lying around was wrong. We had sent out Christmas cards to my family, but left out the christmas letter mentioning my soon-to-be new daughter; thinking it would be an insult to find out in a letter and not personally.
Putting down the baby name book, I decide to write my feelings and see if it helps. Like weeping the wound of toxins I find myself immersed in tangled emotions.
It's like playing hot potato, by myself, with the cell phone. I picture myself tossing it away quickly, watching it skitter across the dining room floor and bump into the far wall. I wait to have it tossed back to me whether I want it or not. But nothing happens.
Damn I say, walking over to pick it up.
Sunday, January 04, 2009
Skeletons and marshmellows
As I sat alone in our living room lit by one standing lamp, late tonight, I heard the door to our bedroom close. The ghostly visage of my daughter appeared down the hallway and she shuffled up to my chair; wiping sleep from her eyes.
"what's wrong honey?" I asked
Without another word, she crawled into my lap and snuggled against me.
"Nightmares again, eh?
"I don wanna talk about it" she murmured sleepily.
For some time now, she has struggled with nightmares. She is an inquisitive, but shy and demur seven year old. Around family, she is the active, vivacious little force in our family. But in public, she becomes attached to my wife or I and seems afraid of the world. I believe her nightmares to be the "second hand smoke" of her emotional growth. As she works through her life, learning and struggling with the world, the makeup of her nightmares shows what she is concerned about; her fears and doubts. While I keep watch for signs that something serious is amiss, I've found none.
She is just a growing seven year old girl in a difficult world.
I cover her with my blanket as she sits on my lap and wedges her toes between my legs and cozily under one thigh. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders and around her neck as she nuzzles against my shoulder. We sit for several moments quietly.
"Did we watch something too scary tonight?" I say, hoping to draw her out.
"No." she yawns
She normally declines to tell me what her nightmare about. Her logic is that if she tells me, when she goes back to sleep she'll have the same nightmare for sure; as if I'm the kicker to prolonging them.
"They're not fun, huh?"
"No, I hate them." she replies sleepily and emphatically.
"Remember that you have all the power to stop them. When you go back to sleep, just change your dream to something you like." I have tried to teach her how to control her nightmares the same way I learned to and I know I'm not saying it in a way she understands.
"When you have a nightmare, just go back to sleep and..." I start
"I've tried it a billion times and I can't do it." she says petulantly, cutting me off.
"I'm sure you can." I counter lamely.
"No I can't."
We sit for a bit more as I caress her hair, silently hoping she'll fall back to sleep and I can avoid feeling useless and unable to help her.
"I wish I could do something to help. It gets easier as you get older. Thing will start to make more sense and won't be as scary." I say wondering if I even believe it myself. I suddenly remember the nightmares I had as a child; and how terribly scary they seemed - and still feel at times.
"I used to have nightmares when I was a boy, too." I add, wondering if I should tell her one, but decide it might only make things worse.
"Are you scared by something?" I try again.
"No..." She replies "it was at the Science Museum."
I am pleased she confided in me, but perplexed at what I said that somehow made her feel safe enough to share.
"There was a skeleton that flew down and killed me." she said, sounding as if it had been all to real for her.
And it suddenly became clear to me.
My wife, daughter and I had visited the Science Museum of Minnesota today to see an exhibit combining the CSI who-dunnit TV shows with real forensics. Everyone who toured, got to solve a mystery. No wonder she was having nightmares. Even as we wandered about figuring out the pretend murder case, I wondered if my daughter was too young for this; whether it was healthy for a seven year old to be learning about bullet fragments in skulls and blood spatter patterns.
"What if you told the skeleton 'leave me alone' ?"
"I can't do it." she seemed so resigned and powerless. I needed to give her the power somehow. I looked to my laptop sitting on the table beside us and began googling children and nightmares. I found an article on Athealth.com; where the author discussed the topic and gave some suggestions.
I found one section I thought might be especially good and read it back to her; tracing the words with my finger as I read. "...Using role playing and fantasy rehearsals, parents can help their children assert their magical powers and tame their nightmares. New endings for dreams can be created so that falling dreams can become floating dreams and chase dreams end with the capture of the villain..."
I looked at my daughter and she was following what I was reading. I continued on to an example about a little girls' nightmare and how the father gave the girl ideas on how to change her nightmare.
hmmm
"So, next time you go to sleep, try this. don't wait to go back into the nightmare. Picture yourself in the nightmare, where you left off, but now...look down and notice that you are wearing magician's robes." I said, raising my eyebrows when I mention the robes.
"Look at your hands" I continued, raising my hands as if I were cupping something. "Oh...there's powerful magic glowing in your hands"
She was staring at my hands, seeing the magic my hands, a smile on her face.
"When that skeleton shows up you just hit him with the magic. POOF! and he disappears."
"he's really big" she counters
"So you hit him with your magic and then..." I pause for effect. "You pull out your magic wand"
I whip out a imaginary wand and wave it about in my hand.
"You zap him!"
"He came down from the ceiling..." she says. I can just imagine her trying to find some hole in what I'm saying.
I unfold an imaginary umbrella over our heads.
"Just put up your umbrella and he bounces off".
I can see she's thinking now. Her eyes say to me this just might work.
"Time for bed" I say, picking her up. I carry her back into our bedroom, where she is luckily sleeping between my wife and I tonight.
As I tuck her in, she grins up at me.
"I'm gonna hit him with marshmellows. He hates marshmellows"
"what's wrong honey?" I asked
Without another word, she crawled into my lap and snuggled against me.
"Nightmares again, eh?
"I don wanna talk about it" she murmured sleepily.
For some time now, she has struggled with nightmares. She is an inquisitive, but shy and demur seven year old. Around family, she is the active, vivacious little force in our family. But in public, she becomes attached to my wife or I and seems afraid of the world. I believe her nightmares to be the "second hand smoke" of her emotional growth. As she works through her life, learning and struggling with the world, the makeup of her nightmares shows what she is concerned about; her fears and doubts. While I keep watch for signs that something serious is amiss, I've found none.
She is just a growing seven year old girl in a difficult world.
I cover her with my blanket as she sits on my lap and wedges her toes between my legs and cozily under one thigh. I tuck the blanket around her shoulders and around her neck as she nuzzles against my shoulder. We sit for several moments quietly.
"Did we watch something too scary tonight?" I say, hoping to draw her out.
"No." she yawns
She normally declines to tell me what her nightmare about. Her logic is that if she tells me, when she goes back to sleep she'll have the same nightmare for sure; as if I'm the kicker to prolonging them.
"They're not fun, huh?"
"No, I hate them." she replies sleepily and emphatically.
"Remember that you have all the power to stop them. When you go back to sleep, just change your dream to something you like." I have tried to teach her how to control her nightmares the same way I learned to and I know I'm not saying it in a way she understands.
"When you have a nightmare, just go back to sleep and..." I start
"I've tried it a billion times and I can't do it." she says petulantly, cutting me off.
"I'm sure you can." I counter lamely.
"No I can't."
We sit for a bit more as I caress her hair, silently hoping she'll fall back to sleep and I can avoid feeling useless and unable to help her.
"I wish I could do something to help. It gets easier as you get older. Thing will start to make more sense and won't be as scary." I say wondering if I even believe it myself. I suddenly remember the nightmares I had as a child; and how terribly scary they seemed - and still feel at times.
"I used to have nightmares when I was a boy, too." I add, wondering if I should tell her one, but decide it might only make things worse.
"Are you scared by something?" I try again.
"No..." She replies "it was at the Science Museum."
I am pleased she confided in me, but perplexed at what I said that somehow made her feel safe enough to share.
"There was a skeleton that flew down and killed me." she said, sounding as if it had been all to real for her.
And it suddenly became clear to me.
My wife, daughter and I had visited the Science Museum of Minnesota today to see an exhibit combining the CSI who-dunnit TV shows with real forensics. Everyone who toured, got to solve a mystery. No wonder she was having nightmares. Even as we wandered about figuring out the pretend murder case, I wondered if my daughter was too young for this; whether it was healthy for a seven year old to be learning about bullet fragments in skulls and blood spatter patterns.
"What if you told the skeleton 'leave me alone' ?"
"I can't do it." she seemed so resigned and powerless. I needed to give her the power somehow. I looked to my laptop sitting on the table beside us and began googling children and nightmares. I found an article on Athealth.com; where the author discussed the topic and gave some suggestions.
I found one section I thought might be especially good and read it back to her; tracing the words with my finger as I read. "...Using role playing and fantasy rehearsals, parents can help their children assert their magical powers and tame their nightmares. New endings for dreams can be created so that falling dreams can become floating dreams and chase dreams end with the capture of the villain..."
I looked at my daughter and she was following what I was reading. I continued on to an example about a little girls' nightmare and how the father gave the girl ideas on how to change her nightmare.
hmmm
"So, next time you go to sleep, try this. don't wait to go back into the nightmare. Picture yourself in the nightmare, where you left off, but now...look down and notice that you are wearing magician's robes." I said, raising my eyebrows when I mention the robes.
"Look at your hands" I continued, raising my hands as if I were cupping something. "Oh...there's powerful magic glowing in your hands"
She was staring at my hands, seeing the magic my hands, a smile on her face.
"When that skeleton shows up you just hit him with the magic. POOF! and he disappears."
"he's really big" she counters
"So you hit him with your magic and then..." I pause for effect. "You pull out your magic wand"
I whip out a imaginary wand and wave it about in my hand.
"You zap him!"
"He came down from the ceiling..." she says. I can just imagine her trying to find some hole in what I'm saying.
I unfold an imaginary umbrella over our heads.
"Just put up your umbrella and he bounces off".
I can see she's thinking now. Her eyes say to me this just might work.
"Time for bed" I say, picking her up. I carry her back into our bedroom, where she is luckily sleeping between my wife and I tonight.
As I tuck her in, she grins up at me.
"I'm gonna hit him with marshmellows. He hates marshmellows"
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