Teachable Moments

teachable moment

I’m having the time of my life this year with a three and five year old. We go on adventures and treasure hunts, we have conversations, we joke around, we act silly and make things together. I’m sure some of this relative peace is because I’m not so crazy in the head as I used to be, but I also just think kids this age are my thing.

Take tonight, for instance.

Bryan is out with a friend, this evening, so I’m on kid duty all night. As is customary in the Zug Haus, Thomas and Ruthie eventually start fighting while I’m cleaning up in the kitchen. This is a sample of what I often hear:

“I WANT IT!”

“I HAD IT FIRST!”

“BUT IT’S MINE!”

“YOU’RE SO STUPID! I’M NOT GONNA EVER BE YOUR FRIEND!”

[screaming ensues when Thomas pulls Ruthie’s hair].

Feeling tired, I let this go on for awhile, hoping it will resolve itself. But it never does. Kids don’t fight fair, and therefor kids will never resolve arguments on their own. They need direction. They need to practice reconciliation. They need a road map to get them through the conflict.

I come into the living room where they are and sit them both on my lap in my favorite chair. And then I do something quite unexpected… to all of us. I ask Ruthie how she is being unloving to her brother.

Of course she starts shouting at me about Thomas pulling her hair, but I interrupt. I didn’t ask what Thomas did to you, I say. I asked you how you were being unloving to him.

Again she starts complaining about him trying to take away her game, but I interrupt and keep her on track. I say it’s easy to point out everything Thomas is doing wrong, but this time I want her to think about it differently. I ask her again, how are you being unloving to Thomas?

I shouted at him, she says.

Yeah? What else?

I wouldn’t let him play with me.

Hmmm. Thomas, how are you being unloving to Ruthie?

She wasn’t sharing her toy with me!

I know that, but how were you unloving to her?

I pulled her hair and I shouted at her.

Hmmm. Sounds like neither of you are loving each other.

I’m sorry Thomas.

Sorry Rufie.

Thomas, do you want to play the game together?

YEAH!

—

I kid you not, this is how it went down – word for word. Ruthie stood up, was completely sincere in her apology, and offered to share the game. Turns out I’m not fucking them up so bad after all, and that all our rote conversations about apologizing and reconciling and being kind are actually sinking in.

It took me a long time to get here, to this place of patience and selflessness where I can stop what I’m doing and walk them through a situation. It’s much easier (and much more convenient to my own agenda) to yell at them and send them to their corners, or to perhaps to redirect their focus by turning on the tv.

But at my core I’m a discipler, a mentor. I draw from real life experiences to help others see things in a different way. When Bryan and I fight, I’m always quick to point out his faults and the way he makes me angry. But Jesus calls us to a love of a different kind – a love that extends to even our enemies (real or perceived) – because that kind of love is unexpected to a foe and much more persuasive than a fight.

My kids are not too young to learn these lessons, and it’s only through real life conflict I will have the opportunity to teach them. If I ignore the conflict, I’m ignoring a teachable moment. It took a radical shift in my thinking and priorities and parenting style to embrace these lessons for myself, but as it turns out, this agenda is way more engaging and rewarding than the self-serving one I was creating on my own.

Aaand…she’s off!

First Day of School - Kindergarten kindergarten2 Kindergarten3

The Internet continues to ask me how Ruthie’s first week of kindergarten is going, and I am derelict in responding. My sister was in town last week, we had a holiday, I’m having some sleeping issues, and I’m reading a book I can’t put down. My apologies to The Internet for leaving you hanging in the balance.

But it gives me warm fuzzies all over that you continue to harass me via twitter, IM, and email – I’ve been writing about Ruthie for so long that it sometimes feels like our little girl is growing up. Someday when she reads back through my archives looking for ammunition to bring her therapist, I hope she runs across this post and realizes that I love her so much it’s contagious.

As far as school itself is going, Ruthie is much more tight lipped than I expected her to be. Though I don’t know why I’m surprised by that – every Sunday I pick her up from her Sunday school class and ask what she did. Nothing, is always the response I get, and I get the same when I see her after school.

Though I do get the lowdown each day on a new friend she’s made – a girl in the other kindergarten class she met at the back to school bbq. They are not in the same class, but it turns out they ride the same bus home. Today when I met her at the bus stop Ruthie was hysterically insisting I board the bus to meet her new friend, and since I clearly can’t do this there were great fits of rage right there on the sidewalk with the backpack a-flyin’ and the feet a stompin’.

Thankfully we recovered from that quickly, and moved on. But what can I say? She’s a social, hospitable girl with clear, unbendable, expectations (sound familiar?).

Speaking of riding the bus, at the 11th hour she had a panic attack of sorts, and began crying the night before she was to ride the bus for the first time (I drove her in on the first day). I don’t want to be alone! she kept sobbing. Drive me in the car! I don’t necessarily have a strong…how shall we say?…compassion quality to me, but this was breaking my heart.

It also came as a huge surprise since she’s been talking about taking the school bus since she was three years old. But I could tell she was tired so I told her we would talk about it in the morning. And after some brief hesitation and one crying spell, by the time she put her sweater on she was back to being excited.

Though she did hold my hand all the way up to the second step of the bus, and only let go when my arm wouldn’t go any further – and I thought this was very sweet.

Putting her on the bus was much more emotional for me than when I took her into class the first day. I’m used to door to door delivery – it’s what I did for preschool, it’s what we do for Sunday school, it was no big whoop. But when that big orange bus swallowed my baby up whole and drove around the corner? There was not only tears, but there was actual sobbing.

My heart swelled with love and pride, but also with fear that she was driving away from me and never coming back. I wanted to wrap her up in my sweater and whisk her away, take her home, and curl up in my bed for a good snuggle. I wanted to snap my fingers so a cartoon maid would appear and sing a happy working song while doing all the now-insignificant chores that always seem to make me so grouchy and emotionally unavailable.

I knew this time would come, and I knew I would feel exactly like this – which is why I was able to get home and move on with my day without pouring myself a margarita (barely).

One of those moments when it was just too quiet

face painting

Ruthie? What are you guys doing up there?

Nothing…

Ruthie, what are you doing?

Nothing!

No seriously, what are you doing?

(pause)

We want some alone time, Mom!

That’s fine, but what are you playing with?

(pause)

Naaahhhh-thiiiiiiing!

So if I come up there I’m going to find you sitting on the bed picking your nose?

(like a teenager) Mom!

—

At the sound of my footsteps on the stairs I hear them scramble, and when I enter the room Thomas is in the closet and Ruthie is hiding under her desk. I am feeling a strange deja vu tingle that takes me back to when Ruthie hid under the bed after cutting her own hair.

What are you doing under there? I ask with measured control.

She slips out from under the desk and sits on the floor, defeated.

I’m pretending to be a face painter, she says.

I know there was a day – hell, even maybe an hour ago – when I would have blown a gasket over such a thing. For some reason I’ve never been able to see antics like this as basic childhood curiosity and mischievousness, but rather as a personal assault on my authority and control.

Even though I wasn’t happy there was also green marker on the carpet, the walls, and the night stand, it’s all washable, it’s all perishable, and it’s all meaningless. It’s just stuff. Stuff that sacrificed itself for the creative genius of a child who likes face painting at the fair.

As Ruthie waited tentatively for my response, I felt such freedom in my soul as I smirked at her, then smiled, then laughed as she laughed. I never realized graciousness could fill me with such joy.

face painting

That tenacity may actually get her somewhere

The other day as we were trying to get out of the house, I was caught up in the usual fussing around that happens when one person is trying to get three bodies going. Ruthie kept asking me to tie her shoes, but of course I was not in shoe-tying mode, I was in snack packing mode. Ruthie persisted.

Mom, can you tie my shoes?

Mom, when are we going? Can you tie my shoes?

After a few minutes of me putting her off, she became quiet in the next room. That is, until she came screaming into the kitchen, literally. She screamed “MOM!” as if Scout had just swallowed Thomas’ head.

“IS ANYONE HURT?!?” I said, my heart racing.

“NO, BUT MOM– ”

“IS ANYONE IN DANGER?!?”

“MOM, NO! But– ”

(sighing) “Then why are you screaming at me?”

“BECAUSE I TIED MY OWN SHOE!”

I looked down at her shoe and a little scream escaped my lips, too. What a big girl. She’s only had lace-up shoes a few weeks, and taught herself to tie them by watching me do it for her.

It’s not very often that I recognize the positive aspects of Ruthie’s tenacity. I should remember this story on those days when her tenacity pushes the buttons of each and every one of her friends. I should remember this story on those days when her tenacity drives Thomas to the brink of insanity. I should remember this story on those days when Ruthie is a walking Wall of Obstination.

She is still finding her way, but I pray she learns to use her tenacity for good more often, and not evil. With that kind of ferocious focus she can solve the world’s problems.

Of course, I captured her accomplishment on video:

selfless love

“Offer yourselves to sin, for instance, and it’s your last free act” (Romans 6:17ish, The Message).

Recently my pastor spoke on the topic of worship. At the time I felt like I was fighting myself, feeling out of sorts about something, but not quite able to place my finger on it. I was angry about anger, and discouraged that I still couldn’t seem to get a grip on my rage.

As he talked about worship, he also talked about idols – those things we worship in place of Jesus. He probed with questions, getting to the heart of what is most important to us. One question I remember in particular is, If you could be anywhere else on Earth, where would you be?

Iâ€™ve actually answered this question several times over in my mind. When stressed, when overwhelmed, when feeling the weight of responsibility, I dream of moving to Cape Cod. When I canâ€™t face my life anymore, all I want is to lay on the beach all day and tend bar all night. Alone.

I even have a postcard Iâ€™ve kept since my 20â€™s. Itâ€™s an aerial view of Cape Cod – desolate, protruding into the ocean in all its isolation. Below it is a quote, â€œOne could stand and have the whole Earth behind him.â€

This has always been my secret dream, to be alone with the whole earth behind me.

My struggle with anger all these years really boils down to the fact I am worshiping my own agenda in place of Jesus. As I thought back on all the times I’d lost it, I realized my rage was most fierce when my agenda was interrupted.

I wasn’t getting mad when my kids disobeyed or were hurtful or mean, I was getting mad when they got in my way.

It seems so simple. And silly. And quite frankly, embarrassing to admit. But truly, I am a selfish ass. When things don’t go my way, I get angry, and whatever or whoever gets in my way, pays the price.

In addition to Philippians 1:9, since this realization I’ve been meditating on this passage:

It is obvious what kind of life develops out of trying to get your own way all the time: repetitive, loveless, cheap sex; a stinking accumulation of mental and emotional garbage; frenzied and joyless grabs for happiness; trinket gods; magic-show religion; paranoid loneliness; cutthroat competition (jealousy, perhaps?); all-consuming-yet-never-satisfied wants; a brutal temper; an impotence to love or be loved; divided homes and divided lives; small-minded and lopsided pursuits; the vicious habit of depersonalizing everyone into a rival; uncontrolled and uncontrollable addictions; ugly parodies of community. I could go on.

This isn’t the first time I have warned you, you know. If you use your freedom this way, you will not inherit God’s kingdom.

But what happens when we live God’s way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchardâ€”things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely. (Galatians 5:19-20, The Message. Bold and Italics added.)

At times I am overwhelmed with discouragement. At times I feel like I will never change. But then, I read this passage and I am reminded how simple change can be: stop worshipping myself and my own agenda, and start worshipping Jesus.

flourishing love

“So this is my prayer: that your love will flourish and that you will not only love much but well” (Philippians 1:9, The Message).

I haven’t been able to shake these words all week. During a season when I feel particularly mean and selfish, Paul’s prayer is like a speck of clear blue sky on my dark and stormy heart. In my darkest moments, loving much and loving well feels about as plausible to me as a rainless winter in Seattle.

While I’m aware of the great changes taking place in my heart – changes that have brought more peace to my home and marriage – I still feel tight fisted anger inside me, my knuckles wrapped tightly around me, my way, and my time.

I read Paul’s prayer, caressing it like a postcard from a warm and sunny place. “Wish you were here,” it taunts me. But I am not. I am here, feeling dark and twisty.

It is as if I am enslaved to my own selfishness and anger – held, clenched, captive, to my own desires. Romans 6:17 in The Message says, “All your lives you’ve let sin tell you what to do…” And this is where I find myself: I’ve let sin tell me what to do. I’ve said, “fuck you!” to my new master, Jesus, and listened to the old one: myself. As I wrestle with this issue, more and more I realize how much my actions give Jesus the finger.

I find this both discouraging and hopeful.

Discouraging because this is the thread, the root, that weaves in and out of all my past and current depression and rage issues (with the exception of the postpartum depression era). I feel as if my ongoing struggle with this indicates a failure on my part for my inability to fix it or get over it or move on. Only recently have I come to realize my error in this line of thinking, which I will get to in another post.

But I am also hopeful, because if you were to read through my archives from 2005 (the Crazy era) you would find much despair and defeat, but very little hope. And now? I read Paul’s words about loving much and loving well, and though it feels impossible to me, I believe Paul’s prayer can be made real in my life. Loving much and loving well has become a desire of my heart, which is a far cry from where I’ve been.

More later.

what with the apple not falling far from the tree and all…

I remember playing HORSE with a basketball once as a kid – maybe in the third or fourth grade. A friend was over, and we were in my driveway challenging each other with our shots, trying to not be the first one who missed enough to spell out the word.

On this particular occasion I was certain my friend cheated. I don’t remember how. I’m not even certain how it’s possible to cheat playing HORSE. But whatever I perceived happened, it made me so mad I threw the basketball at her. I threw it so hard, and right at her side as she tried to get out of the way, that it knocked the wind out of her.

She went home crying.

Word got back to my parents and they gave me a stern lecture and demanded I go to her house and apologize.

I refused.

You must go and apologize.

I’m not going over there. She deserved it!

If you don’t apologize you’ll be grounded.

Fine, then. Ground me. I’m not apologizing!

I don’t remember how it all turned out, but I do know I was willing to give up anything to stand my ground. I was tenacious like that, and my mother recently told me she was not prepared for my fury. Apparently my older brother and sister were “easy” compared to me.

And now?

The proverbial payback. My own daughter has a will that could bend steel with a mere thought. A mother and daughter who both possess strong wills is typically not a great combination, but I digress. Perhaps a post for another day.

But I thought of this story when I found myself in a similar stand-off with Ruthie this week. Like me, Ruthie sets her resolve, and she sets it strong. I don’t give ultimatums, but I believe in the natural consequences of our actions – like the time we canceled a family outing because of her behavior.

She’s too young to “ground,” but when she refuses to listen or throws a fit, I give time outs and I take things away. I’ve taken away toys, privileges, and favorite clothes, but none of that seems to faze her. She hasn’t been attached to anything enough for it to matter. She just takes the hit and moves on.

Until now.

new shoes for my big girl

Bryan bought her this pair of shoes on Sunday after they went out to lunch. It’s her first pair of Big Girl shoes, in that she’s outgrown the toddler sizes. What you must know about my daughter to understand the impact of owning these shoes, is that she is a SHOE WHORE. At the mall? She darts away from me and I find her fondling $120 red patent leather shoes in Nordstrom’s. When a lady walks by with pretty three inch heals she’ll actually approach her and say in her sweet little voice, “I LIKE YOUR SHOES!”

These shoes that Bryan let her pick out? She sleeps in these shoes.

So the other day when she was refusing to go to bed, when she folded her arms in a huff and declared, “I’m NOT going to bed until you give me candy!” I said, “I’m sorry you feel that way. Now give me the shoes.”

Wailing. Moaning. Rending of garments.

I know I should have felt so sorry for her sad little heart, but inside I was tapping my fingers together like a villain with a plan: I discovered her kryptonite!

In which I mourn publicly.

I’m writing this from my couch, where I’ve been lying for the last hour with my feet up, waiting for the pain to go away. There is something wrong with my left foot, a sharp pain on the left side that comes and goes, but mostly comes. Sometimes faint enough that I can still walk on it, sometimes, like now, so painful I can’t bear for anything to even brush up against it.

I don’t know what I did do it. I don’t recall an injury or event. One day it was irritating me, and like I always do, I ignored it for weeks until it became so painful I couldn’t walk. Give me a paper cut or stub my toe, and I holler profanities like a truck driver while dancing around shaking the appendage. But a pain in my foot gets ignored until it seems too late, like a frog sitting in a stove top pot.

I went to the chiropractor – the Greatest Chiropractor In the World. He adjusted it, massaged it, poked around a bit, and said it felt stiff, but that it didn’t appear to be greatly misaligned or fractured. I went to my naturopathic doctor, who sent me home with x-ray papers. X-rays revealed I have a Plantar Spur and a Sesamoid Bone, which make sense to other symptoms I’ve experienced, but my heal or my toe is not where I’m feeling this current sharp pain.

Last Sunday a guest to our weekly House of Barbecue asked if I thought I might have nerve damage. Nerve damage, I repeated. Yeah, he said, like when you step hard onto a shovel when digging, he said. Did you do something like that? he asked.

I think I have, though I can’t recall anything specifically. I have a shovel. I dig in my garden. It’s very likely I recently hurt my foot doing this, but it’s not like I get to report work-related injuries to OSCA. Anyway, I don’t remember hurting it so bad I couldn’t walk on it.

This week my doctor and I have been playing phone tag. She’s been treating the injury like a sprain, but I don’t want it to be a sprain, so I don’t do what she tells me to do even though she’s the best ND in the universe. I like this nerve damage idea, and want to explore that angle. I never quite felt like my pain was a sprain pain, but I didn’t have any other context for it. But nerve damage. That seems to fit how it feels – a combination of numbness and a sharp piercing.

Through most of this experience the pain in my foot feels incidental compared with the restlessness I feel at not being able to run. Other runners will get me when I say running is necessary for my mental well being. I am grouchy when I cannot run. The rhythmic breathing, the pounding of my feet, the music in my ears, the sweating, the endorphins – sometimes when I complete a good, hard run on the treadmill I start laughing. I laugh, and I can’t stop, and people at the gym glance sideways at me nervously.

Sometimes I laugh, sometimes I cry. The same thing happens if I stretch when my entire body is stiff and won’t let go, or when I get a full body adjustment at the chiropractor after a stressful week. I laugh or I cry.

I haven’t run in six weeks, and I mourn this. People say I should use the elliptical, or swim, that there’s other ways to exercise. I know this. Of course I know this. But running, she’s my thing. She’s what brings it all together for me – the spiritual, the emotional, the physical. Nothing else is quite the same.

Though admittedly, I have not tried these other things. I am still in mourning over losing my best girl, my run.

thief in the night

Deeply rooted anger and control issues have been surfacing lately. On the one hand it’s terrifying and embarrassing to see my ugly heart exposed like this – even if only Bryan and the kids see it – but on the other hand it’s liberating to bring into the light all the hidden rage I’ve been suppressing. On top of the anger, I feel a tremendous amount of shame for harboring such anger. It takes a lot of energy to keep all that tension stuffed inside, and when it leaks from my inner pipes the pressure of my explosion is like the exhaust from a rocket blast.

home Last night and the night before, I dreamed a thief stole all the flowers and bushes from my yard, leaving only the supporting stakes and empty containers. Even the front gate was gone, and the beautiful wisteria that hovers like a protective umbrella over the entrance. When I woke up I didn’t think much about it, other than it was a strange dream to have. But as I snuggled with Ruthie in the front room, noticing how nicely all the foliage shields our open windows from the street, it suddenly hit me that my dream might mean something.

I recalled again the image of the bare dirt at the front of the house, with nothing but dead bamboo stakes sticking out of the ground; of the ugly chain link fence, now exposed in the absence of my clematis and honeysuckle vines. I remember in my dream, how I took in a quick breath when I saw the barren arbor over the entrance to my yard, and the gaping hole in the fence where the gate used to be.

My house was completely vulnerable and exposed to the street, and there was nothing to see but dirt and rocks and dead sticks.

This has weighed heavy on me this morning. I know from scripture the love of Jesus does not leave us feeling barren and exposed. I know from scripture that he turns our hearts of stone into hearts of flesh. I know from scripture that he does not forsake us.

The only conclusion I can make of this dream, then, is of my own fear and shame at the hidden darkness of my heart being exposed. I’ve wrestled with God for years over control of my life, and I have hid the anger and self-loathing as best I could.

Yesterday I discovered a plastic tub filled with camping gear I had lost – camping gear that was packed up in the rain last summer. When I opened the lid I was overwhelmed by the smell of mildew, and as I cleaned it out I threw away handfuls of decomposed, unidentifiable, mushy matter.

When I am truly honest, this is what I think of myself, this is how I think God sees me – dirt, rock, dead sticks, and vile, decomposed, flesh.

cry of the soul.JPG I’m reading Cry of the Soul, by Dan Allendar, and in it he talks about people having one of two responses in relationships: fight, or flight. I am definitely a fighter. When I feel personally attacked by another person (real or perceived), I lash out at them; when I feel abandoned by friends or family, I rage with jealousy over their other relationships; and when I feel loved by someone, particularly by God, I respond with contempt. I can finally admit I am enraged with the idea that God would love me.

Allender describes this kind of contempt:

Contempt is our means of fighting against the arousal of hope when someone moves toward us, offering kindness and tenderness….Contempt vocalizes the core question, Does God love me, or will He turn away in disgust?

Despite the dreariness of what I write, I actually feel as if my soul is being let out of a cage. And when I cry now, my sobs are for the gratefulness I feel that Jesus really does love me and continues to pursue me, even though I feel vile and barren.

I think a new chapter of my life is beginning, one in which Jesus opens all the forgotten plastic tubs in my heart and doesn’t turn away in disgust. Knowing how fiercely I resist exposure, these will not be fun times. But I am intrigued by the warm excitement I feel at the tender advances of my savior, which can only be described as similar to the warm excitement I felt when Bryan pursued me for marriage.

It is exciting and terrifying, all at the same time.

Ironically, it is raining now, which will only make my garden grow more lush and more colorful. There will be no thief to rob me of this joy. There will be none who can take what has been planted.

The accidental overcomer.

clematis in cherry tree

This is my fifth summer living in this house, and every year I fought with this beautiful magenta clematis vine with blooms as big as my hands. I wanted to be in control, and for my world to be compartmentalized and put in order, with trees over here and vines over there. At least once a week every summer, I pulled the clematis out of the weeping cherry tree and retrained it into the fence, only to have new vines reaching up into the welcoming arms of the tree.

This summer I gave up. The spring weather was bad, I was fussing more over my vegetable garden, and I just plain gave up fighting it. And wouldn’t you know it, but almost every single person that’s come over has stopped, gasped, and exclaimed how beautiful that vine is, growing into the tree the way it is!

I don’t have a sense of humor about a lot of things pertaining to my control issues, but I had to laugh at that one.

Why don’t we just make a list, shall we?

These are the events of yesterday…

Around 9am I asked Ruthie to get dressed. She came down from her room twice wearing clothes she knows are for church or school, NOT for playing in the yard or at the playground. I sternly asked her a third time to go back up and put on play clothes. She threw a major fit, screamed that she will NOT be changing her clothes, and thbthbthb’d me on her way up the stairs when I gave her a time out.
Around 9:30am I found Thomas on the front porch destroying the styrofoam lining of the delivery box from our milk man.
Around 10:15 I explained in great detail to Ruthie that she is not go out the back door because the exterminator had just sprayed POISON on the threshold, and we had to wait for it to dry. I went out the front door to check on Thomas in the yard, and I heard the exterminator calling at me to get my daughter because she just walked out the back door through the poison.
Around 11:00 the chatty exterminator informed me of all the tricks available for potty training Thomas (code for why the hell is this 3 1/2 year old not potty trained yet?!) and which football program to get him into because boy is he a big kid.
Around noon, Ruthie pulled the entire garden hose out of the hose bib. Not a big deal in and of itself, except that I asked her to stop twice, and she totally ignored me.
Around 12:05 Thomas proudly showed me the styrofoam rocket Bryan bought him – he had ripped it to pieces.
Around 12:06 Ruthie came crying to me because she had shoved a rock up her nose and couldn’t get it out. She’s five. Neither of my kids have ever put an object in their nose or ears (though both have swallowed coins) – but because I gave Ruthie I time out I suppose she was bored enough to stick a rock up her nose.

I was so fed up with the day I ushered the kids up to their rooms for nap time a whole hour early, JUST BECAUSE I NEEDED A BREAK FROM THE DRAMA. Ruthie walking through the sprayed door thirty seconds afer I told her not to was the last straw for me, though she loaded many straws on me after that. My friend chuckled when I told her this, and she said, “Ruthie would cut her own nose off to spite her face!”

It made me laugh, which I needed desperately in that moment.

I have to admit, I was pretty pissy as the events dragged on. I was all, seriously? SERIOUSLY! It was beautiful, sunny, and in the 80’s – perfect circumstances for being happy and having fun, but I spent the entire day cleaning up one disaster after another, disciplining one kid after another.

Because both kids were continually obstinate throughout the day and without a repentant heart, Bryan and I decided to cancel our family plans that night – we were going to meet him downtown after work and play in the fountain at Seattle Center. It was disappointing, particularly when Ruthie scowled and said, “Fine. I didn’t want to go anyway.” I know that wasn’t true, but I wanted her to be devastated, not hardened. I wanted her to understand the natural consequences of her actions, but she played like it didn’t matter.

My first instinct when Ruthie gets this stubborn is to make her life as miserable as possible until she cries UNCLE and repents. In my imagination we play a game of chicken to see who lasts longer – me or her. Forcing behavior seems to be what I am most comfortable with, though I know intellectually it’s the worst way to parent.

I had a revelation awhile ago. I realized that Ruthie is a person, not merely an object I own or control. She is a person with a conscience who can feel the conviction of the Holy Spirit. Or not. I realized there are more consequences to our actions than just the circumstantial ones, that she is growing up not only in body, but also in faith. I realized that I won’t always be able to make her feel sorry, that sometimes she will rebel against repentance and have a hard heart, and that there’s not really anything I can do about it in the moment.

I realized even now, when she is five and disobeying her mom without remorse, I can shepherd her through the situation by giving her all the information she needs, but ultimately conviction comes from the Holy Spirit and repentance is up to her. This revelation – the epiphany, if you will – leaves me feeling as if a giant rock is sitting on my chest because I can’t control the outcome.

As parents we talk about slowly letting go of our kids as they wean from the breast, learn to walk, go to kindergarten, graduate high school. But I’d never thought about slowly letting go of our kids as they take more responsibility for their actions and their conscience. Nobody told me how painful it is to watch your child fall into the same sin over and over and over again, experiencing consequence after consequence.

Nobody told me I wouldn’t always be able to protect my kids from themselves.

On Self Medicating

A year or more ago, I was talking with a friend about how I had taken to self medicating my visits to Funkytown with alcohol. I know that sounds bad, but hear me out. After Thomas was born, which was two months after losing Gordy to cancer, I experienced postpartum depression that was severe enough for me to seek help, and I began taking Zoloft.

After a year on this medication I decided to wean off. I never intended for it to be a permanent solution, and it just seemed like a good time. I should mention that my depression brought out the reality of my rage issues, and during the time I was on medication I was getting some awesome therapy, plus participating in a regular group discussion regarding the same issues. In other words, I was having some very real, very vulnerable, very intimate conversations with others on the State of Jen.

As I continued to work through my issues with rage and what triggers my anger, exercise became a vital element to prevention. So did deep breathing.

When I find myself entering into a rage state of mind, it feels a lot like an anxiety attack. I feel it in my chest – it tightens, my heart is racing, and I’m tense all over. My adrenaline kicks in, and in my attempt to assert my control over the Universe I say and do things that make me feel powerful and others weak.

One day, as I found myself entering into this unhealthy place, it occurred to me there was one thing that would slow the physical aspects of my anger – a shot of vodka. So I chugged one back, and stood in my kitchen breathing deeply. As I felt the warmth wash down through my body, the relief overwhelmed me, and I burst into tears – the kind of tears that come, for instance, after you swerve your car on the freeway express lanes to narrowly avoid a sedan that pulls into your lane from a dead stop, right in front of you.

I came to a screeching halt, just inches from the concrete jersey barrier.

And here began my sporadic self medication. I don’t make a party out of it by mixing it into a cocktail, and I don’t come close to even being tipsy – I simply chug it back like a dose of Nyquil. It takes the edge off, so to speak, so I can get ahead of the physical rage and get to the emotional core of what triggered it.

I know this will cause a low rumble among some, and I’m not saying it’s ideal or even right – though, maybe it’s just fine, and only causes a stir because of America’s unhealthy view of alcohol. I am also not – I repeat, I am NOT – suggesting you do this, or that I think it’s way cool that I can. As a follower of Christ, I know his peace is the answer to all our emotional struggles. As a follower of Christ, I know his blood covers all our sin, and I don’t need anything else to deliver me from anger. As a follower of Christ, I know we are not to place any idols above him.

Yet, at this point in the process it’s the tool I choose to use. I anticipate this will not be the case for much longer – in fact, I can’t really recall the last time I used alcohol in this way.

In a group setting, someone once asked a very wise drug-addict-turned-Christian-therapist what he thought of alcohol consumption. His response was that unless you have a healthy way of working through and getting to the core of your issue, you should really stay away from alcohol.

I think about this often as I drink, both in self-medicating situations as well as social situations. I consider what I may be trying to accomplish, if anything, and whether I am using alcohol to mask or escape. But most of the time it’s just good to enjoy good food and good drink with a friend.

I’m not sure what prompted me to post these long-processed thoughts today, especially since I haven’t once thrown back a shot of vodka during this last episode through Funkytown. I have lost my temper during this time. In fact, I just unleashed an unreasonable verbal tirade on my kids about five minutes ago, and do not feel the need to imbibe.

Perhaps this is precisely the reason: I’ve already outgrown my need to self-medicate, and I want to remember how far I’ve come.

place holder for happier post

Actually having a really great day, despite the fact that Ruthie had to go pee at Costco just as we sat down with three plates of food, two jackets, and a couple drinks (and I was the only adult), AND Thomas dumped his pizza on the floor after taking two bites. Literally closed my eyes, counted to ten, and moved on to problem solving.

Anyway, just didn’t like that last post sitting at the top for so long.

I should TOTALLY be doing something else right now.

At this moment I am the walking definition of insanity. I have wasted an entire nap trying over and over again to restart my Quicken program, knowing that it’s not going to work. It is fucked. I did something to it, and now I can’t access it. But instead of saying, “Gee, that’s a bummer. I should probably move on to something else, now, and let Bryan fix it when he gets home.” I am so worked up into a fit of anger than I’m nearly ready to throw this laptop out the window.

I can’t seem to let go of my need to be in control of this situation. I have many things on my list I could be doing, but today I wanted to do THIS. The fact that I can’t do THIS is not stopping me from losing my mind in an attempt to still try to do THIS.

And now I’m so tired from the exhaustion of trying to control my universe, that I may just go take a nap and start over tomorrow.

the cost of clutter

One thing I’ve noticed since staying more on top of things is that I don’t have room for my stuff anymore. My plastic food containers won’t fit in their assigned drawer anymore. Bryan’s t-shirts and underwear won’t fit in his dresser drawers. The closet is overrun with clothes.

Before, when I never cleaned out the refrigerator, I kept running out of containers for my leftovers so I bought more. I wasn’t getting the laundry done in a timely manner, so Bryan bought more t-shirts, underwear, and socks to avoid running out. And when he needed dress shirts or pants for special meetings, he hunted around near the washing machine where they were left hanging.

I can’t tell you how many things I’ve re-purchased over the years, even though I knew we already had one – I just didn’t know where it was. But as I slowly go through random boxes and bags of crap in various parts of the house, I continually find myself exclaiming, “THERE it is – I’ve been LOOKING for that!”

My selfishness, laziness, and lack of maintaining my household was costing us money.

In cleaning out our closets and dressers, I took six bags of clothes to the Goodwill – mostly clothes Bryan hasn’t been wearing since he lost weight, but there was one entire bag of socks. Socks! He had a whole bag of socks he could actually live without, now that I’m keeping up with the laundry!

I did purchase this closet organizer to help make use of our small closet – the downside of living in a quaint, turn-of-the-century house. But this was money well spent, along with mountable lights on the door frame, powered by lithium batteries. Clothes are much more visible, and less likely to get shoved into the dark recesses and forgotten.

And my plastic containers for leftovers? Pulled them all out, matched up lids to containers, threw out any that were missing pieces, donated ones I didn’t need, and reorganized the drawer to make it easier to find things.

As I’ve been putting my house in order, I’ve tried to re-purpose as much as possible, not buying new things unless I’m sure I don’t already have something I can use. I’ve taken baskets from the kids’ rooms to use for office supplies, a tub for outdoor toys that I now use for gardening supplies, and crates for my craft supplies that I now use for toys. I have so many resources within my own home – much more than I even knew, now that I’m uncovering lost treasures.

I wonder just how embarrassed I’d be if I added up all the money I’ve spent on buying things I didn’t really need. What a waste! What a glutton I was for stuff when I didn’t even know what I had! It’s much better to be a good steward of all I’ve been given, maintaining an organized home.