Things That Make Me Ashamed - Shouty Mom

The truth is, I haven't been liking myself very much lately.

I've been letting things slide, I've been missing opportunities, I've been slow to react, and slow to finish things, if they get finished at all. I've ignored this blog, ignored writing altogether for probably the longest stretch of my adult life. I couldn't figure out why I cringed every time I thought about sitting down to put my thoughts in order.

Then I figured some stuff out, and it's not pretty at all.

I have some baggage about being ignored; being made to feel less than.

No four year old is really great at listening. The Imp, energetic and full of questions and entranced with all the shiny things is not good at listening at all in the morning rush before school and work.

He's a great kid. He's thoughtful, and generous, and sweet. Affectionate, whip-smart, and curious. He gets excited about every little thing, and greets each day with a let's go! attitude that I often envy.

But he's not so great at listening.

And I'm not so great at being not listened to.

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It happened gradually, but I started shouting at him sometimes, to get his attention. After six times of asking him to do something with no response, I'd increase the volume to let him know I meant business. It was effective for a while, then it faded into the white noise of Imp's life.

So I started shouting to get his attention a lot of the time.

Then instead of just being a question of volume, a note of frustration crept into the shouting. Then the frustration turned to resentment, and soon it felt like I was shouting all the time, angrily barking orders at Imp every time I needed him to just do something.

I became Shouty Mom.

The morning excitement in Imp's eyes was turning to resistance and resignation, and that's when I realized that I didn't like myself very much. That I hadn't liked myself very much for quite some time. I was horrified by the parent I'd become without noticing.

Three days ago I hit critical mass. After a particularly difficult morning, I cracked. I just could not stand the idea of starting one more day fighting with The Imp about all the minutiae of our daily routine; breakfast, getting dressed, picking up his toys, getting his for-the-love-of-all-things-holy shoes on so we could just get out the door.

I could not, as a human being, spend that much time frustrated, angry, and living my life at top volume.

So I stopped.

And it's been hard. Not the stopping shouting, that's the easy part. It's a relief, to turn the volume down, to dial back the anger, to just get really quiet. I've kept my demeanor calm, my tone reasonable, and my voice low. Instead of shouting, I speak quietly enough that Imp has to get close to me to hear what I'm asking him to do.

The hard part?

(I'm ashamed, deeply ashamed, to admit this.)

The Imp's gotten used to the shouting. The Imp doesn't know how to deal with the not shouting.

The shouting is awful, but it's been consistent enough that it's comfortable for him, even if it's all kinds of wrong.

(I've been on the receiving end in an abusive relationship. The echoes of that here are enough to make my fingers shake as I type this.)

Because the dysfunction (temporary, it hasn't been going on that long, and I'm self aware enough to have caught it, for which I am eternally grateful) is what he knows, this sudden change to quiet, even-toned, non-shouting Mommy is discomfiting for The Imp.

He's flailing, striking blindly, lashing out at me to try and provoke the reaction he's accustomed to. It's been awful, seeing him escalate and escalate really bad behaviour because he wants me to shout at him. He's even asked me to shout at him. I've been handling it - we've been handling it - by limiting attention to inappropriate behaviour (make sure he's safe but ignore the outbursts) and lavishing attention on him when he's well behaved. Today there was a lot of progress, and I'm as proud of that as I am ashamed of why it was needed.

I've been crying a lot. A lot.

But I haven't been shouting.

Things That Are True - List the Fourth

Ten Things I'd Really Rather Not Say Again Ever But Which Will Probably Escape From My Lips Within Ten Minutes of Writing Them Here:

• Please use your fork, not your fingers.
• Stop picking your nose.
• Too loud!
• Please don't touch things that don't belong to you.
• Please don't hit [insert random noun here].
• What happens when you don't listen?
• Please don't wave things right in my face.
• No, you may not have my [insert random food noun here].
• No finger guns at the table.
• Chew your food and swallow it, then speak.

You may conclude from the above that breakfast was a little more challenging than usual this morning.

Things That Are True - When the Fever Breaks

I am not freaking out.

This is a good thing.

When I picked up The Imp at daycare today, he looked tired, and a little wan. My mom-spider senses got a little twitchy. On the ride home (all four minutes of it) he fell asleep. Since I had just been describing to a friend how The Imp never. stops. moving, to have him fall asleep at 5:30 in the afternoon was a bit of a red flag. We got inside the apartment, and all he wanted to do was sit in my lap.

Me: "Okay, honey, come sit in my lap for one minute and then I'll start making dinner."
The Imp: "No. I want to have a long, long, long, long, very long hug."
Me: "Okay. Come sit with me and let's have a hug."

The Imp crawled into my lap, rested his head against my chest, and put his little arms around me.

Me: "What should we have for dinner tonight? Would you like to have French toast?"
The Imp, holding me tighter: "No. I just want to have a long, long hug."

It should be noted that French toast is one of The Imp's favourite meals of all time. He loves to help me make it, he loves that it can be eaten with syrup or jam and how cool is that? He loves French toast. It is second only to blueberry pancakes in The Imp's little foodie heart.

When he didn't even lift his head off my chest at the mention of French toast, I knew we had a problem.

Me: "Honey, would you like to cuddle with Mommy on the couch?"
The Imp: "Yes."

Three minutes later he was sound asleep. His cheeks were flushed, and a thermometer gently placed in his armpit revealed a slightly elevated temperature.

In months past, I would've gone into crisis management mode. I would've immediately put him to bed, dosed him with ibuprofen, taken his temperature every 15 minutes. I would've set up Seizure Watch HQ in his room (basically a pallet on the floor for me to not sleep on) and I would've stared at him without blinking for as many hours as it took for the sun to come up again.

In other words, I would've freaked out.

Not without cause; he's had a couple of febrile seizures in the past, and they are terrifying to behold. But this time I feel like I've got a handle on it. Don't get me wrong, I still won't sleep much, but at least I'll be not sleeping in my own bed. I'll check on him every few hours, and if he spikes a real fever, I'll administer ibuprofen as required. But I'm not panicking. I don't have knots in my stomach. I'm not picturing him turning blue with foam coming out of his mouth, which is what his first febrile seizure looked like. (Seriously, the most horrible experience of my entire life, thinking I was watching my 16 month old dying in my arms. I have no words.)

He's a sturdy little boy who's had a runny nose for a couple of days, and his body's fighting off whatever seething petri dish vector of disease daycare bug he's picked up this week.

And I am not freaking out. He's fine.

Right?

Things That Are True - Endless Tiny Goodbyes

Tonight just before bedtime, The Imp came to me and demanded my attention. He put a dimpled little hand on either side of my face and very seriously said, "Mommy, I want to cuddle with you."

Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".

But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.

So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.

We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."

Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.

As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.

He's getting so big.

I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.

Nobody tells you that part.

So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.



*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.

Things That Are True - My Kid's a Genius

The other day The Imp was paging through a magazine that was sitting on our coffee table. He paused at a shampoo ad and looked up at HWSNBN.

The Imp: Is this a commercial?
HWSNBN, glancing up from his reading: Yes, it is. It's a commercial for shampoo.
The Imp: There's a girl in the commercial. Do only girls use this shampoo?
HWSNBN, taking more interest now: Well, I think that mostly women would use that shampoo, yes.
The Imp, not satisfied: But how many? How many girls use the shampoo?
HWSNBN: I don't know. I'd guess that this kind of shampoo would be used by women 95% of the time.
The Imp stops; thinks. Then: So only 5% of the time boys would use it?

HWSNBN and I gawk at each other across the room. Um, what?

The Imp is three years old. I fear he may be smarter than both of us.

(Help!)

But also: how awesome is it that my genius three year old can differentiate between editorial and advertising? Do we win at parenting or what?!

Things I Believe - International Women's Day

Today marks the 100th celebration of International Women's Day. Twitter this morning has been a source of inspiration, as I watch the people I'm following recognize, congratulate and celebrate the women they admire: women who've left their mark in history, women who've achieved success by their own definition and on their own terms, and also women in their personal lives - their moms, sisters, aunts and friends. Just thinking about how far we've come makes me stand straighter and feel taller. But it is devastating to think about how far we've yet to go.

I'm lucky; I'm geographically blessed. I was born in Canada - the personhood and equality of women is enshrined in our constitution and laws.

I'm also temporally fortunate. My mother in law, a doctor - one of only three women in her med school graduating class - was occasionally accosted in mid-1960's Vancouver and asked - by other women, mind you - how she could leave her children in the care of another and take work away from a man. I was born in 1970. I was raised by parents who both worked, and whose religion has, as one of its major tenets, the equality of men and women.

I have a tremendous amount of freedom. I've never known anything else. Sexism exists in my culture and in the media I consume, but I have a voice. And no one can silence me unless I let them.

In much of the world, that is not true.

And so, I celebrate the women I know, and the women I don't know. The fearless, the resolute, the everyday. Unreservedly, unabashedly, and unapologetically.

I've seen more than one mention in my twitter stream today exhorting the importance of discussing International Women's Day with our daughters, and I don't disagree. It is essential to teach our girls where we've come from, how strong we are both individually and as a group, and how much we've accomplished, sometimes against staggering odds. We need to teach them to think critically about princess culture, about how women are portrayed in media, about the war against women's rights that seems to be happening, not just "over there" in developing nations and the Middle East, but just south of our own border.

This is crucial, I don't argue that.

But as a mother of a son, I say that's not enough.

We have to include our sons in these conversations. They are exposed to the same cultural biases, the same images of perfect airbrushed bodies, the same hypersexualized pictures of younger and younger girls, the same portrayal of women in the media, the same news stories. And I would argue that this popular portrayal of women does just as much harm to a boy as it does to a girl.

Simply put: we cannot expect women to succeed unless we educate our boys about women's issues too. We cannot expect degradation of women to end unless we point out the discrepancy between the "ideal" image of the woman on the bus stop ad, and the real person standing waiting for the bus. We must empower boys to celebrate real women, not caricatures of femininity. We must teach boys to question what they're being told to want.

(And don't get me started on the way men, especially fathers, are portrayed in popular culture. That's a rant for another day.)

Strong female role models are important to boys too. As a feminist, and a mother, it is one of my primary goals to teach my boy to respect all women.

Unreservedly, unabashedly, and unapologetically.

Things That Are True: The Body Knows

There seems to be a theme to my October so far - it's like the gods I don't believe in* summoned up all the flotsam and jetsam of my past, washed it up on the beach of my consciousness and said, "Listen, sister. Deal."

Beach flotsam I just happened to catch on camera last weekend, English Bay

Yesterday, after three days of agonizing writing, reviewing, rewriting, and crying, I sent an email that almost killed me to write. I don't know how it will be received. I don't know how or if it will change some pretty important relationships in my life. But I'm just so done with some of the stuff the email's about, I had to send it. I had to reclaim my belief in myself. So now I sit, angst-ridden, simultaneously stalking and avoiding my inbox, wondering what the fallout will be; what kind of nuclear winter we'll have to suffer through before we can move on.

So that's fun.

Also yesterday, while sitting enjoying a perfectly lovely hot chocolate in one of my favourite haunts, I saw him. He was just walking by, he didn't see me, there were a few metres and half an inch of glass in between us, but still, my stomach instantly tied in knots, and I immediately felt like throwing up. After fourteen years, just seeing him at a distance can still make me physically ill. It affected me so much I had to interrupt my conversation with my coffee pal just to process it.

He was my first serious relationship, the first person I lived with, and the first (and only, I might add) person to hit me in the name of love.

It was textbook: he dazzled me, he made me feel like the best thing ever, and then he gradually, so gradually I didn't notice it was happening, undermined my confidence, estranged my friends, controlled everything I did, and hit me, telling me it was my fault. I think about it now, and can't believe it. How did I, the me that I am today, allow that to happen? (That's probably an entire post or five all on its own.)

Anyway, that relationship ended 14 years ago. I've seen almost nothing of him since, just chance encounters. Our social circles don't really intersect, our professional lives don't inhabit the same space. In the years since that horrible relationship I have very purposefully revisited spots we used to go to together, and replaced the bad memories with good ones. And I have never allowed myself to sink so far into a relationship again that physical abuse was somehow okay.

But it's the week for insights, and things I can't unknow, it seems. After I got home yesterday, one hit me so hard I had to stop moving, stop even breathing for a second.

The Imp is at a stage where he hits when he's frustrated. Since he's two, and testing every boundary, pushing every button, and still learning to communicate, he gets frustrated a lot. So he hits a lot. More precisely, he hits me a lot. He doesn't hit at daycare, he doesn't hit HWSNBN. He hits me. A lot.

The physical pain from these little two-year-old attacks of fists and feet is minimal, and transitory. I'm the grown-up, and I act accordingly. The Imp spends some time in the naughty corner, as he and I both get control, and as I tell him "calm down our bodies". There are times when it is really difficult for me to reign in my anger at being hit. There are times when my anger is all out of proportion to the assault. I've never lost control, the intellect has always prevailed in these situations. A couple of quiet minutes, a calm discussion of why we don't hit, a warm and loving hug, and on with our day.

But I realized yesterday, all in a heartbeat, that it's not the two-year-old hits I'm reacting to. It's the fourteen-year-old attacks that send me into a towering rage, that make me struggle to keep my voice calm, to explain why We. Don't. Hit. That make me need to take a quiet moment behind a closed door before I can give The Imp a hug and go back to reading stories, and playing games, and enjoying all the mind-numbingly beautiful moments of parenting, that happen all the time, every day, mostly when we're not looking.

The anger towards The Imp is an involuntary physical reaction, just like the stomach tightening and nausea yesterday when I saw my old flame. The body still reacts, even when the mind knows better.

I'm hoping that knowing this, processing it, figuring it out, will help me be a better parent. Will allow me to let go of this anger I didn't even realize I've been carrying around all this time, after all these years.

This morning, The Imp, as if looking straight into my brain at breakfast, said, "Hitting makes people sad." Yes, honey, hitting makes people sad. And not just the people being hit.

Then he wrapped his arms around himself, beamed at me, and said, "Hugging makes people happy!"

I must be doing something right.



*I don't believe in God. But if I did, it would have to be Loki. Because, well - just look at the world out there. It's the only explanation that fits. (With a hat tip to my Uncle David, who first mentioned that to me years ago, and it's stuck.) Either Loki, or some well-meaning but harried old chap in the sky. When I worked in the film and television industry, we used to joke: Good, Fast, or Cheap - pick any two. The God I most often hear described, despite his reputed omniscience, seems to be a variation of that: All-Loving, All-Knowing, All-Powerful - pick any two. That's my personal opinion, and I stand by it, but it doesn't prevent me from having, and more importantly, hugely respecting my friends and family who are devout in their faith.