For me, the Christmas season is not official until I watch “White Christmas;” it always makes me cry. Near the end of the movie, Bing Crosby sings a song “What Do You Do With A General When He Stops Being A General?”
Not one of my top moments in the film, but I cannot get that song (or, more accurately, the first line) out of my head. I have avoided sitting down and posting about it because, frankly, I’m embarrassed. However, the song has been as relentless as one of my brothers sitting on me until I give him the last chocolate chip cookie in the bag.
Okay, I give.
It’s embarrassing because my son’s father would, on occasion, call me “The General.” It started out as a kind of…sort of… endearment. I didn’t like it. So, like any decorated General always at the ready for battle, I began deploying troops and strategizing for what I knew would later come back to bite me in the ass (to put it in military terms). Sure enough, “The General” started emerging in arguments as a label for my behavior. It was then that I really started to hate it.
I hated it because it was, well, kind of…sort of…true.
I am Irish, I have red curly hair, and I am a Taurus; hence, I am just the teeniest bit bossy. It all comes with the package, especially growing up in a family that needed a parent. I was enlisted, quickly promoted through the ranks, and awarded command at a very early age.
I willingly attended my own personal War College to learn as much as possible about the skirmishes (and worse) of life so I could avoid land minds (and worse) thereby keeping myself and the troops safe. That was my job, and, for a 9 year old, I took it very seriously.
I gave orders, and people followed. Period.
It's what I did.
It’s what I do.
In my own defense, it is not that I am in it for the medals or that I willy-nilly impose my decisions on others. I look at all the options, devise the most efficient battle plan to minimize casualties, and make the best decision for the troops. Only now am I beginning to see the aftermath of friendly fire. Those who I had absolutely no intention of getting hurt, were; some with only minor injuries but I gotta admit it; there were some casualties.
Over the past 6 months, I have tried to be different. Everyday I struggle against the call of re-enlistment.
I think I will follow in the footsteps of the General in “White Christmas.” I am going to accept who I was and embrace who I am becoming. Who knows, maybe it will finally snow.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
The Secret of Successful Gift-Buying
I used to hate to shop for birthdays, anniversaries, weddings. I was always so concerned that I would buy the “wrong” thing. My shopping technique was to try to put my gift recipient’s eyes in my head so I could find their perfect gift. It often didn’t work.
Similiarly, I have lived a life by borrowing the eyes of others to look at myself; constantly on the ready to morph into the persona required to fit seamlessly into their current fashion statement. In any given fashion show, I can try on and stomp the runway as zany co-worker, serious professional, wounded partner, supportive friend and back again in a Bryant Park minute.
But I am finding it exhausting to constantly look outside for fashion cues so I can don the right skin, the appropriate adornments, and the matching (or deliberately mis-matched “popping”) shoes for each role I am given. I am, honest to God, getting a little tired of being a model, a human mannequin, an empty outline waiting to make a unique and colorful statement via someone else's point of view.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy playing different roles in my life; I do, but somewhere in me, I knew the difference was in what motivated my desire to take these roles. It was all a little unclear until I went shopping for my former college roommate’s Christmas gift. In the season of miracles, I discovered the secret of successful gift-buying and began to change my life.
I bought a gift for my former roommate because I loved it so much I wanted to buy it for myself.
I became my own fashionista.
I realized it is all about letting go of seeing myself through someone else’s eyes and having the faith and courage to trust and take responsibility for what is alive in me. Then I can inhabit my clothes and own a life whose style is dictated by my inner Versace.
It all fits. Ready to wear. No alterations required. All colorfully and uniquely mine.
Oh, and now when I buy that gift that I love, I buy one for myself, too.
Similiarly, I have lived a life by borrowing the eyes of others to look at myself; constantly on the ready to morph into the persona required to fit seamlessly into their current fashion statement. In any given fashion show, I can try on and stomp the runway as zany co-worker, serious professional, wounded partner, supportive friend and back again in a Bryant Park minute.
But I am finding it exhausting to constantly look outside for fashion cues so I can don the right skin, the appropriate adornments, and the matching (or deliberately mis-matched “popping”) shoes for each role I am given. I am, honest to God, getting a little tired of being a model, a human mannequin, an empty outline waiting to make a unique and colorful statement via someone else's point of view.
It’s not that I don’t enjoy playing different roles in my life; I do, but somewhere in me, I knew the difference was in what motivated my desire to take these roles. It was all a little unclear until I went shopping for my former college roommate’s Christmas gift. In the season of miracles, I discovered the secret of successful gift-buying and began to change my life.
I bought a gift for my former roommate because I loved it so much I wanted to buy it for myself.
I became my own fashionista.
I realized it is all about letting go of seeing myself through someone else’s eyes and having the faith and courage to trust and take responsibility for what is alive in me. Then I can inhabit my clothes and own a life whose style is dictated by my inner Versace.
It all fits. Ready to wear. No alterations required. All colorfully and uniquely mine.
Oh, and now when I buy that gift that I love, I buy one for myself, too.
Friday, January 22, 2010
Square One
I am beside myself right now. I let my train leave the station this morning. This time my son was on the tracks. (If you haven’t been reading this blog and you want to know what I am talking about, you can read the post on Jan 6) Now I’m not saying I went on a wild ride over the Rockies with him clutching the cow catcher (or worse), but that is not to say it didn’t feel like that to him (or worse).
He has been efforting change all over the place, and his father and I have told him how great that is. This morning I was upset with him for neglecting some important school things.
The school structures that he has put into place are newly constructed. The cement in the foundation isn’t completely set yet. And, because of the way I dealt with him, I feel like the Big Bad Wolf who has blown his house down.
I worry that I moved his growth back to Square One.
It’s been so long that my train left the station (relatively speaking for me), that I did not even realize it until we (the train and I) were well underway. Since I now know where the brakes are located, I stopped it way earlier than I have before, but the train had already left the station…there was momentum and drive behind me.
I ache that the surgical removal of this tendency in myself was not as complete as I wanted to believe. Even though I understand that real transformation with loved and intimate relationships is the true test of change and that it is all a try and fail and try again process; I ache that it got away from me in dealing with my son.
So now I, too, worry that my growth has moved back to Square One.
But I did learn something very important.
We are both feeling a tremendous amount of stress around his schooling and his ability to navigate the demands of high school. Moreover, if we can’t handle the pressures of high school in our relationship, how can we handle the pressures of life beyond the diploma? What comes up for both of us is fear. I fight; he flights, but all we are really trying to do is protect ourselves.
All I know is this. The first thing I am going to do is recognize that I can’t surgically remove my train. What I can, and have been doing, is build new structures around my train to house it where it is safe and contained. The next thing I can do is recognize that my structures are as new, and wobbly and tenuous as my son’s. We both need to be gentle with ourselves and each other.
Finally, I can forgive myself, apologize to my son, get out the hammer and nails, survey the damage, and start re-building.
And that’s exactly what I am going to do. I have no answers, no solutions, but I have some tools. And I’m going to piece it back together, one sturdy, rustproof nail at a time.
He has been efforting change all over the place, and his father and I have told him how great that is. This morning I was upset with him for neglecting some important school things.
The school structures that he has put into place are newly constructed. The cement in the foundation isn’t completely set yet. And, because of the way I dealt with him, I feel like the Big Bad Wolf who has blown his house down.
I worry that I moved his growth back to Square One.
It’s been so long that my train left the station (relatively speaking for me), that I did not even realize it until we (the train and I) were well underway. Since I now know where the brakes are located, I stopped it way earlier than I have before, but the train had already left the station…there was momentum and drive behind me.
I ache that the surgical removal of this tendency in myself was not as complete as I wanted to believe. Even though I understand that real transformation with loved and intimate relationships is the true test of change and that it is all a try and fail and try again process; I ache that it got away from me in dealing with my son.
So now I, too, worry that my growth has moved back to Square One.
But I did learn something very important.
We are both feeling a tremendous amount of stress around his schooling and his ability to navigate the demands of high school. Moreover, if we can’t handle the pressures of high school in our relationship, how can we handle the pressures of life beyond the diploma? What comes up for both of us is fear. I fight; he flights, but all we are really trying to do is protect ourselves.
All I know is this. The first thing I am going to do is recognize that I can’t surgically remove my train. What I can, and have been doing, is build new structures around my train to house it where it is safe and contained. The next thing I can do is recognize that my structures are as new, and wobbly and tenuous as my son’s. We both need to be gentle with ourselves and each other.
Finally, I can forgive myself, apologize to my son, get out the hammer and nails, survey the damage, and start re-building.
And that’s exactly what I am going to do. I have no answers, no solutions, but I have some tools. And I’m going to piece it back together, one sturdy, rustproof nail at a time.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Lions, and Tigers, and Gauges..Oh My
My son brought up the “gauges” discussion again last night. If you don’t know what gauges are, thank your lucky stars. They are hoop earrings that gradually stretch the lobes and create holes from ½” to conservatively guessing well beyond 2 ½” in diameter. Now granted my son claims he does not want gauges that big (for now I am guessing), but he thinks the whole look is cool.
The look that he loves so much makes me want to throw up. Google it if you don’t believe me, but I recommend you have a barf bag near by.
So, being a parent, my first comment is, “We have had this discussion several times already. What about ‘No way in hell’ don’t you understand?”
My second thought (unvoiced) is,“ Why, in God’s name, do you want to be ‘that’ kid or me to be ‘that’ mom with ‘that’ kid?” immediately followed by the somatic suction into the familiar bad mom, I did not give him what he needed black hole. Not helpful to me or him.
Later I realized my real thoughts were, “Why does this issue (or similar ones about tattoos, septum rings, squatting etc) keep coming up? Why would a boy as sensitive and sweet as he is, want that? What is he trying to tell me, ask me?”
I woke up before the alarm this morning and something in my body said, “Fear.”
When I was a child, the scariest thing I experienced was the Mandatory School Air Raid Drills. Khrushchev was due any minute, and we had to be ready. At 12 years old, what the heck could I do except hide under my desk, a (chubby) open target to the “Reds”??
I think my son is terrified, and I don’t think he is alone. The world we live in generates fear in whirling dervish proportions to which children and adolescents are extremely susceptible. They breathe it in everyday. Forget H1N1. Where is the antidote to the pervasive and non-stop viral assault to the well being of our children? How do we treat them as adults when they suffer from the Post Traumatic Stress of growing up in a world whose soul has been misplaced?
I think the gauges, the tattoos, the septum rings are his way to eject himself from this assault, to protect himself by leaving the tidal waves of the mainstream to go to the shore, the fringe of society, where, he believes, the water will gently soothe his tired body, heart, and soul. Where he can feel safe, out of harms way.
I think he sees his only other option as somehow walking through the dangers of the yellow brick road to meet his future, the Wizard, the man in charge. And if the Wizard is, in fact, in control, he must be the one who is responsible for causing the death of all those flying monkeys and falling houses in the first place. I can’t blame my son for wanting to get off this path, take that huge, exposed, and terrified heart of his and surround it like the Tin Man with gauges or tattoos. Put out his “No Trespassing” sign to keep it safe.
I think what he is asking me is, “Why do I want to meet the Wizard?? Tell me again why, exactly, I should stay on this road??”
It is my job to help him generate his own safety within…without gauges of course.
The look that he loves so much makes me want to throw up. Google it if you don’t believe me, but I recommend you have a barf bag near by.
So, being a parent, my first comment is, “We have had this discussion several times already. What about ‘No way in hell’ don’t you understand?”
My second thought (unvoiced) is,“ Why, in God’s name, do you want to be ‘that’ kid or me to be ‘that’ mom with ‘that’ kid?” immediately followed by the somatic suction into the familiar bad mom, I did not give him what he needed black hole. Not helpful to me or him.
Later I realized my real thoughts were, “Why does this issue (or similar ones about tattoos, septum rings, squatting etc) keep coming up? Why would a boy as sensitive and sweet as he is, want that? What is he trying to tell me, ask me?”
I woke up before the alarm this morning and something in my body said, “Fear.”
When I was a child, the scariest thing I experienced was the Mandatory School Air Raid Drills. Khrushchev was due any minute, and we had to be ready. At 12 years old, what the heck could I do except hide under my desk, a (chubby) open target to the “Reds”??
I think my son is terrified, and I don’t think he is alone. The world we live in generates fear in whirling dervish proportions to which children and adolescents are extremely susceptible. They breathe it in everyday. Forget H1N1. Where is the antidote to the pervasive and non-stop viral assault to the well being of our children? How do we treat them as adults when they suffer from the Post Traumatic Stress of growing up in a world whose soul has been misplaced?
I think the gauges, the tattoos, the septum rings are his way to eject himself from this assault, to protect himself by leaving the tidal waves of the mainstream to go to the shore, the fringe of society, where, he believes, the water will gently soothe his tired body, heart, and soul. Where he can feel safe, out of harms way.
I think he sees his only other option as somehow walking through the dangers of the yellow brick road to meet his future, the Wizard, the man in charge. And if the Wizard is, in fact, in control, he must be the one who is responsible for causing the death of all those flying monkeys and falling houses in the first place. I can’t blame my son for wanting to get off this path, take that huge, exposed, and terrified heart of his and surround it like the Tin Man with gauges or tattoos. Put out his “No Trespassing” sign to keep it safe.
I think what he is asking me is, “Why do I want to meet the Wizard?? Tell me again why, exactly, I should stay on this road??”
It is my job to help him generate his own safety within…without gauges of course.
Friday, January 15, 2010
Excuse Me for Speaking in Gender Generalities, but I am Multi-tasking and Can’t Focus Right Now
As I write this, I am doing 63 other things in my head. That’s what women do. We multi-task, are proud of it, and feel sorry for men ‘cause they can’t.
So let me ask you this. Why am I surprised by the revelation that if I can’t focus then I am not IN my life? And how can I help my son be fully IN his life if I can’t show him how it’s done?
Maybe there is something in this male do-it-one task-at-a-time thing. Now I am not saying men got it all going on or even that the way men do it is for me. Although honesty, I’d rather be distracted by the thousand tasks that come my way every day. I make a list, number the tasks in the order to be completed (so I get them done faster and use less gas), cross them off as they are accomplished (accomplish....LOVE that word!), crumple up that list, toss it in the trash and look for what needs to be done tomorrow. Another job done! Another day successfully completed! It’s so EASY to feel good! I LOVE the fact that it’s all so stinkin’ measurable and concrete. I can feel good about myself and if you want to know why; take out that crumpled piece of paper in the trash.
Honesty, I ‘m proud that I have developed my abilities, probably like a lot of you, into a friggin’ force of nature, a freak of power, control and management. I can juggle 12 tasks at once, with BOTH hands tied behind my back.
But do any of the tasks or the people in my life get any of my SELF? Yes, but very little. I am too busy showing off my juggling skills and wondering if it is shorter and cheaper to take Foothill Blvd or the 210 freeway to get to the next item on my T0-D0 list.
I can’t give anything of substance, because I don’t take the time to get out of the checklist in my head and focus on my Being. There is no connection. I push the eject button and completely bail on myself and, therefore, everyone else. I allow my life to travel on auto-pilot; drop my packages (hoping they land at the appointed destination), and move at Mach speed to the next drop site.
For me, simply, I’m not in my life because I am afraid to be. Being in my life means taking full responsibility for the conditions of my inner and outer circumstances every moment. It means focusing not on the task, but my involvement IN the task. It means the 100% commitment to bring my heart, body, consciousness, and soul along for the ride.
Crapsticks.
So let me ask you this. Why am I surprised by the revelation that if I can’t focus then I am not IN my life? And how can I help my son be fully IN his life if I can’t show him how it’s done?
Maybe there is something in this male do-it-one task-at-a-time thing. Now I am not saying men got it all going on or even that the way men do it is for me. Although honesty, I’d rather be distracted by the thousand tasks that come my way every day. I make a list, number the tasks in the order to be completed (so I get them done faster and use less gas), cross them off as they are accomplished (accomplish....LOVE that word!), crumple up that list, toss it in the trash and look for what needs to be done tomorrow. Another job done! Another day successfully completed! It’s so EASY to feel good! I LOVE the fact that it’s all so stinkin’ measurable and concrete. I can feel good about myself and if you want to know why; take out that crumpled piece of paper in the trash.
Honesty, I ‘m proud that I have developed my abilities, probably like a lot of you, into a friggin’ force of nature, a freak of power, control and management. I can juggle 12 tasks at once, with BOTH hands tied behind my back.
But do any of the tasks or the people in my life get any of my SELF? Yes, but very little. I am too busy showing off my juggling skills and wondering if it is shorter and cheaper to take Foothill Blvd or the 210 freeway to get to the next item on my T0-D0 list.
I can’t give anything of substance, because I don’t take the time to get out of the checklist in my head and focus on my Being. There is no connection. I push the eject button and completely bail on myself and, therefore, everyone else. I allow my life to travel on auto-pilot; drop my packages (hoping they land at the appointed destination), and move at Mach speed to the next drop site.
For me, simply, I’m not in my life because I am afraid to be. Being in my life means taking full responsibility for the conditions of my inner and outer circumstances every moment. It means focusing not on the task, but my involvement IN the task. It means the 100% commitment to bring my heart, body, consciousness, and soul along for the ride.
Crapsticks.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Good Mourning
It is official. I am outing myself. Honest, I just this morning realized it. I have been hiding.
It’s my mother. These past few days, I have been feeling things I have never felt towards her…ever in my life.
It’s deep sadness that she is not here anymore.
Yes, I do feel rotten about saying it, but it is true. I am the lowest of the low, and as much as I want to, I cannot change that it has taken me this long to miss her.
When my dad passed away in 1988, I mourned him for two years. I already told you about him. He was extremely flawed, but he put it all out there. He showed me who he was. I KNEW him deep down to my toes, and I loved him more than anyone. I was devastated when he died.
I didn’t know my mom. She wasn’t able to show me who she was. My mom hid her pain well (see I learned this hiding thing from the Master). She simply did not have anything to give. I grew up distancing myself emotionally because (in my young mind) she started it. So when she wanted that adult connection with me, there was no way I was giving it because she didn’t want to play with me when I wanted to play with her. Okay, i admit it, I was emotionally still 7, deeply disappointed and pissed.
So when Claire (I stopped calling her mom when I was 9) passed away in 1999, an Alzheimer’s shell of the woman she was before, it honestly wasn’t much different than when she was alive. She wasn’t there anymore, but, for me, she never was.
I made our relationship all about how she had let me down. Even as an adult, I never once thought about the excruciating pain of being unable to connect with your child.
Until I had one.
I’m a mom. On one hand, I believe I am a good one, but it doesn’t take much to expose the underbelly of that belief. (If you have been reading this blog, you know what I am talking about) I fight against the guilt, the past mistakes with my son, the “wrong” choices I made for him. I want a do-over. I want to start again. I want to give to him now what I couldn’t or didn’t know how to give to him then. All of a sudden, I get it. In lay-person’s terms…. I’m a parent.
It’s too late for my mother to give me what I wanted from her then. It’s too late now for me to give her what I feel today. For the first time in my life, I want my Mom…flaws and all. I want a do-over.
But please don't be concerned. After a lifetime of clouds and rain, the sun is breaking through. It is a good mourning.
It’s my mother. These past few days, I have been feeling things I have never felt towards her…ever in my life.
It’s deep sadness that she is not here anymore.
Yes, I do feel rotten about saying it, but it is true. I am the lowest of the low, and as much as I want to, I cannot change that it has taken me this long to miss her.
When my dad passed away in 1988, I mourned him for two years. I already told you about him. He was extremely flawed, but he put it all out there. He showed me who he was. I KNEW him deep down to my toes, and I loved him more than anyone. I was devastated when he died.
I didn’t know my mom. She wasn’t able to show me who she was. My mom hid her pain well (see I learned this hiding thing from the Master). She simply did not have anything to give. I grew up distancing myself emotionally because (in my young mind) she started it. So when she wanted that adult connection with me, there was no way I was giving it because she didn’t want to play with me when I wanted to play with her. Okay, i admit it, I was emotionally still 7, deeply disappointed and pissed.
So when Claire (I stopped calling her mom when I was 9) passed away in 1999, an Alzheimer’s shell of the woman she was before, it honestly wasn’t much different than when she was alive. She wasn’t there anymore, but, for me, she never was.
I made our relationship all about how she had let me down. Even as an adult, I never once thought about the excruciating pain of being unable to connect with your child.
Until I had one.
I’m a mom. On one hand, I believe I am a good one, but it doesn’t take much to expose the underbelly of that belief. (If you have been reading this blog, you know what I am talking about) I fight against the guilt, the past mistakes with my son, the “wrong” choices I made for him. I want a do-over. I want to start again. I want to give to him now what I couldn’t or didn’t know how to give to him then. All of a sudden, I get it. In lay-person’s terms…. I’m a parent.
It’s too late for my mother to give me what I wanted from her then. It’s too late now for me to give her what I feel today. For the first time in my life, I want my Mom…flaws and all. I want a do-over.
But please don't be concerned. After a lifetime of clouds and rain, the sun is breaking through. It is a good mourning.
Monday, January 11, 2010
Isn’t Blogging Wonderful!?
Yesterday, after I posted my blog, I did some errands. When I got home, I re-read the post as I often do to try to see what I am saying from a different set of eyes, a new perspective.
As I was moving through it, I came across the sentence, “ I was an outline of my body, a dark solid line, but there was nothing colored inside the lines. I was not ‘in’ my body. “
Wait a minute. Didn’t I write that about my mom a few days ago? I went back to check and sure enough, there it was.
“I never really knew what colors she had inside.”
Way back 35 years ago, that wedding dream was showing me how I was living my life. My mother even tried to rouse me out of it, but I couldn’t (or wouldn't) wake up.
My father was made of dynamic and vibrant colors, strong, saturated, and chaotic: a Kandinsky. For better or for worse, he made himself known: live and in living color. My mother was more of a sepia reproduction... her colors muted into a narrow range of browns (maybe because of her choices as a woman at that time?) Now I feel that her colors were lackluster and restricted because, for whatever reason, she had to leave her life and let it go on without her.
What today’s seedling revelation is telling me is that my lineage is a huge part of who I am, and what I am passing down to my son. It is vital to make myself as conscious as possible of what is leading me so that I can accept it, and embrace it, and transmute it, and transcend it, and, finally, thank it and release it. It also suggests to me that the reason I have almost no memory of most of my life from childhood to a young womanhood is because I was mostly not IN my life.
Most importantly, it tells me that it is time to fully commit to being IN it: my life and the part I was born to play in the evolution of the planet.
One of my teachers, Katherine, put the effort required to be IN it like this;
“Come hell or high water, I am walking to China, and I will not stop.”
“Even if my ass falls off.”
As I was moving through it, I came across the sentence, “ I was an outline of my body, a dark solid line, but there was nothing colored inside the lines. I was not ‘in’ my body. “
Wait a minute. Didn’t I write that about my mom a few days ago? I went back to check and sure enough, there it was.
“I never really knew what colors she had inside.”
Way back 35 years ago, that wedding dream was showing me how I was living my life. My mother even tried to rouse me out of it, but I couldn’t (or wouldn't) wake up.
My father was made of dynamic and vibrant colors, strong, saturated, and chaotic: a Kandinsky. For better or for worse, he made himself known: live and in living color. My mother was more of a sepia reproduction... her colors muted into a narrow range of browns (maybe because of her choices as a woman at that time?) Now I feel that her colors were lackluster and restricted because, for whatever reason, she had to leave her life and let it go on without her.
What today’s seedling revelation is telling me is that my lineage is a huge part of who I am, and what I am passing down to my son. It is vital to make myself as conscious as possible of what is leading me so that I can accept it, and embrace it, and transmute it, and transcend it, and, finally, thank it and release it. It also suggests to me that the reason I have almost no memory of most of my life from childhood to a young womanhood is because I was mostly not IN my life.
Most importantly, it tells me that it is time to fully commit to being IN it: my life and the part I was born to play in the evolution of the planet.
One of my teachers, Katherine, put the effort required to be IN it like this;
“Come hell or high water, I am walking to China, and I will not stop.”
“Even if my ass falls off.”
Sunday, January 10, 2010
The Unbearable Loss of the Lightness of Being
My son, in his junior year, absolutely hates high school. I think he has always hated school but never really verbalized it as strongly or as much as he has this year. He feels “imprisoned” by the size of the school (3,000 + students), the curriculum and, as he calls it, “the hypocrisy of attending a ‘blue ribbon’ school that shows no care for students who struggle.” My son has struggled in school since he began the public school system in the 7th grade. He received straight A’s his first year in the system (but apparently hated every minute of it he tells me now). In the 8th he began a slow but steady decline into ennui, resistance, and lying to avoid a system that he feels is failing him.
We had him tested this October to see if there were any processing problems going on that negatively affected his grades, and hence his struggles in maintaining a positive self-esteem and consistent motivation for school.
Now let me just say that as parents, we KNOW our kids even when the school doesn’t or even when our child can’t latch onto who they are. I have always known my son is intelligent, intellectually capable, but with the declining grades (mostly Cs, a few better, a few worse) I wanted to know…
What is Going On??
At the assessment results meeting, the school psychologist and learning specialist announced that they have never experienced testing a child with my son’s level of intelligence and knowledge before. They suggested he test out of school and start college immediately.
Not very helpful. But clearly there IS something going on.
If my son has that many talents and gifts what are the reasons for his lack of achievement and, more importantly, his unhappiness, lack of passion and desire????
It reminded me of a dream I had a few days before my first marriage. My mother and I were sitting in the back pew of the huge Gothic Catholic church where the marriage was to take place. My mother looked beautiful, and I was all decked out in my Priscilla of Boston wedding dress. Funny thing was, the wedding was in progress. My mother was nudging me. “You have to get up there now! GO!” I looked at the altar. The best woman and best man were there. The priest was there. My almost husband was there. Check, check, check and check. And there I was. Kinda sorta. I was an outline of my body, a dark solid line, but there was nothing colored inside the lines. I was not “in” my body.
I could barely look. It was, for me, the first recognition that I was a part of life, but I was not “in” my life. I experienced the unbearable loss of the lightness of my Being. I was there, but not there: I was empty, an outline, a shadow of who I was.
And I was perfectly fine getting married that way.
I turned to my mother and said, “I’m staying right here.”
I got married a week later.
We had him tested this October to see if there were any processing problems going on that negatively affected his grades, and hence his struggles in maintaining a positive self-esteem and consistent motivation for school.
Now let me just say that as parents, we KNOW our kids even when the school doesn’t or even when our child can’t latch onto who they are. I have always known my son is intelligent, intellectually capable, but with the declining grades (mostly Cs, a few better, a few worse) I wanted to know…
What is Going On??
At the assessment results meeting, the school psychologist and learning specialist announced that they have never experienced testing a child with my son’s level of intelligence and knowledge before. They suggested he test out of school and start college immediately.
Not very helpful. But clearly there IS something going on.
If my son has that many talents and gifts what are the reasons for his lack of achievement and, more importantly, his unhappiness, lack of passion and desire????
It reminded me of a dream I had a few days before my first marriage. My mother and I were sitting in the back pew of the huge Gothic Catholic church where the marriage was to take place. My mother looked beautiful, and I was all decked out in my Priscilla of Boston wedding dress. Funny thing was, the wedding was in progress. My mother was nudging me. “You have to get up there now! GO!” I looked at the altar. The best woman and best man were there. The priest was there. My almost husband was there. Check, check, check and check. And there I was. Kinda sorta. I was an outline of my body, a dark solid line, but there was nothing colored inside the lines. I was not “in” my body.
I could barely look. It was, for me, the first recognition that I was a part of life, but I was not “in” my life. I experienced the unbearable loss of the lightness of my Being. I was there, but not there: I was empty, an outline, a shadow of who I was.
And I was perfectly fine getting married that way.
I turned to my mother and said, “I’m staying right here.”
I got married a week later.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
For Your Own Safety, Keep Off The Tracks
Yesterday, a woman friend of mine, whom I care for very much, posed a question to me and a group of other mothers who have sons. Based on her observations of what our young men are currently going through, she commented that our boys are experiencing difficulties at a frequency that is "statistically significant." She thought we might want to come up with a theory as to why that was so.
Intellectually, I knew the question was meant simply as an inquiry; something she was curious about, a way to be helpful to us.
Emotionally, I almost blew a gasket.
It activated every unspoken fear I harbor about myself as a mom. I have accepted that my tiara slipped off my head and shattered, and maybe I'm not (always) the World’s Best Mom. Now I find out my son’s behaviors are statistically significant. (and NOT in a good way).
Yes, she got me where I, apparently, still live.
In that moment, all my fears about the kind of mother I am (that I thought I had outgrown and therefore had neatly folded and packed in boxes for a Goodwill pick-up) hit me like a bullet train. In the next breath, my fears, overjoyed at their seismic re-awakening, took control of the train and set my sights on her.
I felt justified.
I know this train very well. I embodied that train for most of my life, and without a conscious engineer, it was recklessly out of control: speeding from station to station and running over anything or anyone that happened to be on the tracks. After all, they were in my way.
I felt justified.
There were many casualties along the way: family, friends, innocent strangers, even myself. Honestly anyone who inadvertently roused any one of my many buried insecurities, fears, or doubts, with a look, a word, a challenge to my way of thinking, a question I didn’t like or even a simple, innocent inquiry was run over without a single warning whistle.
And I felt justified.
After a lifetime of looking for the brakes, I stopped that runaway train for the first time about 2 months ago. It took five days and absolutely every ounce of inner strength I had NOT to feel justified, and NOT to push the throttle full steam ahead and destroy the messenger instead of looking within.
This time, in less than a day, I recognized this moment was all about what was still lying dormant in me. It had nothing to do with my friend. She was trying to help. As a matter of fact, she did me a favor by offering me an opportunity to grow and expand into a larger consciousness and a better understanding of myself. So I grabbed it.
And that train?
Never even left the station.
Now THAT’S what I call statistically significant.
(Thank you, my friend for supporting me to post this.)
Intellectually, I knew the question was meant simply as an inquiry; something she was curious about, a way to be helpful to us.
Emotionally, I almost blew a gasket.
It activated every unspoken fear I harbor about myself as a mom. I have accepted that my tiara slipped off my head and shattered, and maybe I'm not (always) the World’s Best Mom. Now I find out my son’s behaviors are statistically significant. (and NOT in a good way).
Yes, she got me where I, apparently, still live.
In that moment, all my fears about the kind of mother I am (that I thought I had outgrown and therefore had neatly folded and packed in boxes for a Goodwill pick-up) hit me like a bullet train. In the next breath, my fears, overjoyed at their seismic re-awakening, took control of the train and set my sights on her.
I felt justified.
I know this train very well. I embodied that train for most of my life, and without a conscious engineer, it was recklessly out of control: speeding from station to station and running over anything or anyone that happened to be on the tracks. After all, they were in my way.
I felt justified.
There were many casualties along the way: family, friends, innocent strangers, even myself. Honestly anyone who inadvertently roused any one of my many buried insecurities, fears, or doubts, with a look, a word, a challenge to my way of thinking, a question I didn’t like or even a simple, innocent inquiry was run over without a single warning whistle.
And I felt justified.
After a lifetime of looking for the brakes, I stopped that runaway train for the first time about 2 months ago. It took five days and absolutely every ounce of inner strength I had NOT to feel justified, and NOT to push the throttle full steam ahead and destroy the messenger instead of looking within.
This time, in less than a day, I recognized this moment was all about what was still lying dormant in me. It had nothing to do with my friend. She was trying to help. As a matter of fact, she did me a favor by offering me an opportunity to grow and expand into a larger consciousness and a better understanding of myself. So I grabbed it.
And that train?
Never even left the station.
Now THAT’S what I call statistically significant.
(Thank you, my friend for supporting me to post this.)
Monday, January 4, 2010
The WBM
When my son was two, I taught him how to respond to the most important question I could think of, “Just in case anyone asks; who has the World’s Best Mom?” I would ask. I taught him to say, “I do!” “Who has the World’s Best Mom?” “I do!” It eventually morphed into “Who has the WBM?”
I asked him that question once or twice a week up until about two years ago. My son is 18 ½ now and I don’t ask him any more. It’s not because he wouldn’t play along, it’s because I can’t bring myself to ask.
It's because I wouldn’t believe his answer.
Somewhere between his 15th and 17th birthdays, the sparkly officially sanctioned WBM tiara slipped off my head and shattered (why didn’t anyone tell me it was so fragile??!!). When I bent over to collect the pieces so I could gorilla glue it back together, I over-reached to grab one of my big shiny tiara gems, and my glittery WBM sash ripped right up the back (and NOT on the seam). Then, in my non-stop over-reaching which (I admit) I tend to do, I irrevocably soiled my cornflower blue custom-made WBM waving glove.
Without my sparkly WBM tiara to light the way, we have both been a little lost. He wandered off, and I don’t know how to find him. I sometimes see another boy who is a dead ringer for my son. I always think it’s him until I look very closely into his eyes. They look a little clouded and confused, maybe even scared. He turns and walks away into the shadows again. What happened????? Who is that boy?? And…Where Is My Son???
On rare occasions, my son emerges from the shadows and comes to me. His eyes are bluer than purple...clear and focused. I know it’s my son because his eyes tell me things about my son that only my son could know. Then, suddenly, he’s gone again.
So that’s why I stopped asking my son our question. Because if I was the WBM, I would have been able to hang on to my sparkly officially sanctioned WBM tiara, my glittery WBM sash, and my cornflower blue custom-made WBM waving glove. But most importantly, if I really was the WBM, I would have been able to hang on to my son.
So, I wait, recalling our past visits as a silent reminder that he is still my boy, and that he needs to go into the darkness, alone, without me and my sparkly tiara to guide him. I tell myself that when he comes back for good, he will feel deeper, richer, more at home with himself for the experience.
When that happens I’ll say, “Just in case anyone asks, who has the World’s Best Mom?” I know he will look at me, laugh and say, “I do.” And I will believe him, because I did what the World's Best Mom needed to do. Even though I let him go into the darkness, alone and unguided…
I waited where he could see me.
I asked him that question once or twice a week up until about two years ago. My son is 18 ½ now and I don’t ask him any more. It’s not because he wouldn’t play along, it’s because I can’t bring myself to ask.
It's because I wouldn’t believe his answer.
Somewhere between his 15th and 17th birthdays, the sparkly officially sanctioned WBM tiara slipped off my head and shattered (why didn’t anyone tell me it was so fragile??!!). When I bent over to collect the pieces so I could gorilla glue it back together, I over-reached to grab one of my big shiny tiara gems, and my glittery WBM sash ripped right up the back (and NOT on the seam). Then, in my non-stop over-reaching which (I admit) I tend to do, I irrevocably soiled my cornflower blue custom-made WBM waving glove.
Without my sparkly WBM tiara to light the way, we have both been a little lost. He wandered off, and I don’t know how to find him. I sometimes see another boy who is a dead ringer for my son. I always think it’s him until I look very closely into his eyes. They look a little clouded and confused, maybe even scared. He turns and walks away into the shadows again. What happened????? Who is that boy?? And…Where Is My Son???
On rare occasions, my son emerges from the shadows and comes to me. His eyes are bluer than purple...clear and focused. I know it’s my son because his eyes tell me things about my son that only my son could know. Then, suddenly, he’s gone again.
So that’s why I stopped asking my son our question. Because if I was the WBM, I would have been able to hang on to my sparkly officially sanctioned WBM tiara, my glittery WBM sash, and my cornflower blue custom-made WBM waving glove. But most importantly, if I really was the WBM, I would have been able to hang on to my son.
So, I wait, recalling our past visits as a silent reminder that he is still my boy, and that he needs to go into the darkness, alone, without me and my sparkly tiara to guide him. I tell myself that when he comes back for good, he will feel deeper, richer, more at home with himself for the experience.
When that happens I’ll say, “Just in case anyone asks, who has the World’s Best Mom?” I know he will look at me, laugh and say, “I do.” And I will believe him, because I did what the World's Best Mom needed to do. Even though I let him go into the darkness, alone and unguided…
I waited where he could see me.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Sometimes I Long for the Good Old Days…..
when I would be just fine, thank you very much, with placing the responsibility for my life outside of myself.
I awoke early this morning as I normally do to read and journal. I stated out loud to myself and the universe that I intended and desired for 2010 to be a year of such transformation for myself that I will be unrecognizable by this time next year. I asked for lessons to keep me on track with my larger intention of illuminating the illusion of irreconcilable separateness and creating deep care, connection and generosity of spirit.
I immediately became terrified as the deepness of this desire resonated within me, and as all that I must release in order to do this vibrated through my body. Not ten minutes later, I had an incident with my son’s father with whom I have been estranged for the past almost two years.
We had a huge argument. I tried to stay in my intention, but the pull of old roles that we had firmly fixed in place during our 25 years together came raging back at both of us like a bull attacking a red-suited matador.
We both have fixed ideas about who the other is and, at least in the heatedness of argument, can’t perceive anything else. These are roles, perceptions, ideas about each other that we chose to create in relationship over many years. Our decidedly un-enlightened behavior can’t be traced to an outside source, can’t be credited to society’s rules as our parents may have done; we can’t even blame the position of the stars when we met ( cause we thought they were in perfect alignment).
So after it was over, and I am feeling sad and pissed off and distraught beyond belief, I go back to my intention of this morning to “be unrecognizable by this time next year by causing deep care, connection, and generosity of spirit.” Yes, Virginia, the universe does have a sense of humor.
I do know that I have made tremendous changes in the last 9 months. I feel in my body that I (at least) try to come from a larger perspective than myself, from a power center that is true to me, but also gentle to others. I consciously perceive that I am no longer a soldier on the battlefield of relationship fighting to stay alive, but I am the general on the hill who is safe and objective and viewing the scene from a larger perspective. It is often successful for me, and I know that I am navigating the world in a new and different way.
Then I have a conversation with my son’s father, and it all gets shot to hell.
So this is how I am deciding to make meaning of today. I asked for transformation. I asked for the illusions to be illuminated. The universe gave it to me in my next co-created breath. Why? To give me the opportunity to put into practice what I am trying to do. I am clearly beyond illuminating illusions with the cashier at the grocery store. I am in the big leagues now. I am choosing to look at this as evidence that I have upped the stakes in my life.
This is it for me. This is my year. Now I need to step up to the plate.
I awoke early this morning as I normally do to read and journal. I stated out loud to myself and the universe that I intended and desired for 2010 to be a year of such transformation for myself that I will be unrecognizable by this time next year. I asked for lessons to keep me on track with my larger intention of illuminating the illusion of irreconcilable separateness and creating deep care, connection and generosity of spirit.
I immediately became terrified as the deepness of this desire resonated within me, and as all that I must release in order to do this vibrated through my body. Not ten minutes later, I had an incident with my son’s father with whom I have been estranged for the past almost two years.
We had a huge argument. I tried to stay in my intention, but the pull of old roles that we had firmly fixed in place during our 25 years together came raging back at both of us like a bull attacking a red-suited matador.
We both have fixed ideas about who the other is and, at least in the heatedness of argument, can’t perceive anything else. These are roles, perceptions, ideas about each other that we chose to create in relationship over many years. Our decidedly un-enlightened behavior can’t be traced to an outside source, can’t be credited to society’s rules as our parents may have done; we can’t even blame the position of the stars when we met ( cause we thought they were in perfect alignment).
So after it was over, and I am feeling sad and pissed off and distraught beyond belief, I go back to my intention of this morning to “be unrecognizable by this time next year by causing deep care, connection, and generosity of spirit.” Yes, Virginia, the universe does have a sense of humor.
I do know that I have made tremendous changes in the last 9 months. I feel in my body that I (at least) try to come from a larger perspective than myself, from a power center that is true to me, but also gentle to others. I consciously perceive that I am no longer a soldier on the battlefield of relationship fighting to stay alive, but I am the general on the hill who is safe and objective and viewing the scene from a larger perspective. It is often successful for me, and I know that I am navigating the world in a new and different way.
Then I have a conversation with my son’s father, and it all gets shot to hell.
So this is how I am deciding to make meaning of today. I asked for transformation. I asked for the illusions to be illuminated. The universe gave it to me in my next co-created breath. Why? To give me the opportunity to put into practice what I am trying to do. I am clearly beyond illuminating illusions with the cashier at the grocery store. I am in the big leagues now. I am choosing to look at this as evidence that I have upped the stakes in my life.
This is it for me. This is my year. Now I need to step up to the plate.
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