Relationships between girls and their moms are complicated. Even in the best, closest relationships, there are minefields and frustrations to be navigated, even among the great fields of love and support.
When I was in my 20s, I probably would have said that my mom was one of my best friends. For so long, it had been just her and me, working through life's tough bits, arm in arm. We survived my dad's cancer and his ultimate death; we later held onto each other through my brother's suicide and our resulting deep and seemingly unending grief. Then, she helped me through the very earliest years of my kids' lives.
Things started to shift when I was in my 30s. The more I grew as a person and uncovered - or rediscovered - who I am, the more I grew separate from my mom. I think it was the inevitable separation that happens when one is not much like one's parents. Our values are different, our worldviews are not the same; this causes tension. I still love her and want to care for her, especially since she's on her own, but there are moments - sometimes many moments - of strain.
This is a very hard thing to admit. Mother's Day is a difficult holiday, with people posting about their "best mom ever" and all the great things they do with their mom. Or with others telling their friends to appreciate their moms while they are here because one day they will be gone.
My mom absolutely did the very best for me. She loves me deeply. She worked hard to give me a good life and to give me all the things she thought I needed and wanted - she still does. And for that, I do appreciate her. And I love her, unconditionally. Love doesn't need to be bound to getting along, and it doesn't need to mean that we don't see the flaws or don't feel the rift. It also doesn't mean that we don't feel pain for what we wish it could be.
To all those who don't have picture-perfect relationships with their moms, it's okay. To those whose moms cause some measure of anxiety, or from whom they are estranged; to those whose moms are a handful or don't quite know how to love us the way we need to be loved; to those whose moms try but just always seem to miss the mark; to those who have found surrogate moms around us - from aunts to in-laws to neighbours to church moms; to all of us: it's okay if you're not posting great declarations of love today, and you are not alone.
Sunday, 14 May 2017
Thursday, 21 July 2016
girls taking up space
Of course, time changes kids into teenagers, and with those changes come a backing off for many girls. My sincerest hope, though, is that time and hormones won't change my girl too much. She is a force.
Two Christmases ago, she decided to sign up to be one of the two centurions in our church's Christmas pageant. I thought it was interesting, and I was just glad that she finally wanted a speaking role. She explained later that she took the role because no other girl had done it; she really wasn't all that interested in the armour, sword, or even the lines. I frankly had not noticed that no girl had done the role before. This past Christmas, another girl put her hand up for centurion. I'd like to think that Boo had something to do with that.
She's also the kind of girl who reads books geared to boys because she thinks it's ridiculous that they are marketed at only one gender. One of the books on her shelf is For Boys Only, sitting next to Lumberjanes. She explained she needed me to order the book from the Scholastic catalogue because if it was for boys only; she needed to know the things that they were learning, so that it wouldn't be just for boys anymore. I couldn't argue with that, and I forked over my first Scholastic cheque in years.
This girl has grown up in a time where women can make more money than their male partners without it being an issue, where men share in daily chores, where gay marriage is a given, where gender is more fluid than it has ever been. And yet she is able to perceive the continued, ingrained gendered roles that I, as a feminist, have not noticed or stopped noticing.
So as annoying as the loudness can be, as vexing as the clear NOs are, I'm glad she is who she is. She can keep kicking at the walls of the boxes that many of us no longer see.
Wednesday, 20 July 2016
pieces of me
Tis the season of summer camps and sending kids off. It marks a reprieve for parents from the everyday madness, business, tiredness, and overwhelming responsibility of children. It allows parents to celebrate the kids being away.
Except for the divorced parents. At least, except for me.
I only get to see my kids 50 percent of the time. That gives me tons of me time, tons of time with friends, tons of guilt-free late hours at work, tons of kid-free errands. In a way, it's great. My parent self is well-rested and far more patient than I'd ever been as a 100 percent-of-the-time mom.
Here's the thing, though: I miss my kids like crazy in the summer. I get three straight weeks with them, which is AMAZING. But then, they are off to be with their dad, for three straight weeks. Then away at camp for another week. Then some time with grandparents. I now have long evenings of Netflix, knitting, catching up with friends, reading - whatever I want. It sounds like a dream to most parents, but it isn't always.
Some evenings, like tonight, I ache for my girls. At 11 and 13, they still like to hug and to cuddle. I still tuck them in and snuggle up before bed. We still hold hands - intermittently - when we go for walks or run errands. I miss all of that. And their goofiness. Oh my goodness, the laughs we have.
They are not easy all of the time, and we have our struggles, moodiness, disagreements, and squabbles. But I even miss that.
I'd always wanted to be a mom, but I never imagined what a big part of me my children could be. And what a big part of me they take with them when they are away.
Except for the divorced parents. At least, except for me.
I only get to see my kids 50 percent of the time. That gives me tons of me time, tons of time with friends, tons of guilt-free late hours at work, tons of kid-free errands. In a way, it's great. My parent self is well-rested and far more patient than I'd ever been as a 100 percent-of-the-time mom.
Here's the thing, though: I miss my kids like crazy in the summer. I get three straight weeks with them, which is AMAZING. But then, they are off to be with their dad, for three straight weeks. Then away at camp for another week. Then some time with grandparents. I now have long evenings of Netflix, knitting, catching up with friends, reading - whatever I want. It sounds like a dream to most parents, but it isn't always.
Some evenings, like tonight, I ache for my girls. At 11 and 13, they still like to hug and to cuddle. I still tuck them in and snuggle up before bed. We still hold hands - intermittently - when we go for walks or run errands. I miss all of that. And their goofiness. Oh my goodness, the laughs we have.
They are not easy all of the time, and we have our struggles, moodiness, disagreements, and squabbles. But I even miss that.
I'd always wanted to be a mom, but I never imagined what a big part of me my children could be. And what a big part of me they take with them when they are away.
Tuesday, 14 June 2016
silence
I've been processing the Orlando tragedy/violence/senselessness. Friends post thoughts and prayers and pride photos. Others post articles. Gay friends ask allies to step up.
All I can do is watch in silence, transfixed, trying to figure out why this time I am passed rage, passed words.
The world is so broken.
My biggest goal as a mom is to teach my kids to love. It's that simple: everything else - the kindness, the generosity, the understanding, the acceptance, the good - it all comes from love. And my kids are incredibly loving in so many ways.
Which is why I couldn't bring myself to tell them about what happened in Orlando. I don't want them to be living in a world where a group of people gets massacred because of who they are. I don't want them to live in a world that runs rampant with speculation about Islamic terrorism when the only fact we have is that the murderer was Arab. I don't want them to live in a world where people are hurting so badly that they are driven to hurt others in the most horrific ways imaginable.
I precisely don't want them to be able to even imagine those things. I don't want them to witness the brokenness of this world. But I know they see it, every day, and they ask and wonder about it. Why is it so? And I have no answers, but to say, our job is to love. Our job is to take those pieces - the broken ones - and to love them to wholeness.
I believe in God, and I believe in prayer. I also believe that we are the body of Christ; we are his hands and his feet and his heart. Our acts of love are in fact answers to prayers.
So what can I do, my kids do, to answer the anguished prayers? I'm still working on that. I think part of it is seeing the humanity and brokenness in everyone. And the kernel of wholeness inside each of them, of us. To include the marginalized. To stop and talk to those who have no one. To give that street kid a lunch and a dry place to eat on a rainy day. To say good morning to those I run into every day. To provide a word of encouragement to anyone, because we never know who's struggling.
Maybe the answer is to beat back the silence, the sense of futility. To do. To go on and speak out, to rage, to cry, to hold. Perhaps the silence is what I need to overcome more than anything.
Kids, we should talk.
All I can do is watch in silence, transfixed, trying to figure out why this time I am passed rage, passed words.
The world is so broken.
My biggest goal as a mom is to teach my kids to love. It's that simple: everything else - the kindness, the generosity, the understanding, the acceptance, the good - it all comes from love. And my kids are incredibly loving in so many ways.
Which is why I couldn't bring myself to tell them about what happened in Orlando. I don't want them to be living in a world where a group of people gets massacred because of who they are. I don't want them to live in a world that runs rampant with speculation about Islamic terrorism when the only fact we have is that the murderer was Arab. I don't want them to live in a world where people are hurting so badly that they are driven to hurt others in the most horrific ways imaginable.
I precisely don't want them to be able to even imagine those things. I don't want them to witness the brokenness of this world. But I know they see it, every day, and they ask and wonder about it. Why is it so? And I have no answers, but to say, our job is to love. Our job is to take those pieces - the broken ones - and to love them to wholeness.
I believe in God, and I believe in prayer. I also believe that we are the body of Christ; we are his hands and his feet and his heart. Our acts of love are in fact answers to prayers.
So what can I do, my kids do, to answer the anguished prayers? I'm still working on that. I think part of it is seeing the humanity and brokenness in everyone. And the kernel of wholeness inside each of them, of us. To include the marginalized. To stop and talk to those who have no one. To give that street kid a lunch and a dry place to eat on a rainy day. To say good morning to those I run into every day. To provide a word of encouragement to anyone, because we never know who's struggling.
Maybe the answer is to beat back the silence, the sense of futility. To do. To go on and speak out, to rage, to cry, to hold. Perhaps the silence is what I need to overcome more than anything.
Kids, we should talk.
Tuesday, 1 December 2015
December 1
Facebook has a way of reminding us of anniversaries that we may have forgotten.
Four years ago today, I moved out of my family home and into what was then a dingy little rental house on the outer edge of the neighbourhood. I would spend the next two and a half weeks cleaning and painting, buying and assembling IKEA furniture, and making the house into a home - a little nest - for my girls and me. And I would be surrounded by the very best in people. That day, four years ago, friends whom I am sure questioned why I was leaving and likely wondered what the hell was going on with me, asked no questions and came, and rolled up their sleeves, and helped me move my stuff, and offered hugs. Other friends, some acquaintances, gave me kitchenware and appliances, beds for my girls, a couch and some amazing wood furniture. That night, overwhelmed by the grief but also by the raw compassion, I wrote on facebook, "I'm blessed to have so many amazing people in my life to carry me through the dark parts." This is still true.
The following year, to the day, I wrote an homage to Adèle, thanking her (and her music) for having taken me through a tough year. That album still touches me, though the songs bring melancholy now instead of deep sorrow. There is a sort of hope to them now, too, because I got through that year, and a few more since.
Two years ago, on this day, I quoted Bruce Cockburn, "Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight." I'd heard the Barenaked Ladies' version on the radio as I was driving down the road, and I remember singing along, tears streaming down my face. Things were still hard. I was still really sad. Those words ring true today, as do the ones that follow: "You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."
And finally, a year ago today, The Bean left me a sweet little note on my bedside table. I was in a great place. My kids were happy and healthy, our home was safe and warm, and I was simply happy. The note represents how good things were, and continue to be.
Four years. Four years that I feel are split right down the middle at this point. Two years of great grief, and two years of coming out into the light, after having kicked at the darkness for so long. Now the girls and I have a house to call our own. We have never wanted for anything; even those early days were filled with generosity.
I am in a really great spot right now, on many fronts. I have energy and gifts to share with others. There has been so much generosity poured out to us, that our cup runs over. The girls and I have continually learned from that generosity and strive to pour it out to others. Once, our nest was the safe place we escaped to, for safety, for quiet. Now, it is the place from which we take flight and soar. And it is so very good.
Four years ago today, I moved out of my family home and into what was then a dingy little rental house on the outer edge of the neighbourhood. I would spend the next two and a half weeks cleaning and painting, buying and assembling IKEA furniture, and making the house into a home - a little nest - for my girls and me. And I would be surrounded by the very best in people. That day, four years ago, friends whom I am sure questioned why I was leaving and likely wondered what the hell was going on with me, asked no questions and came, and rolled up their sleeves, and helped me move my stuff, and offered hugs. Other friends, some acquaintances, gave me kitchenware and appliances, beds for my girls, a couch and some amazing wood furniture. That night, overwhelmed by the grief but also by the raw compassion, I wrote on facebook, "I'm blessed to have so many amazing people in my life to carry me through the dark parts." This is still true.
The following year, to the day, I wrote an homage to Adèle, thanking her (and her music) for having taken me through a tough year. That album still touches me, though the songs bring melancholy now instead of deep sorrow. There is a sort of hope to them now, too, because I got through that year, and a few more since.
Two years ago, on this day, I quoted Bruce Cockburn, "Nothing worth having comes without some kind of fight." I'd heard the Barenaked Ladies' version on the radio as I was driving down the road, and I remember singing along, tears streaming down my face. Things were still hard. I was still really sad. Those words ring true today, as do the ones that follow: "You gotta kick at the darkness till it bleeds daylight."
And finally, a year ago today, The Bean left me a sweet little note on my bedside table. I was in a great place. My kids were happy and healthy, our home was safe and warm, and I was simply happy. The note represents how good things were, and continue to be.
Four years. Four years that I feel are split right down the middle at this point. Two years of great grief, and two years of coming out into the light, after having kicked at the darkness for so long. Now the girls and I have a house to call our own. We have never wanted for anything; even those early days were filled with generosity.
I am in a really great spot right now, on many fronts. I have energy and gifts to share with others. There has been so much generosity poured out to us, that our cup runs over. The girls and I have continually learned from that generosity and strive to pour it out to others. Once, our nest was the safe place we escaped to, for safety, for quiet. Now, it is the place from which we take flight and soar. And it is so very good.
Thursday, 19 November 2015
She's got this
It was not so long ago that I fretted daily about my kid who has ADHD: how will she get through this world? Will she ever be able to complete tasks without me reminding her of each step? Oh my word, will groceries ever even be possible? The world, especially this fast-paced, stimuli-full world, is too big and weird and busy for this person.
It's been a bit of a road, and we've had a lot of help from teachers and the school administration, but I have a kid who is thriving. She's just 13, but The Bean can not just get through a day, but she is crushing it. She is in a gifted program at school and receiving more-than-respectable grades; she is improving her drawing skills in the art program in leaps and bounds; she's in a choir, and she plays piano for fun; she is learning Spanish and fundraising to prepare for a potential trip to Guatemala in the spring; she is learning html code and building a little website; she has a dozen good friends at school; she babysits regularly to earn pocket money; and she is an incredibly pleasant person (this I am told by her teachers, family friends, church friends, the parents of the kids she babysits, and her friends' parents, so it's not entirely me being biased).
Those years of worrying whether my kid would be okay - in the broadest sense - have dissipated. Last night, when I saw her report card, and she proudly showed me the "Very Good" next to "Organizational Skills," I felt like a weight was lifted. Tonight, Dad and I met with her homeroom/ math/ science teacher, and our relief was confirmed: she's doing great.
She has got this.
It's been a bit of a road, and we've had a lot of help from teachers and the school administration, but I have a kid who is thriving. She's just 13, but The Bean can not just get through a day, but she is crushing it. She is in a gifted program at school and receiving more-than-respectable grades; she is improving her drawing skills in the art program in leaps and bounds; she's in a choir, and she plays piano for fun; she is learning Spanish and fundraising to prepare for a potential trip to Guatemala in the spring; she is learning html code and building a little website; she has a dozen good friends at school; she babysits regularly to earn pocket money; and she is an incredibly pleasant person (this I am told by her teachers, family friends, church friends, the parents of the kids she babysits, and her friends' parents, so it's not entirely me being biased).
Those years of worrying whether my kid would be okay - in the broadest sense - have dissipated. Last night, when I saw her report card, and she proudly showed me the "Very Good" next to "Organizational Skills," I felt like a weight was lifted. Tonight, Dad and I met with her homeroom/ math/ science teacher, and our relief was confirmed: she's doing great.
She has got this.
Monday, 28 September 2015
the shaky hug
There is a thing that happens to a young girl (I cannot speak for what happens to boys, but I think it might be very similar): around age 10, she goes from being the lovely little stable being she's been since she gave up being a troublesome preschooler, and she moves into the moody stage. At first, it is barely noticeable: in the moment, she loses her temper, then she's back to herself for days, sometimes weeks. But soon the episodes become more frequent and last longer.
I remember being about 12 or 13 and getting so mad at my mom, and just yelling at her and slamming my bedroom door. And I remember that feeling of being utterly out of control; it was frightening. My mom was incredibly patient with me. She never yelled back (I am guilty of having done this), never told me to cut it out (also guilty). I was allowed the space I so desperately needed, and the opportunity to come out of it, with dignity. I have learned that the outbursts are out of my girls' control. I try to remind myself of that. In a house of girls, we'll all have to remember that, from time to time!
The Bean has learned to recognize when it's a hormonal outburst. She hates it, but she sees it for what it is. We came up with a "cure" a while back, and it seems to be working on Boo now, too. It's pretty simple: when one of them is in a grumpy mood and she just can't shake it, I give her a hug - not just any hug, though. It's a shaky hug. It's always welcome, but it looks reluctant from the outside, at least at first. She's usually slumped and I'm doing all the "work" of the hug. Here are the instructions, in case you want to try it at home:
I remember being about 12 or 13 and getting so mad at my mom, and just yelling at her and slamming my bedroom door. And I remember that feeling of being utterly out of control; it was frightening. My mom was incredibly patient with me. She never yelled back (I am guilty of having done this), never told me to cut it out (also guilty). I was allowed the space I so desperately needed, and the opportunity to come out of it, with dignity. I have learned that the outbursts are out of my girls' control. I try to remind myself of that. In a house of girls, we'll all have to remember that, from time to time!
The Bean has learned to recognize when it's a hormonal outburst. She hates it, but she sees it for what it is. We came up with a "cure" a while back, and it seems to be working on Boo now, too. It's pretty simple: when one of them is in a grumpy mood and she just can't shake it, I give her a hug - not just any hug, though. It's a shaky hug. It's always welcome, but it looks reluctant from the outside, at least at first. She's usually slumped and I'm doing all the "work" of the hug. Here are the instructions, in case you want to try it at home:
- take slumpy, grumpy girl into your arms
- hold her close
- bounce from side to side
- say, "shaky hug, shaky hug, shaky shaky shaky hug."
- repeat as needed
It sounds ridiculous. It looks ridiculous. It feels ridiculous. Which is precisely why it seems to work: within seconds, she softens, and a few seconds later I get giggles.
The thing I've learned is that they just need an excuse to come back - back to me, back to themselves, back to us. To repair the frayed bonds of our relationship. It's clear that it's what they each so desperately need and want, but don't know how to do. Silliness seems to do the trick. It's easy for anyone to get sucked into a vortex of anger and to feed it and not let go. But how many times do we just need a little release of frustration, and then let it all go? I know I do. So I try to afford that to my girls.
It turns out it works on grumpy women, too, by the way. Just the other day, The Bean noticed a dark cloud over my head, and came over to me to give me a shaky hug. It fixed everything.
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