Who am I, again?

I was watching a DVD with Eric last night, and during one of the previews a character says to her brother, “Maybe Dad didn’t abandon us, he just forgot who we were”. I laughed when I heard this statement, and immediately thought of my mother.

To say that my mother abandoned my sister and me is to exaggerate quite a bit. She never left us, per se, except when she went to work, and she kind of abandoned us only half way emotionally. I don’t want to be unfair to her, but to some degree my mother did forget us simply by keeping her thoughts constantly occupied with other things and rarely spending time with us just for the sake of enjoying our company. She left the house at 7am every weekday morning and came home at 6pm every evening when we were growing up, and shipped us off to language classes on Saturday mornings and church on Sunday mornings so that if she didn’t have time to spend teaching us something, at least she could allay her guilt a little by hoping that we were getting some good learning experiences somewhere else. Any time that we were all home together was used to clean the house (which was very difficult to get me to do), watching TV (maybe I should have put this one first), finding ways to amuse ourselves, or we would go on Sunday drives through the countryside because there’s nothing better than having two kids who can’t stand each other be confined in a car. We spent entirely too much time in a car growing up, and don’t even get me started on the drives across the country during summer vacation. And all of this would have been a little more tolerable had my mother not been so goddamn fake about everything. She spoke in an unnaturally high voice, always smiling and pretending that everything was just “great”. People with whom she associated outside the family thought she was the kindest, dearest, happiest person in the world, but I’m sure they must have felt that there was something off, that she wasn’t real. And in hindsight I see that most people didn’t really involve her in any meaningful interaction, and she was often hurt by people who basically felt uncomfortable with her phony niceness (though they didn’t know it) and didn’t respond to her the way she had expected when she was so nice to everyone.

But back to my childhood. My mother tried harder to be attentive with me, especially in the early years, than she did with my sister, and I can understand why, my being the first on the scene and all. But as the years went on, it seemed she could relate to me less and less, and given how unhappy she was with my father, how troubled she was with a past she couldn’t put to bed (though hardly talked about), and constantly worrying about every Tom, Dick and Harry’s opinion of her, it’s not surprising that the kids who came into her life quite late and only gave her more to worry about might be pushed aside for far more crucial concerns. Like housekeeping, like writing letters to relatives, and like falling asleep in front of the TV by 8pm. And like avoiding reality at all costs. She was incredibly tired by the end of the day, and it’s really no wonder why.

And you know, despite the tone of what I’m writing here, I don’t blame her anymore for what happened when I was her child. She kept her mind as busy as possible as a way of coping with the things she couldn’t deal with, and they were many. And the more the years piled on, the more there was to avoid as new issues came up and went unresolved, and the lurking pain deepened. I don’t think that what happened was okay, but since giving birth to Fisher especially, and as time has progressed since then, so has my sense of understanding and forgiveness.

Despite what she may have unwittingly expected from having a child, I wasn’t born to be my mother’s therapist, and while I take pity on her most of the time, I certainly don’t feel responsible anymore for the dysfunction that existed long before I did. My refusal to be put upon in that way is what has made only a superficial interaction possible between the two of us, and I still feel a lot of pain because of the strained relationship, since birth it seems, I’ve had with my her. But in slowly undoing my mother’s forgetting, I am remembering myself. And in remembering myself, I am assuring Fisher of a “present” mother who not only remembers who he is, but helps him remember, too.

Motherblogger!

I would like to take a moment to say that I detest the term “Mommy Blog”, which is used to label the kind of blog written by mothers about their children. To me it sounds condescending, in a “isn’t that cute, now she’s writing about her widdle kiddies!” kind of way. It’s almost as bad as the media-fueled “Mommy Wars”, a title which refers to the debate between mothers of the “working” and “stay-at-home” camps who find it necessary to prove the other side “misguided” in their choices. I think the latter is a satirical term that was dreamed up to mock a debate that many mothers take seriously, and like children who aren’t heard, the “Mommy Wars” designation only makes those who choose to participate that much more determined to fight the ‘good’ fight. Women prejudging each other; gee, now there’s something the world needs more of! Keep those presses running!

But back to the Mommy Blogs thing. I do write about my boy Fisher, and while I try to have a particular angle to my blog instead of just using it as a forum to vent about anything that comes to mind, I think this blog falls under the Mommy Blog label. What would be a better label? I’m still thinking about it.

And I read recently that there is some debate about how healthy and safe it is for the children of Mommy Bloggers, especially of those who reach a level of renown, to have their lives broadcast on the Internet. It’s like being the child of a celebrity, only stories of your upbringing are being openly shared with the world, often with accompanying photos. And what will be the fallout for those children of celebrity Mommy Bloggers, I wonder? I guess we can only wait and see, but I know that the bloggers in question don’t share all, or even most, of what goes on in their families’ lives, and if their children wished to no longer be discussed on the Internet, I’m hopeful that most of these mothers would stop doing so. But I have to say that while posting pictures of your child undoubtedly boosts ratings, and giving readers that “come have coffee in my living room” sense by giving away a lot of personal details helps keep that advertising money coming in, to me it’s not worth sacrificing your family’s privacy to pay the bills. Maybe I feel this way because I’m not looking to make money from this blog or to draw the entire world’s attention to my family (otherwise I would spend a lot more time posting regularly). Or maybe I’m just jealous of those mothers who have the confidence/megalomania/business savvy to say, “come look at me raising my kid, Stranger!”. Whatever the reason, I will never post pictures of Fisher (aside from the one in the header) on this blog because it’s really not important what the subject of my writing looks like. Unless you know him personally he’d be just another kid in a picture, and why degrade the special quality his image has for me by advertising that he is the kid I’m writing about, and who I’m writing about mostly for personal purposes. The only reason I post my thoughts on the Internet is in case there are a few like-minded/interested readers who would like to take a peek into my world and see how yet another person progresses through one particular aspect of her life. Communities are a good thing, even virtual ones, but it is possible to get too big and to lose sight of what we’re actually doing here, and that is to raise a child. I’ve always thought that my work should come second to Fisher’s interests, and blogging is no exception. And I want my writing to help you use your imagination, to think of Fisher as though he were your own child. By avoiding providing too many particularities (especially including his actual appearance), my words will mean that much more (or less, if my stories bear no relevance to your life).

I guess some of this argument stems from my distaste of seeing authors’ photos printed on the back covers of their published books. This may seem completely absurd, but seeing the face of the person who wrote the book brings up all kinds of judgments I naturally make about the person based on his or her appearance, and it kind of changes the content a little for me. It’s like falling in love with someone’s e-mails and then seeing his face for the first time on a dating service. You already have a picture in your head of what the person looks like, and you can’t help but be disappointed in varying degrees with the live person you then behold. I’m sure there are all kinds of arguments one can make about this stupid little point, but I can only say how I feel about it. So that’s why you won’t find a Flickr link on my blog, nor will it ever pay for my house. Too bad, really, but such is my take on the this topic.

Coming to terms

I got together yesterday afternoon with a friend of mine who has a three and a half month old baby girl. We’re trying to set it up so that we see each other every other week, which is a welcome experience because it’s taken this long for me to actually hang out with another mother, let alone make a regular thing of it. And I really like this particular woman because she is tough, likes to get things done, but has a softer side that she easily shares. And she’s honest about her feelings, which is the kind of positive influence I need in so-called “real life”.

Anyway, while Fisher was a bit of a challenge because he wanted to run around and explore everything wherever we went, I had a bit of a silly yet happy realization yesterday. As my friend and I talked about babies and children, and our lives as they are right now, and I spent a few moments watching over her baby while she went to get herself a coffee, my eyes going from a somewhat unfamiliar face to the chapped but beautiful face of the boy I know so intimately, I became aware that those women I see who are so obviously mothers and whose children are so obviously their children are just like me. Rather, I finally saw that I am just like them, one of them, with a child of my very own. Strange how spending time with another mother, where I could have a closer look at how she and I are the same, made me see that I have what I have wanted for as long as I can remember. I am a mother, and I don’t need for Fisher to call me “Mama” for it to be so. What is, is, and has been since the day he was conceived.

I live in a very small world of my own devising, and hadn’t seen it for what it was until recently. It was always me against the whole world. And I would look through the peep holes of my locked doors longing for what other people had, hoping that I would live the kind of life they did. And then, when the very thing I’ve wanted to happen for as long as I could remember actually happened, it took me almost 17 months to realize it. Talk about walking around in daze, trapped in a vortex of pessimistic, self-centred thought, feeding off assumptions based on two dimensions instead of three, being more fearful of actually interacting with people than of the bleak tales I told myself to justify my resignation from my communities.

This is not to say that I now side with many people’s unhealthy attachment to “stuff”, or with the obsession some women have with getting pregnant, for example, but sometimes I think I go too far the other way, not caring enough because it’s “safer” to be detached and judgmental. Which makes no sense at all, because that frame of mind can be just as painful as its opposite.

Jesus Christ, what a mess. But I’m feeling much better now.

Complaints of an overthinking Mama who’s reading some good books

I noticed that it’s been almost a month since I last posted to this blog, and, well, I guess I should get back on the ol’ horse now. I feel like a lot has happened since my last post and yet I don’t know what to say at the moment. I guess I could start by mentioning two books that I’m currently reading: A New Earth by Eckhart Tolle and The Continuum Concept by Jean Liedloff. The approach and subject of each book is quite different from the other, and yet I’m astounded at how well they complement each other. I suggest you read about these books, because I don’t feel like writing a book report about each one. I will say, though, that The Continuum Concept is about a radical (though not exactly unfamiliar) perspective on child-rearing, which is relevant to the general theme of this blog.

I was saying a while back that I’m having a difficult time learning to live in the moment. Well, ask and ye shall receive. Learning to be in the present, especially as a parent, is what Tolle’s book addresses, and while I sometimes feel overwhelmed by what he is suggesting the reader do to let go of the ego and create awareness of who one really is, I think I’m on the right track. A part of what he has said in what I’ve read so far is stuff I’ve already come to understand, but his book is certainly giving me a clearer picture of how much better things could be once I realize what’s going on behind the facades of other people’s behaviour as well as my own. I also appreciate how he mentions the relevance of major religions, such as Buddhism and Christianity, to his philosophy and how he often “decodes” the true intention or meaning behind what Jesus said in the Bible. I’m certainly not a Christian anymore, but having gone to church almost every Sunday of my childhood, I remember some of what I learned and appreciate a fresh perspective. It kind of encourages a return of my sympathies back to religion instead of making me feel defensive against it, which is emotionally a much easier way to view things.

I have returned to the library all of the John Holt books that were sitting on my desk mostly unread. It wasn’t that I didn’t find the subject matter interesting or pertinent to my stance on educating/rearing Fisher, it’s just that now is likely not the time to delve into the material to the extent I had originally wished. Fisher is not even a year and a half old yet, and to start researching my methods for “unschooling” him are not crucial at this time when I have so much to learn vis-a-vis where we are right now. And since “unschooling” in itself has at its primary directive (if you can call it that) that one should go in the direction one wishes at a given time, I don’t feel bad about putting something like this off. Especially when I have two very important and inspiring books to finish reading and learn from.

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Fisher has been doing well, even if he has been a bit of a handful lately. But the craziness of wanting to do right by him every moment of the day is getting to me, and I know that this absurd pressure I’m placing on myself can’t last forever. I don’t think it is at all healthy that children constantly be the centre of attention, and yet I just have a hard time knowing when to draw the line. Eric had done a little reading about living with toddlers last night, and he said that I should socialize Fisher more. I guess by this he means that we need to be out in public more often and that Fisher should be spending more time with kids so that he can learn early on how to share and whatnot.

But can I be honest here for second? This kid is not yet capable of understanding the meaning of sharing, or of “I”, or of the concept of consequences. You simply cannot teach a child how to share if he doesn’t even have that kind of connection made in his head yet. And this idea of socializing children with their peers is grand and all, but seriously, I’m not too great at handling the socialization between myself and other parents in a “child centre” atmosphere. If Fisher reaches out and grabs another kid’s face (which he is wont to do), it’s about half a second before the parent of the kid is pulling them apart and I’m telling Fisher “no”. All of this seemingly random (to him) negative experience is already stuck into his head before he can understand why what he is doing is unacceptable. And so, it’s good to discourage his unadulterated curiosity before he even has a chance to test the waters with at least some kind of understanding of what’s going on? I don’t think so. That’s just a waste of time and an unnecessary hindrance to a child’s sense of learning. I also think that Fisher should socialize with people of all ages and backgrounds, and mostly with his family. So if he sees his grandmother once a week for a couple of hours, and his aunt also, and the rest of our family every other weekend, and a friend of mine and her baby every other week, I think we have a good start. Taking him to coffee shops or other places where people spend some time wouldn’t be too bad an idea, either, and he definitely enjoys emulating the big people, as well as waving and talking and smiling to strangers. He doesn’t form attachments to other children yet, so it’s fun for him to randomly come in contact with one when we’re walking down the street or something. I would like it if he had a “friend” or two his own age to play with once in a while, but my last attempt at contact with a mother (who I liked a lot) of a little girl who really wanted us to come over and play was snubbed for one reason or another. So I take things as they come and know that one day, when he really needs to learn about sharing and living as a member of the family instead of “the” member of the family, he’ll have a sibling to teach him (and me) a lot of what he needs to know.  Everything starts at home, and he still needs that environment most of the time. Now if only I could stop “Fisher My World” from becoming “Fisher My Universe”. The plague of over-civilized Western mothers, to be sure… .

About time.

I haven’t been too great with posting lately. My time seems to be unusually constrained, with the bit of work I’ve been doing recently for some extra cash, as well as keeping Fisher busy, and finding a moment or two for myself. Also, my dad’s been in the hospital for over a week now with some heart issues, so getting out to the suburbs to visit him has taken up some time. But I’ll get better with the posting soon. You know, in case anyone out there is listening. Because I certainly am.

Taking charge

I am in the process of trying to get to all the books piled up on my desk. One of them, which I’m still only half way through, is John Holt’s Teach Your Own. There’s a passage in that book that I’ve been thinking about recently, and how it applies to my current concern with how much choice we give our children.

John Holt wrote that parents tend to abuse the word “okay”, as in “we’re going to the store now, okay?”. He claims that that one word implies to the child that he or she has a choice in a situation where he or she actually doesn’t. At first I disagreed with Holt and thought that when parents say “okay?”, they’re meaning to say “understand?”. But the word itself can be a little confusing when we often ask a child if he is okay, and so it certainly can be interpreted to mean “are you okay with this decision?” when we use it at the end of a statement. I still thought it was an awfully nitpicky point on Holt’s part, but it’s sort of stuck with me as I’ve noticed my own fairly frequent use of it.

Then last week I was at the playground with Fish, and a mother there told her son that they were leaving in five minutes, “okay?”. The son, who was about 4 years old, asked why, and the mother said, “What do you mean, why? Because we’re leaving, okay?”. The son appeared confused and then reluctantly agreed. My perception was that if the mother had simply made sure that the son was listening and then told him they were leaving in a few minutes without the “okay?” at the end, he wouldn’t have looked so confused. He might not have felt that he was being asked his opinion on the matter only to discover that that was not the case, especially since his mother wasn’t even prepared to explain her decision.

I realize that this is a strange, rather benign issue to discuss, but at a time when parents refer to their children as “buddy”, and are constantly checking in with how they feel about everything, I’m beginning to see that maybe Holt wasn’t blowing that one tiny word out of proportion.

I have another example. I was again at the playground with Fish when I spied a mother sitting in the sand with a baby who couldn’t have been more than eight or nine months old. As they were about to leave, I heard the woman ask the baby if she wanted to go home. I, too, am guilty of asking such a ridiculous question of such a young child (as well as the other, outwardly irrational behaviour I talk about throughout this post), and it occurred to me how much we want our children to be a part of our decision-making. Generally, I believe we do this out of respect for their person-ness and to make them feel heard. But can we start too early, and can we take it too far? More importantly, do we unwittingly counteract our good intentions when we give a child the opportunity to disagree in a situation in which he or she really shouldn’t have a say? I don’t argue with Fisher about walking off the sidewalk and into the street, for instance. Even if he screams at me when I pick him up and put him back on sidewalk, there is no room for disagreement because he can’t possibly understand the dangers of the road (he can barely get his head around fact that if you tilt the cup, the water falls out). But, with my words I might tell him otherwise, because I’ll say something like “we walk on the sidewalk, not the road, okay?”. So where’s the decisiveness there, even if my actions say otherwise? And when is our decisiveness supposed to appear, when the kid has argued enough with us that we finally blurt out what we really mean, but with a raised tone of voice and red face? That, too, is counterproductive.

In the end, I’ve come to see that children don’t need to have input in everything, and in fact, are often not mature enough to make certain kinds of decisions (which is why we are the parents!). And our language can be very confusing, often because we want to be gentle with our “no”s. But I believe that we can be gentle and in charge at the same time. Being inconsistent is no better than being too harsh, and it sends the wrong message to children, encouraging to them to doubt our decisions, push for what they think is right, make us feel even more self-conscious about how harsh we’re being, until finally we hit the tipping point and a needless conflict arises out of nowhere. I suggest, to myself especially, that we be more decisive, using action and language to support it, and be open to admitting mistakes when we’ve done the wrong thing. I believe that children appreciate us more when we at least behave like we know what we’re talking about, and are also relieved that someone else is worrying about and deciding on the things that really shouldn’t concern them. It takes too much energy away from the important things, like playing and learning, when they think they should negotiate every decision that is made on their behalf.

I also think that we have to stop measuring our self-worth by how much our children like us. They need us and love us, and as long as we are letting them be children and are taking charge when necessary, they will respect and accept our decisions, and ultimately appreciate (even if it takes years) the good job we’re doing. And as they get older and are more capable of deciding the route they wish to take under a given circumstance, then we can encourage their voices and empower them to do what is right for them.

Okay? .

In the wind

I took Fisher to the park yesterday afternoon, and the wind outside was quite strong. As usual, Fisher doesn’t appreciate taking the direct route to a place (he enjoys the journey and is blissfully unaware of the destination), and so for a short while he walked along yet another front lawn, studying the softness of the grass under his Honest Ed’s runners. Just as he stopped for a moment, the wind picked up and his whole body swayed in the commotion, his eyes lighting up and his mouth wide with a delighted smile. The sensation of the rush of air through his hair and around his body enchanted him in that instant, and I both marveled at and got lost in the way he so honestly enjoyed the new experience. Such sublime pleasure is a rare but wonderful thing to witness.

When we got to the park, a little boy named Hugo was there playing with his toys in the sand. His name, which I happen to like a lot, doesn’t really suit his fine facial features and physical build, and he has these intense dark blue eyes that are a little overshadowed by his very dark hair. The wind picked up again at one point, and he looked up from his toy and felt the current with such a magical expression in his eyes, that I wondered if the abrupt burst of air hadn’t reminded him of his birth, or the moment in which his centuries-old soul had charged into its new little body.

Having enough time to spend it watching the brief and subtle joy that a child takes in the simplest of experiences is a great gift, akin to observing his or her sudden understanding of an idea. I am so looking forward to watching Fisher learn, I can’t even express the excitement with which I anticipate times like the one spent reveling in the wind. That exhilaration, my friends, is what education is all about.