Mother Daughter

She is 85 years old, several hours away, and doesn’t like to travel.

I am busy with a family growing up, conflicting schedules and needs.

We speak on the phone every couple of days, drop each other notes and cards and packages.  I miss sharing a snack on the couch, watching her favorite TV programs with her, enjoying a meal at the table, feeling her put that extra blanket on me when she thinks I’m sound asleep, having talks in the wee hours when we are the only ones awake.

She is 21 years old, several hours away, and doesn’t like to travel.

I am busy with her siblings growing up, conflicting schedules and needs.

We communicate by phone or online practically every day.

I miss laughing with her in person, including her in our family activities, buying her special foods, taking a peek at her in the night when I think she’s sound asleep, waking up early with her, just me and my firstborn…like when she was a baby.

I must send out some kind of a signal to the universe when I need to really connect with these two.  I start to feel anxious; I fear I am beginning to lose them.  And then, they will both call me on the same day, and it is more than a check-in.  The stars align so that I magically have a free hour or so for each of them.  We have Real Conversation, we connect, I have been nurtured and I nurture.

It is rare that I can hold them physically.  Yet I still hold them…in my thoughts, in my prayers, in my love.

BFFs...is it really so wrong to be your child's friend?

One piece of common wisdom we often read and are told as mothers is that we are not to be our children’s friend; we are their parent.  Obviously the point of this advice is to make clear that our most important job is to provide consistent rules and clear guidance for our kids, despite what they might think they want from us.  If we try to make them or their peers like us, we may actually end up doing them a disservice.  As they come into young adulthood, our relationship will hopefully evolve into a more equal and amicable one, but while they are young, we are supposed to be firm and keep them on the right path.

It’s a message I have heard but not fully accepted.  My seventeen year old daughter often tells me that I’m her BFF, and while part of me loves to hear it, another part cringes a little and tells me that I must be screwing up the “parent instead of friend” thing.  When she was little, this daughter was such an old soul.  She had a knack for saying just the right, wise thing, whether she really understood what she was saying or not.  Sometimes I’d find myself asking what she thought about this or that situation to see if she might have some special insight for me.  When she was around 10 years old, it became clear that this middle daughter and I shared many interests—good stories, dollhouses, holiday traditions, academics and philosophical talks.  One night as I was tucking her in with a book, she said “If you and I were the same age, we’d be best friends”.  I couldn’t help but be flattered and agree.

As the teenage years approached, I figured I should begin to brace myself.  Although her older sister mostly remained an easy kid throughout high school, one any mom would be pleased with, this one was more feisty.  She was strong-willed, snarky, and questioning of those in power.  The friendship we had couldn’t possibly last through this phase of finding her identity and asserting her independence.

Or so I thought.  The kid remains an excellent student with tons of extracurricular activities and talents, as well as thoughts and opinions all her own, and I’m still her BFF.  And apparently that hasn’t messed her up too badly.  She’s a responsible, moral person with a strong sense of integrity.  We discuss practically everything under the sun, and sometimes we disagree.  There are times I ask for her input, and she reminds me she is still a kid who would rather not be burdened.  There are times I remind her I am the parent and don’t want to hear advice from her.

What is a friend, anyway?  I believe it is someone with whom we have a strong connection,  someone who brings out the best in us, someone who appreciates us and is there for us in times of need.  Friends share both good and bad experiences, laughs, and important milestones.  They challenge each other and have difficult conversations when needed, as well as encourage and build each other up.  They love each other.  And as far as I’m concerned, the loving relationship between a parent and child is not only more important than the role of parent as authority figure, it is the very foundation of it.  Respect is built on love and trust, not on fear.  I am proud to be both my daughter’s BFF and her mom.

A Different Kind of Love Story

When I found out I was pregnant a few days before my forty-third birthday, I was shocked and thrilled.  My daughters were 16 and 11, and I had been longing for another pregnancy since the girls were little.  It took a year and a half to conceive my second child, and although there was no medical explanation, it just didn’t look like it would ever happen again.  When the girls were both in elementary school, we decided to open our hearts to a 3 year old Russian orphan boy whom we adopted.  The adjustment to life with that little blond tornado was tough, and it took some time for everyone to settle in.  Around five years, actually.

It was shortly after Viktor’s eighth birthday that the surprisingly wonderful news of my last pregnancy came.   All of us were beside ourselves with excitement and awe…all of us except my son.  While some of us had tears of joy, he had tears of sadness and fear.  My husband and I assured him of our love and his importance in our family, especially for the baby-to-be who would look up to him.  But even after five years with us, my son felt his place in the family was so tenuous that this little intruder would surely threaten it. 

After a while, Viktor began to accept the idea of a little brother—someone he could mold into a little version of himself and someone to even the numbers in the family.  That was until he found out I was pregnant with another little girl.  The reaction to that news was even stronger than to the pregnancy itself.  He isolated himself outside and sobbed angrily.  All I could do was remind him about his best friend at the time, a girl, who liked all the same things he did—army, cars, physical play.  I’m not sure he bought my attempt at consolation.  While the rest of the family enjoyed every aspect of planning and waiting for our new miracle,  my son seemed in denial.

Then Claire was born.  She was so tiny and helpless, and Viktor immediately fell hard.  He held her so gently, studied her features, and mimicked how my husband let her sleep on his chest.  He showed her off and talked about her to his teacher and classmates.  During one of the first days home, while I was changing the crying infant,  Viktor gently said to her, “You know what is really sad?  When I was a baby like you, nobody took care of me like this”.  He said it tenderly, as though he was just realizing for himself what he missed.  It was like he made a vow at that time to never let her feel the neglect he did.

He began to see me differently, too.  He got to see me parent from the beginning of life, there for all of Claire’s basic needs 24/7.  During one of my first nights home from the hospital, he wanted to sleep near the baby and me to hear my “sweet voice” and see Claire’s “cute little face”.  He was truly drinking in what I wasn’t there for when he was a baby. 

Until the baby’s birth, I think Viktor always sort of felt like a latecomer to our family.  He knew he missed out on our first family home and many of our combined experiences as well as his own first three years of being a baby in our midst.  But as relates to Claire, he was there from the start—from finding out about her to every day of her life since then.  She doesn’t know life without him, and she doesn’t know that he is anyone other than her brother. 

As Claire entered toddlerhood, the brother-sister relationship developed into something more typical.  She annoys him, he teases her, and they get mad at each other.  She still looks up to him and wants him to play with her, and of course he still loves her, but they definitely get on each other’s nerves.  The gifts of this relationship, however, are still being realized.  Viktor had hyperactivity and sensory issues as a little boy that felt so different to me.  He never seemed to sleep. And although she is not biologically related to him, Claire also has these issues, in some ways even more significantly.  Her brother prepared me to deal with OT services, extreme fatigue, and acceptance of traits I don’t relate to.  And now that a child I gave birth to has some of the same difficulties, Viktor’s characteristics don’t feel so foreign to me; *he* doesn’t feel foreign to me.  I see that I absolutely could have given birth to a child like him because I did. 

It is interesting how things work out sometimes.  A little boy came into our family’s life and there were lessons on both sides, and then a little girl came along and somehow made those lessons easier for all of us.  It’s one love story among many in the chapters of our life as a family.

Breathe Easy

Breathe Easy

September 21, 2013.  Today is National Gratitude Day.  When I realized this, I dug out my old gratitude journals and fondly relived what I sometimes refer to as the happiest times of my life.  It was the late 1990's and early 2000's.  I had quit my full-time job outside the home to be a full-time mom to my two young girls.  Elizabeth and Abigail were funny and precocious, creative and enthusiastic.  I was relishing the freedom and fun of being their mom.  I breathed sighs of relief every day that I didn't have to go to the workplace and I didn't have to answer to anyone but these two.  It was a simple time of playgrounds, parks, and beaches, picnics in the backyard, playing dress-up and pretend, making crafts, and reading lots and lots of books together.  My older one had school, but it was still so exciting, with no real homework and no real problems.  Extracurriculars were easy and thoughtfully chosen.  My little one was really still a baby, but she looked up to her big sister and did a great job keeping up.  They adored each other.

When Abigail, my younger one, was around 2 1/2 years old, she was diagnosed with asthma.  It's a common issue in children, but it briefly shook up our happy little world.  From around the time she weaned at 13 months, she would get occasional colds just like most kids, but she just didn't seem to shake them quickly or easily.  Her coughs would hang on too long and I would hear that rattling in her lungs too often.  I do remember a family visit we made before she turned 2 and my brother said something about it sounding like she had asthma. I brushed it off then.  That winter, she had a very lingering cough after a cold and then it suddenly took a turn for the worse.  She was sleeping but breathing very rapidly and shallowly, her cheeks were flushed, and she was warm.  I panicked.  So far as a mom, I had been lucky enough to have dealt with nothing more a few ear infections.

Six year old Elizabeth picked up on my fear.  She had recently attended a service in her religious education class in which each child received a small bottle of holy water.  Her first reaction was to run right to it and sprinkle it all over her sister.  She was so protective and so worried; that act of love is always remembered with a bit of a chuckle, but the desperation at the moment was very real.

I called the doctor and was afraid of what I was sure the advice would be.  It was a Sunday morning during a snowstorm.  I was certain I would be told to take my little one, who had a deathly fear of doctors and all things medical, to the emergency room.  I knew that bringing her there would only make her breathing more labored as she would surely be full of anxiety.  But the doctor told me he would meet us at the office nearby.  I was so relieved to see him in the parking lot on that snowy day that when I remember the image, I still let out a big breath.

It was a tough visit of testing and fear and learning to use a nebulizer on a strong-willed,  terrified little one.  But I rocked her and sang and listened to instructions and was just so grateful to have someone helping us.  The doctor shared kind words about my patience.  These made me feel stronger and more empowered as a mom, and I still treasure them to this day.

Abigail is 16 now and still deals with her asthma.  She has had episodes throughout her childhood, but nothing as scary as the time of her diagnosis.  We are actually looking into a seeing a pulmonologist soon because her medicines are no longer providing complete relief, but she controls her condition well and we keep up with it.

When I remember that first real health crisis I experienced as a mom, at the forefront of the story is the love of an older sister and the helpfulness of a professional.  I would experience that combination of family and friend support, along with the assistance of caring experts, many more times as a mother.  After those halcyon days when my first two were young, we adopted a son.  So many friends and family members rallied around and supported that adjustment, and so many officials helped to smooth our way as well.  And then when I had my later-in-life surprise pregnancy, again I experienced not only affection from those near and dear to us, but also medical personnel who went above and beyond to make sure we were okay.  Knowing this beautiful combination of love and help is available when I need it truly helps me breathe easy.

my inner strength

 By all accounts, I would be considered a quiet, shy, even meek person to anyone outside my family or handful of close friends.  Over the decades, my debilitating childhood shyness faded, and since early adulthood, I have been mostly able to carry myself in social situations even if I was self-conscious or anxious.  I still don't like talking in front of more than about 3 or 4 people, though, unless they are children.  Needless to say, it is particularly difficult to speak up in any kind of confrontational or conflict situation.  In addition to this issue, I have a couple of other hang-ups which might even qualify as phobias.  One is a fear of driving outside of my comfort zone.  This would include city and metro area bridges, tunnels, parkways, and just any somewhat complicated traffic pattern or area I'm not very familiar with.  It flusters me and I get lost and disoriented.  When I'm not sure where I'm going, I panic and don't know how to recover.  I have a deathly fear of car accidents as well so I'm almost too cautious.  Another hang-up is my fear of change.  I'm a creature of habit and like to stick with the same places and routines.  It makes me feel safe and secure.

I have discovered over the years, though, that there is a fierce and protective love that overpowers my usual nature and issues.  I'm thinking it was first evidenced when I moved to New York to be near my then boyfriend, now husband.  I was a recent college graduate who had a technical writing job and cute apartment in a small Virginia town.  My guy had landed a job in NYC and had just returned from an internship in Germany.  We were getting by with visits back and forth every few weeks, but that was hard.  There really wasn't much opportunity for him in my area, so I packed up and left for a tiny apartment he found for me on Long Island.  I had no job, no savings, and no ring on my finger.  It was a pretty risky move for such a risk-averse individual.

It was scary but exciting to move to this brand-new place and get a job in the brokerage industry.  Here I was, an English and Religion major who didn't know the difference between a stock and a bond, getting myself acclimated to the hustle bustle of working for a big producer and getting registered myself.  It was energizing, different, and exciting for a few years.  In the end, though, I was still me, and I was married and just had my second daughter when we were finally able to afford for me to stay home with my children, where I really longed to be by that time.

I have basically been a stay-at-home mom since then, for my now four children, with the exception of a couple years as a part-time English instructor.  My life is mostly predictable, safe, quiet and stable, just as I like it.  Every once in a while, though, that inner strength--inspired by intense love--pushes me way beyond my fears and my habits.

My oldest daughter coming out as gay pushed me to pursue a new faith community more in tune with true acceptance and more aligned with my mind and spirit.  It took that extreme love and allegiance to my firstborn to trigger that big change from family tradition and identity.

Recently my second daughter wanted to attend an astronomy camp several hours away.  This would require a difficult drive for me through the New York metro area and beyond.  I would normally have avoided such a drive like the plague, but my strong need to support this daughter's dreams was bigger than my fear.

My calling to adopt my son from a Russian orphanage had me going *way* beyond the ordinary and safe.  I tackled my fear of flying after 9-11, traveling in a strange country, and adding a whole list of unknowns to our happy little family.

And now my spirited, quirky little three year old is pushing me to stand up for her and protect her vulnerable little self.  I am challenged to do whatever it takes, whether it be avoiding situations I know would overwhelm her even if others would not understand, or even risking lesser relationships if I feel they aren't supportive.

It's funny we usually think of love as such a soft and tender thing; for me, it is what makes me strongest.

reframing

In a Saturday morning class on Compassionate Communication which I was taking a couple months ago at the local Unitarian Universalist church, we were guiding each other in a self-empathy exercise.  One of the participants shared that a friend would tell her she worried too much, and this upset the participant.  (As a side note, at the time I wondered why this would be particularly upsetting, only to have it happen to me over the Christmas holiday break.  Funny how when you're looking for it, you realize how often this type of thing--a chance for real learning-- happens.  I definitely understood after it occurred with me why it caused hurt and even some anger.  By telling someone they worry too much, you are minimizing their very real feelings and concerns.)  Anyway, during the class we were invited to share any possible suggestions for ways in which this member could offer empathy to herself.  My reaction, which admittedly didn't have a lot of insight behind it at the time, seemed to strike a chord with at least a couple of participants.  My suggestion was to reframe what was said into some positive truth, even if she only she said it to herself.  In this case, the woman grew up greatly sheltered and fearful, so her worry reactions were understandable.  Not only were they easily explained by knowing her past, but they were also a part of her very thoughtful and careful personality.  She had overcome so much fear by her loving action in the world.  Her reframing response would be to tell herself, "I am not a 'worrier'; I am a very careful person who puts a lot of thought into the details of situations. This has served me and others well in the past and is a part of who I am."

It occurred to me that I can do this reframing in my maternal attitude.  Especially in the case of my son, one characteristic of his, one that really pushes my buttons, is that he is so prone to peer pressure.  He is such a follower of whatever the "cool" or funny kid of the class is doing, and he wants to show that he is edgy too and knows what (bad) things mean.  This has led him to inappropriate behavior and conversation in school on a number of occasions, and he has been in trouble for it.  He will also not wear items of clothing he previously liked if a cool kid says anything at all (like "that jacket is fake leather"), he will not use his cell phone because it doesn't have the bells and whistles other kids' phones have so his is an embarrassment, he listens to the popular opinions and does not stand up for his own.  He flies under the radar in school and hides how smart he is so as not to stand out.  He is 12 years old so part of this is normal, but this has been a part of his personality from very early on.  Besides the fact that it just bothers me to not see him hold and express his own thoughts and values, to not see his integrity and spirit growing strong, there is probably also an underlying fear of mine...okay, maybe not so underlying...that he will be led badly astray in the teenage years ahead.  My feelings here are valid, of course, but they are not helping my relationship with my son.  I find myself looking for these weaknesses of his, not giving him the benefit of the doubt, and not just accepting and supporting him where he is.

So I thought some reframing was in order.  This child lived in three different and horrible situations before he was ever my son.  He spent almost two years in a dysfunctional home in Russia with an alcoholic mother.  He was neglected and malnourished and suffered from a bad case of rickets.  He was suddenly removed from his mother and spent the next 8 months in a hospital crib, at an age when he should have been safely exploring and having fun learning about the world around him.  Finally, he lived an orphanage for 6 months before I came to bring him home, to a different country and culture and language and family and *everything*.  He was hyperactive and into everything, but this was a kid who knew how to go with the flow.  From the first day home, he observed his 6 year old sister calling "Mom" when she needed something, and he immediately did the same.  He figured out how to charm relatives right away.  He tolerated lots of testing and immunizations at the doctor's office without showing fear or crying.  He went to the dentist and handled pretty intensive work there, too.  His ability to quickly figure out social cues, how to be accepted in his new situation, just how to get what he needed in general...all these had served him in the past and continued to serve him.  More than just serve him, they literally helped him survive.  Instead of thinking to myself that he is being a follower or weak, I can reframe that by saying to myself that my son had to learn very early that he couldn't trust anyone but himself and his own gut on how to get by.  He didn't even have a mother at the most vulnerable time of his life.  Instead of seeing "going with the flow" as a negative, I can see it as resilience.  Obviously I still need to guide him into making good decisions, developing personal integrity, and trusting family.  But by reframing, I can do it from a place of love, understanding, and respect for who he is and what his personal journey has been.  I think this place of loving relationship will be much more effective in guiding him than the place of fear was. 

And as for reframing my other children...my first's introversion and personality have given her the strength and courage to do things I never could have.  She is, instead of "loner", more like "strong and silent type".  My middle girl, instead of intense and sensitive, should be viewed as high-achieving as well as highly creative.  And my baby, instead of difficult, is the very definition of spirited.

Reframing seems to hold the key to right relationship with ourselves and others.  I'm going to make more of an effort to do it, especially as a mother.

self-definition

So I found myself last night at the parent meeting of my almost-3-year-old's preschool feeling very old.  I was probably the oldest mom there by about 6 or 7 years.  Of course, this makes perfect sense since I had Claire when I was 43 years old.  I looked at the other moms and saw them like I see my nieces, young and excited about their relatively new roles as moms, just entering the world of parenting school-aged children.   The parents sitting behind me were engaged in a conversation with another even younger couple, lecturing them on how much more complicated life gets when you have a third child and sharing all their parenting wisdom...after all, they were almost 40 and had a child in kindergarten already.  I think I would've given them all a heart attack if I turned around and told them my oldest was in her second year of college.  It seemed like everyone had friends to talk to and knew each other's kids; I sat quietly by myself feeling quite out of place.

And then I started remembering when I went to these types of meetings when Elizabeth first started preschool.  Everything *was* so exciting.  And here in New York, people do tend to start their families a little later than average, so at 28 years old, I was definitely one of the youngest parents in attendance.  I felt a bit out of place then, too.

I suppose I was mostly among similarly-aged peers at school functions for Abigail and Viktor.  It was easier to speak to and relate with the other parents, and our family dynamics didn't stand out as unusual.  But was I so much in a different place then as I have been as mom to my oldest and youngest? 

Yes, my experience level was very low when Elizabeth started preschool and it is very high now as Claire is starting, and yes, that does mean something.  But does it really define me?  Was I "young mom" back then and am I "old mom" now?  I actually surprise myself sometimes by how much I am going through the exact same emotions and thought processes.  I forgot how potty-training can be until I recently got back in the thick of it, and now it's all coming back to me...including the lyrics of "It's Potty Time".  I am still always trying to learn the strengths, weaknesses, and idiosyncrasies of my unique child and researching the heck out of whatever conclusions have been drawn.  Now I can mostly do it online instead of buying all the parenting books out there, but still.  I continue to get enthusiastic about milestones and inspired by my children and their growth. 

I am still myself, Julie the mom.  I'm not so different this time around from how I was when my college student was a preschooler.  I know more, I've experienced more, but I'm still me.  I need to try to forge some relationships with these other, younger moms.   They should not be defined by age and experience levels any more than I should be, and we are going to be going through these years with our little ones together.