Perceptions

Lately, Bug has taken an interest in telling me, "You're the best mom," or, "You're the best mom for me." He tells me this in times when I haven't done anything particularly remarkable, or even loving. More often than not, I'm staring at my computer working on writing something, or just wasting time. Trying to fill up my patience bucket again for the next round of homeschooling.

I can't see what it is in me that makes him say that. More and more, I'm remembering the times when I've lost my temper with the kids, or shooed them downstairs so I can be alone, rather than spend time playing with them. I almost encourage them to spend a lot of time on the computer, if only so I can enjoy reading or simply just not having to be with them. I look more forward to the times when I can get away for social functions rather than the time I am here with them. In short, the times I remember are the times that I'm really not being a great mom, or even a mediocre one. Sure, they are still alive. Something should count toward that, but none of my achievements seem to add up to being the "best mom." Goodness, I don't even cook for them, or make lunch for them.

His perception of me and my perception of me are quite different, you see. I don't think it will ever be possible for me to see myself the way he does. And I'm not even going to try. But these difference of opinions makes me ... thoughtful. Thoughtful enough to write a blog post about it, even if I don't really know where I'm going with this.

Earlier today I found out that Bug had wasted a whole hour of school time because he thought that he had already done the assignment the teacher had told him to do when he actually hadn't. Somehow, I didn't find myself yelling and being upset at him for that - other days I might have. I just explained to him how he got confused, and then we started working on the assignment. We spent another hour working on it, and I admit, I got a little heated at times. I would ask him a question and he would sit there silent for over ten minutes, playing with his feet. So yes, I got upset. I wasn't even having him do the actual writing (it was an opinion essay assignment), I was writing down whatever he said - but he hadn't said anything.

We finished filling out the little chart thing meant to help him organize his thoughts and then I typed it up in the program to grade it. I explained to him about how the chart is only the blueprint of the essay, and it shouldn't be turned in as the final. I told him that he wouldn't get a good grade if he turned it in that way - he should use the blueprint as a guideline and use it as a way to expand his thoughts and talk a little more about the subject. Then I made a hard choice. I could tell that I couldn't get much more work out of him anymore, because I had gotten upset, and he was upset because of that, and the length of times it took him to come up with one solitary sentence was becoming longer and longer. So I said, "Here's the deal - you won't get a good grade if you keep it like this. We can save it and come back to it tomorrow after you've had a chance to think about it a little bit more, or we can just turn it in like it is. But know that this blueprint essay doesn't work well as a final, and your score will not be very good. But it's your choice." He chose to turn it in, and like I had told him, he got 12 out of 30.

I think that was the first time of my parenting life where I truly gave him the decision to make his own mistake. I probably have done it other times, but this one, I could have easily taken it out of his hands and said, "Okay, that's good for today, we'll work on it more tomorrow." I know that letting our kids make their own mistakes is good for them. And I assumed it would be hard. I just hadn't expected to feel like a horrible mom for doing so. Granted, I made some great mommy decisions in that two hour span. I didn't yell at him for his misunderstanding, and though I did get upset a few times while working on the assignment, I also allowed him to make his own mistake. Yet I felt like crap afterward. It was a mixture of wanting to punch things really hard and wanting to curl up in a ball and cry. I ended up going to the store to get Oreos, but that's beside the point.

I have gotten better at acknowledging my worth. At believing that I just might be a good person. At not hating myself. But now I'm not sure those apply to my abilities to be a good mom. Something in this life, maybe in this society, or perhaps in this generation makes moms feel not good enough. People talk ill against stay-at-home moms, people talk ill about working moms, people talk ill about moms who let their kids play on too much electronics, or about moms who don't give them enough electronic time. I'm not sure how much stock I put in those perceptions, but I probably put in more than I think I do. In fact, above, I already listed too much electronics as one reason why I'm not a good mom. But there is something in life/society/this generation, or even wired in the women themselves that makes them feel "not good enough." But perhaps to your kids, you, exactly as you are, are good enough. I'm not sure how much I feel about that sentiment myself, but I wish I hadn't felt that horrible after I had let my child grow on his own. And I certainly don't want other moms to feel that way either, though I know they do.

Maybe not to the world, or society, or so and so's mom, or even to yourself, you feel like you aren't good enough or that you don't measure up. But to your kids, you just might. And that's all that really matters.

Parenting conundrums

It is interesting to me to see how different my kids are. But at this point in their life, I'm also learning that it's hard to find middle ground with them and their different personalities.

Bug is a very helpful kid. He loves helping, he loves serving, and he just generally loves making people happy. Great qualities that I love in him.

Goof Ball is very independent. Where I practically had to force Bug to learn how to use a spoon, Goof Ball took the spoon out of my hand so he could do it himself (and at an earlier age than I made Bug learn). Another great quality that is good for him to have.

But you can see already where the conflict comes in. Bug wants to help - Goof Ball doesn't want the help. Goof Ball yells that he doesn't want help, Bug cries because he can't help him. And of course, because of Bug's personality, he doesn't let anything drop easily - particularly if it's something that hurt his feelings. Like not being able to help someone. So he'll dwell and brood and cry about it much longer than I have patience for.

I've tried explaining to him that it's great that he loves to help, but if someone doesn't want help, you really can't give it to them. But he just doesn't seem to get that concept. I could try and convince Goof Ball to let Bug help him sometimes, but Goof Ball is just so stubborn that he would probably cry if I tried to do such a thing, and then we have two crying kids in the house for something really ridiculous. You'd think I'd have to deal with tears dealing with not being able to share something or whatever (which I still do, don't get me wrong), but no, I get tears because one kid isn't allowed to help another one.

Another conundrum is grounded in one major problem: Goof Ball hates to lose. Like I mean really despises it. If he feels like he is going to lose, he'll "change the rules" to make it so he will win. Or he'll quit. Or he'll cheat. Or what have you. This is another issue in our home that causes a lot of frustrations on both sides. I've tried explaining to Goof Ball that if he cheats, he lost. That if he always insists on winning, and changes the rules to make his win complete that no one will want to play with him. But no amount of discussion has changed anything. His stubbornness is firm in that regard. He will win. Or he'll quit. End of story. I think this is a good sign that I probably shouldn't ever put him in competitive sports...

Choices -> Consequences

In Bug's literature course, the unit we just finished focused on choices and consequences. Which was probably good, because he seemed rather confused when I asked him what the consequence was when one of the characters made a good choice. He seemed to think that consequences only came with bad choices.

Well, that doesn't really have much to do with the topic of this blog post, but it kind of does at the same time. Because today, Bug made a very very adult choice, and he astonished me to the point of nearly being speechless.

The virtual academy that we enrolled in does daily (often with more than one each day) what they call "class connects." Basically it's kind of like a group Skype call that has tools and other things where the teacher can show a power-point kind of presentation and have basically an online class. Well today when Bug was logged into one of these class connects, I came downstairs and found him playing a game on the internet instead of paying attention. Naturally, I scolded him, and told him that we would probably have to block the website he was playing on. He knew when we installed a blocker program that that was the deal-if he doesn't do his work and plays instead, we'll block the games.

Anyway, he finished out the class connect, as far as I knew, and about fifteen minutes later he came upstairs and talked to me.

"My teacher and I made a deal," he said. And I'm thinking.... what kind of deal? What are you talking about? "She let me color for seven minutes," Bug continued, "as long as I would listen to the recording and send her an email telling her what the class connect was about."

They always do a recording of the class connects for kids who couldn't make it at the scheduled time. At this point, I'm connecting logic together and asked, "Wait, did you tell her that you weren't listening?"

"Yeah," he said.

I didn't tell him to tell her. I didn't say anything that even suggested that he should tell her. In fact, doing such a thing hadn't even come to my mind at all. He chose to do that all on his own, and left me speechless while he continued to talk about what he drew on the class connect program.

He also said, "It made me feel really good. Because the teacher let me color."

I took that to mean that he felt good because he wasn't punished by telling the teacher what had happened. And so, with his good choice, I gave him a good consequence. We didn't block the website he was playing on.

The Magic of Childhood

Bug is getting to the age where he seems to know (at least sometimes) when I'm making a little fib for Goof Ball. Like one night, Goof Ball was worried about the lights off, and going to bed. I was exhausted, wanting to just plop off to bed myself, but I went in there to kiss and hug him goodnight. And then, without really thinking about what I was saying, said, "And here's a magic kiss to protect you from the monsters." It wasn't anything, really. Just a kiss with more pressure behind it and longer - on his forehead. I told him that when the monsters see that kiss on his head, they'll get scared and run away.

Well even that night, Bug seemed to be in on the joke with me, as it were. I asked Bug if he wanted a magic kiss too, but he kinda smiled and said in a somewhat I-see-what-you-did-there kind of tone of voice, "Nah, I'm good." And as a precautionary measure, I put magic on the door too to protect them with one more layer of made up magic.

There have been other times where Bug has seemed to play along with me when I say things like that, but at the same time, he hasn't let go yet of the magic of Christmas. Or the tooth fairy. Or any other made up magical being that he already believed in. Knowing that he has started to pick up on the little things that I make up to survive another day of parenting, makes me wonder when he'll actually start to question the existence of Santa. I suppose I'll have to start coming up with a believable explanation that hopefully won't hurt his believing, tender little (or perhaps big) heart. Knowing him, so long as I feed it to him well, he'll probably want to play along with it for Goof Ball's sake a few years longer. Maybe even want to help stuff the stockings or something. Who knows?

Reminiscing

So my little list of the past posts looks rather slim these past few years. Part of that is because people told me to stop talking about certain things on my blog, and part of that is because I realized that really most of my posts were angsty and depressing. But I think I may be finally able to start recording things again. We'll see.

And without further ado:

This year we were surprised when I opened my kitchen blinds in the morning to find balloons already bought and tied to our fence. It was a nice, simple little gesture that warmed my heart. Goof Ball seems to understand more about what this is all about these days. He said, "They're going to heaven," after we sent them off.

Friends and family have called or asked me how I've been doing, and honestly, the answer is just fine. It was a good day, and though depression threatened to overwhelm me during the weeks before Little Angel's birthday, the actual day was fine, and I didn't feel like I was drowning in sorrow and all that like I mentioned two years ago.

Truthfully, I am quite content with my life these days. I looked back at some of my starred emails the other day, and one was an email sent to me years ago from one of my sis-in-laws because of her concern of my constant depressing posts on here. There wasn't a return email that I had sent to her, and I feel slightly bad about that, not sure if I ever did respond to it.

I have a hard time trying to explain the path I've taken to get me where I am now, though not for lack of trying. I've written many pieces about Shorinji Kempo (one of the big reasons why I've been able to have such a miraculous turn around), written pieces about Little Angel, and other issues as well. But still I have a hard time articulating it, and that frustrates me as a person, but even more as a writer. Shouldn't I be better at things like that? Articulating my thoughts through the written word and all that? Why is this so hard?

Perhaps part of it is because it is so close to my heart. It shows my fears, my darkness, the part of me I keep hidden except with my closest friends. Perhaps it's because it has been such a severe turn around. Going from hating myself and mostly depressed to content with who I am and only occasionally depressed. I think a lot of it is that I'm still too close to it and can't see what steps within Shorinji Kempo have gotten me to this point. Maybe it's just all the support I've gotten these past years from wonderful friends who haven't judged me once. Maybe it's something as simple as ... time. Or perhaps it's because once I accepted myself for who I am, and started seeing/believing that I have worth as a person, I've been able to also accept my feelings for what they were and work through them rather than hide them under a thick layer of numbness.

Possibly it's been a combination of all of that. I've gone leaps and bounds from where I was two years ago. Sure the pain is still there, like my previous post mentions. Depression always seems to be a thought away. But I've gained tools to help me keep it at bay. Or at the very least to move forward despite it. To not wallow in it and fall even deeper with blame. If you would have asked me what I expected to get out of studying martial arts before I started, I would not have said all of those things, and though I believe I haven't gotten all of this benefit from just that, I'd still wager that my turnaround started solely because of it. And most of the growth has been directly because of it. I've often said that it's the cheapest and most effective therapy I've ever done.

So ... I guess if you're reading this, thanks for your support and love. I'm doing alright. There is still a bitter-sweet kind of pain, but isn't that kind of the definition of life? I've thrown my temper tantrums, pushed people away in an attempt to protect myself, or just to give myself time to heal. Thanks for your patience through it all. And on that note, here's a happy picture of my adorable superheros:

Living on a different planet

Someone once told me about an article written about how a mother who loses a child through death lives on a different planet from that point on. Everyone lives on the planet you used to, and you can visit them - but they can't visit you (basically how I took it is not fully understand you) unless they have moved to that planet as well. I kind of liked that idea. And it can be put to any other world shattering situation as well. I don't particularly know why, but I felt like I wanted to let you all know what it feels like to live on that planet.

After nearly 8 years of missing my son, I've come to the conclusion that the pain will always be there. I've just gotten better at hiding it. I may have said that before - it's a good way to explain it. Another good way I've found to try and describe it is like having a scab. There has never really been enough time (maybe there never will be) for the scab to actually heal. Because either I pick at it (particularly around this time of year) or other times other people rip it off, and the pain is roaring at me again. At times when I'm feeling more emotionally stable, the pain is more bitter-sweet than crippling, but it ranges basically one way or the other depending on what I'm already going through in my life at the time.

The simplest things can rip the scab off. Someone asking me how many kids I have. I really really hate that question. I've resorted to different ways of answering depending on the situation. If I never expect to see the person again, I say two without reservation. If I've felt a small connection to them, I'll test them (horrible, I know) and say three. If they say "oh, what are their ages?" I'll answer. Most often from there, the conversation moves and they never have to think about how many I have again. Sometimes instead of saying "three" I'll say, "I've had three." Most often people won't pick up on the strangeness of that sentence. But if they do, I know from there that maybe I could have a close relationship to them. Sometimes when the ages are asked, I say "the oldest is # and the youngest is #" and leave it at that. Truthfully, it depends on how I feel about the person upon meeting them, the circumstances along when I met them, and how I'm feeling at the time. How much pain arrives when the scab is ripped off - bitter-sweet or crippling.

Examples:

Once at the dentist I had to bring my kids with me. I sat down in the chair as the kids stayed in the lobby and played with legos. The nurse brought them up.

"I didn't know you had kids."

"Yeah," I responded, "I've had three." I hadn't felt much pain at the topic and I responded that way without really thinking. But from that one sentence, I felt the dentist seem to tense up.

The nurse laughed, and before her brain turned on, she said, "Oh? Did you lose one?" (thinking, I'm assuming, that I left him in the car or some other such thing.)

"Yeah," I said.

The tension spiked. The dentist seemed to sit more ridged than normal. She paused. "No, really?"

"Yeah."

I'm sure she felt bad, I'm sure that she berated herself for joking about such a thing, but before I had a chance to lighten the mood, the dentist forced my mouth open and the tension hung in the air (both of them more silent than normal) for the rest of the appointment.

---

Another time in a carpool, the subject of kids came up. I was comfortable with the couple in there with me and I said I had three kids.

The mom said, "I hope the transition to having three kids isn't as bad as people say."

I truthfully don't know if she was pregnant or not, though I think she was, and I knew they had two kids already.

"I wouldn't know," I said.

It was silent as she processed the obvious logic gap. Naturally I had to explain it fully when she tried to talk her way through it. That may have been an example of me ripping off my own scab.

---

Meeting a friend's playgroup mothers at Village Inn. I was the odd woman out, so obviously they asked about my kids. I didn't think I would ever see any of them again, and I wasn't in the mood. I responded, "Two."

My friend poked me with a knife. I looked at her. "What? I'm not gonna talk about it here."

The women, seeing a subject of gossip basically pounced on me verbally. I shook my head and said, "I'm not talking about it."

I don't know what they thought of me, but they stopped pestering me about how many I have and we moved onto their ages and gender.

---

There are some varying responses for that. Often, whenever the scab is torn off by someone else, just the question itself can make it happen. Other times I'm mostly expecting it and can prepare for it. It's a common question for meeting someone, so I can usually prepare my heart before hand. But there are other times, times that are somewhat more bitter-sweet rather than crippling. Because they come from my kids.

Examples:

Bug came home from church last Sunday with a paper chain made with five papers. After a small glance at them, I realized the papers were representing us. In order were Dad on the first chain, Mom the next, then the three boys' names. I picked it up and asked him what it was. He said he made it in class to show that we are all sealed together. I hung it with the other tribute things we have to remember Little Angel.

---

Along the same lines, Bug came home once with a paper of a family tree. And he included Little Angel in that as well. I have that one hanging on the door. What was pretty adorable about that one was that he had drawn balloons to represent Little Angel rather than faces like he had for the rest of us.

---

Yesterday I picked up Goof Ball from school early to go to a dentist appointment. We passed by the city graveyard and he astonished me. I can't quite remember how he started because I couldn't quite hear him, but he mentioned all the stones in the ground to show all the people that died. And I was like.... where did he hear that from? I hadn't talked to him about it much, so it really surprised me.

"I wonder how all the people died," he said.

"I don't know."

"Maybe because they stopped eating."

I laughed, because that's a subject of conversation in our house. (Me: "Bug, why do you keep growing! You need to stop that right now!" Bug: "But that means to stop eating, and if I stop eating, then I'll die!" Me: "Well... I wouldn't want that.")

"Maybe," I said. "But sometimes people just die because they got so old."

I hesitated after that, but decided it needed to be said.

"You have an older brother that died, you know."

"Yeah, I told my teacher that."

"What?"

From here, I had a hard time trying to understand what he was trying to say. But from what I got from it was that he wanted to tell the teacher that his brother died, but he couldn't remember his name, so he didn't. Or something. I couldn't quite get what he was trying to say, so the conversation kind of tapered off.

---

I know when I plotted out what I wanted to say in this post, and by the time I started writing it I've forgotten how I was actually going to write it. Even though it was only 15-30 mins from idea hatched to execution. Despite that, I hope the point gets across the way I intended it.

A few other quirks that have arisen since that time 8 years ago:

I avoid babies like the plague. It doesn't matter how close I was to someone before they got pregnant or not. It doesn't matter how much I want to get to know them, or bond with them. Once a newborn is in the mix, I avoid them. If this happens to one of my readers, or had happened to people I was friends with in the past that happen upon this post: It isn't/wasn't personal.

It seems like everywhere I go there is a kid around (often a boy) that is the same age that Little Angel would be. My family, my husband's family, one of Bug's best friends... pretty much EVERYwhere I go, they are there. I haven't yet decided if this is a blessing in disguise (that I can "watch" my three boys interacting together) or a curse. I guess it will shift and change depending on my mood.

Family functions are difficult. Not just because of the little boys running around that represent my lost one. But because the knowledge that someone is missing, and will always be missing. This pain doesn't usually appear instantly. A day or two aren't really too bad. But once it gets to near a week or so, I start to remember and realize, and I find I want to always hide. The pain comes sooner if it's a family reunion.

Sometimes the subject around people that know me well turns to death, or babies, or.... something that brings Little Angel to mind again. And then the elephant that no one (including me) wants to talk about appears in the room. When that happens, I would probably usually leave the room. Truthfully, I never know what I want. Whether I want someone to mention it, talk about Little Angel for a little bit, or if I don't want them to talk about it. No way in hell that I'll bring the subject up. Not that any of us would have much to say. Two months of life doesn't really leave much room for reminiscing. This is one aspect of the whole situation that I'm still trying to navigate through. I really don't know when I'd want someone to mention him or not. My mood, I suppose. That's my go to answer for now. I've never had an experience when someone actually started talking about it. Not that I want to dampen the mood with my heartache. That isn't really the point. Little Angel is often one of the first things that comes to my mind when trials are mentioned, or when death is mentioned, or anything relating to my situation is mentioned at all. And when no one else mentions him, or puts an arm around me, or makes any acknowledgement that there is an elephant in the room - it pains me. Maybe I'm the only one unable to move on. I'm the only one who sees the elephant. Unable to ever be okay with the situation. At the same time, I don't want to bring it up. No one wants to bring it up. And so we go on living in our little lives of perceived happiness. I have come to loathe the mask of happiness. Shorinji Kempo has awaken in me the ability to be myself, mask free, in more places than I've ever had in my life. I hate the places where I feel like I have to put that mask back on. Don't get me wrong, I am happy more in this point of my life than I ever believe I was before - thanks once again, to Shorinji Kempo. But I hate feeling like I need to put on a happy face when I really just want to cry. When no one brings up the elephant in the room, then on goes the mask and I have to deal with the pain later. Alone. Again. ("Why don't you go to Pro Boxer?" you may ask? The same reason I don't want to bring the subject up - I don't want to dampen someone else's happiness.)

I suppose that paragraph may need translating. I'm still working through all this myself. I guess from looking through it all, I really do want someone to recognize my pain. But I don't because I don't want to dampen the happiness of others. So I don't say anything, and they don't say anything, and I cry later by myself, or punch my handy punching bag in my garage, or cope with it on my own once again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Now that I think more about it, I have two good friends that are married. Occasionally the husband (we'll call him Sandpaper) will say something rather insensitive. Whether it's related to my childhood pain or Little Angel, he'll say it before thinking about it. Then the elephant appears and we all pause for just the slightest second. That slightest second of realization, of understanding, of remembrance is really all I need. Then the conversation often changes drastically. And I'm always kind of astonished at how I don't feel any pain. I don't have any upset feelings toward Sandpaper for his careless comment. Somehow, just the fact that knowing that the subject and pain wasn't completely ignored, that it came to everyone's mind - just that seems to be just enough for me. We don't have to say anything about it. The conversation shifts and laughter returns.

This is the life of a mother of a dead child. And as I said above, probably very similar to the life of many others who have had life-shattering experiences. Everyone needs love and understanding. Often the worst pain is the hidden pain that very few can see.

The Haunting of Springett Hall

I know I haven't been posting a lot lately, and I owe a few detailed posts on specific parts of my life that I want to explore more (homeschooling and Shorinji Kempo for example), but for now, this post is a shout out to a good friend of mine.

Remember my catch up post where I talked about NaNoWriMo and how I was able to write a whole novel in a month? Well, my friend, E. B., did that this last year as well. As well as the year before that. She edited and polished her 2013 NaNo novel in the space of one year and then pitched it to a publisher nearly one year later. Another year later, it is coming out to press. I am very pleased to announce the publication of this awesome book, written by an amazing person. I'm really glad that I first started coming to the writer's group that I did because I've been able to meet so many awesome people, and E. B. is no exception. You can see the book on Goodreads, but sadly, we'll have to wait patiently for a little while longer to have it in our hands. I, for one, will be sure to get a copy as soon as possible.

The Haunting of Springett Hall by E.B. Wheeler, available July 14, 2015.

Eighteen-year-old Lucy doesn’t remember how she died or why she’s haunting Springett Hall in Victorian England. One thing is certain: she was trying to fix a terrible mistake—one she must set right before oblivion reclaims her. As she pieces together the mystery of her death, shadows try to drag her into a dark abyss, and she struggles against the commands of a disembodied voice.

None of the living notice Lucy haunting them, except a servant named Philip whose memories are as fragmented as hers. They find evidence they were involved in a necromancer’s scheme to cheat death: a spell that went awry. Lucy also suspects Philip, for whom she’s developing an impossible attraction, may have been one of her enemies.

The more Lucy learns, the less she wants to remember. The necromancer’s work isn’t finished, though, and his influence is consuming the minds and wills of everyone in the house, living and dead. To have any chance of making a happy ending out of their mistakes, Lucy and Philip must face the truth about their past and free the residents of Springett Hall from a curse that reaches beyond death.