Top Ten Things That I Wish I had Known When I Was 11

The Oldest Girl turned 11 last week.

She blogged about it on her brand new birthday blog, Hooligan’s Hollow.

Her birthday and sweet, eager, innocent and hope-bathed perspective made me think about when I was 11.

My 11 year-old daughter knows more about Faith and Love than I.

Top Ten Things That I Wish I had Known When I was 11:

10. You are worth more than you think you are.

9. Hershey Kisses taste better if you let them melt in your mouth.

8. Surround yourself with people you value.

7. Never shave your legs above the knee.

6. Almost everyone who gets a tattoo regrets it.

5. There’s a cost/benefits rubric for every risk.

4. It never, ever really matters if my butt looks big in those jeans.

3. Food is neither medicine nor poison.

2. God loves me exactly where I am.

1. It’s not my fault. It was never my fault. It will never be my fault.

And it’s not a cry that you hear at night
It’s not somebody who’s seen in the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

Icee Headache

Today was one of those days.

I actually try to avoid blogging on days like these as I prefer not to leave a negative stain on the page like a muddy footprint on a just-waxed kitchen floor.

This day, though, was like having an freeze-headache and being forced to keep gulping a bucket-sized Icee on fast forward.

My frozen lips are dyed cherry red and I can’t feel my tongue.

Part of my dilemma is very Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock. My schedule is synchronized like a beam routine and demands similar precision in balance and timing. My days are metered in moments,”I have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” A traffic detour, one extra red light  or a forgotten spelling list wreak Helter Skelter on the dominos, and I’m late. Running late when I am the only one consequenced does not get my panties in a bundle. When I run late during my work day, however, another child or family’s service is affected. I am constantly against the limits of the clock and my best and continually grasp the short hairs of both.

Then I get news that stretches me on the tippy-toes of my faith about two families in the middle of gritty, medical dramas. I believe God makes all things work together for His good, but I am often dumbfounded by my own limited and deeply human perspective. At ground level, these situations simply baffle me.

Next, one of the girls and I go another round on character issues, and I wonder how to support her in a way that will enable her to create the changes she genuinely desires in her own situation.

Tough session with a client makes me reconsider core tenants about esteem and healing. This is another dynamic where meaningful, measurable help may only be achieved though collaboration, and to say the client didn’t want to drink the water does not even begin to cover it.

Limits.

Lids.

Icee headache.

The Husband and I almost managed to get in a phone fight.

Phone fights are like relational cigarettes and oh, so much less hot than phone sex. I know they are bad for me, but I still occasionally light one up. Needless to say, my strategy to call and alert him I perceived a significant shortcoming in his execution of a parental function when he was stuck out-of-state at an obligatory, work dinner bore a conflicted result.

We pulled it back from the brink together, he got The Boy the necessary Math tutoring, and were able to have our first, and only real conversation of the day after 9:00 p.m.

We lit from topic to topic like fireflies dance across the night sky and filled our space together under common stars.

He asked about the blog.

For those of you that don’t know, I have experienced a bit of a slump lately.

The combination of time pressure and my desire to quality stamp content with authentic experience finds me short on both.

More short hairs.

Another Icee gulp.

The Husband asked me if I was in a blog desert.

I told him that I knew that there was sand, but that I do not wish to over generalize.

As I tucked my girl in tonight, I told my daughter that I think one of the reasons that God gives us a unit of tomorrows is to grow our Hope.

Today was an Icee-headache day, but I hope that tomorrow will drink like organic, green, jasmine tea well brewed by The Water of Life.

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

The Oldest Girls Is a Blogger Now!

The Oldest Girl turned 11 on Thursday.

Her favorite gift was her own blog:  Holligan’sHallow.com:

She has already invested tween hours in her first two posts as well as many journal entries that plan future ideas.

I hope you will give her a hit and read her worthwhile words.

For example, what I didn’t tell you, is she tried to make-it to school on her birthday, with visions of Klondike-bar-class-birthday-treats (now in family freezer) in mind, and projectile vomited all over the back seat two, short minutes from school.

She had a GI bug for an uncovetted and unwelcome birthday gift.

In lieu of feeling sorry for herself, she decided to pray.

Yeah, I know, sounds like pulp-fiction, but that’s what she did.

If you choose to read her own report of her birthday celebration in her own words, you will see, and be uplifted by her take away.

She is oh, so new-blogger excited.

I so remember that charge… everywhere she turns there is a post ready for her to flesh out and get on Holligan’s Hallow.

She realizes that there is space enough on this highway for her voice too, and she’s got important stuff to say.

Her saying it is her own Hallelujah!

I lift my voice in Praise!

I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah!

My World

Baby Girl came home from Kindergarten so excited yesterday.

She was able to bring home her Me on the Map book she’s been working on for weeks.

Baby Girl combines many talents in her bag of tricks and creativity is one of them.

Baby Girl gushed to report that she drew herself, “Walking on top of the earth like an astronaut!  See?  See!”

See?

See!

Along with original text and illustrations, Baby Girl came home with hand motions to teach the concepts of the book to the family.

(Arms stretched wide open) This is my world!  I live on the earth!

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This is my country! I live in the United States of America.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This is my state! I live State Name.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This is my city! I live in City Name.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and close space the space between them in a loud clap) This is my street! I live on Street Name.

Little did Baby Girl realize she had written my story too.

(Arms stretched wide open) This is my world! I live in Familyville.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This is The Boy!  He is our lighthouse.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This is The Oldest Girl! She is our heart.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and pull arms more closely together) This The Middle Girl! She is our music.

(Hands cup like parenthesies and close space the space between them in a loud clap) This is Baby Girl! She is our art.

They are my world! I live inside love.

Well there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah!

Tiger Mamma with PPP

The confessional nature of blogs and memoirs lend themselves to stark admissions.

At brokenhallelujah.org,  I resolve to balance my angst with Praise.

Perfectly timed, my devotion this morning from Sarah Young’s Jesus Calling, called out to me personally with the sentence, “Refuse to WORRY! … The best defense is continual communication with Me, richly seasoned with thanksgiving.”

I was a ready audience for her brilliant reflection of His living word this morning as I had worked myself into an absolute lather. I breakfasted with the beast worry, and was nigh unto gnawing on the drumstick of my own parental esteem when one of my Sisters patiently pointed me back to Praise.

The issue of my discontent is the pressure on my children to perform and the pressure I feel as a parent to train and support them to preform on ever increasing measures and misson-creeping venues. Long story short, my son will be in 8th grade next year, and it is time for us to look ahead in regard to his course work and extra curricular activities so that he enjoys a smooth transition into high school.

That sounds really calm and rational, right?

Well lucky for you that you missed the very snoggy and irrationally moist in-between when I deduced that I had not only ruined his entire education, but subjected him to a life of mediocrity, and also simultaneously derailed our daughters futures too because at the tender ages of 12, 10, 9 and 5 they remain generalists without a domain they dominate. And I mean like S&M dominate, tie other children-up as hostages and ignore their safe words kind of dominate we now apparently value as a society.

The teams they play on when they are 8-12 determine if they have any chance of being high school players. It simply baffles me how difficult it is for athletes to get a spot on a JV high school team. Now, there’s a glaring collegiate dynamic in operation in high school athletics, bands and orchestras. Without years of practice and specially developed skills, kids with the simple desire to learn, do not make the cut. Gone is the time you could figure out what you are good at in high school.

The courses 7th and 8th graders take determine their high school track. Furthermore, these courses open and close future college doors.

7th and 8th graders are 12 and 13 years-old, immature, impulsive, and in most cases, simply not ready for that kind of pressure.

I also find that the only thing that parents find more taboo to talk about besides sex, drugs and suicide is the pressure parents feel to witness the hypercompetition their children face constantly as they vie for space and primacy. It’s a wonder more parents don’t lose their libido, take antidepressants, quit their lives or run away from home.

A horrendous social SNAFU, a communal knot that rivals a mental disorder; it has been christened, PPP, Pressured Parents Phenomenon, as if the DSM-5 didn’t already have the psychiatric community in a big enough uproar. We’ve got language for it now. These cultural trends tide with enough prevalence that we needed to name it. In the course of one academic year, the terms PPP, Tiger Mom and Race to No Where have become part of our parental vernacular to describe the stressed out condition of our precious families.

The Catch 22s created are inevitable:

No, I don’t want to be a Tiger Mom, but neither do I want your Tiger Mom children to kick my childrens’ asses.

Yes, I am often unsure where the race ends, but if I pull my children out, your kid will run divots into my kid’s forehead with his cleats.

No, I don’t want to put pressure on my children, but if I don’t, how can they keep up with yours, especially when you just enrolled them in continuous, summer sessions of ________fill in the blank_______.

Yes, I am aware that pushing my child to excel keeps his drive as an external force when he should be passionate about what he pursues, but we’ve invested money we don’t really have in this so he can compete, and we can’t afford to start all over with something else now.

All the chase escalates my fear that our children will not become happy, successful adults.

The fear pollinates the worry.

And the Voice of Voices, the keeper of all Shepards, His quiet still Peace drowns in the background noise of my inward process.

I cannot hear Him when I am on the throne or place my children on the throne.

I cannot finish the race set before me without His Love and Word.

Left to my own devices, I am a Tiger Mamma with PPP.

Only when I Partner with the Perfect Parent, may I receive and extend Grace.

Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Bloggy Mommy Body

@BloggyMoms tweeted a quip about getting bloggy bottom last week:

BloggyMoms think I’m getting bloggy bottom 2/26/11 4:49 PM

I tweeted her back that I thought there was a post in that idea:

jaelBH @BloggyMoms Ha! Great post idea… The BloggyMommy body from nose to toes, saggy, breast feeding middle parts included… (or not) 2/26/11 5:38 PM

What follows is the fruit from a @BloggyMoms tweet, even though it’s obvious from her gorgeous picture that bloggy bottom is not a problem of hers.

Bloggy Mommy Body

Like most serious athletes, the Bloggy Mommy has a distinct body type specifically conditioned for the necessary behaviors and reflexes of a syndicated blogger.

The Toes:

Often sporting a french-tip manicure, or hidden in slippers, they are tucked under a desk or lap-top  much of the time.

The Feet:

Well muscled and ready to spring, they leap into action to serve family, friends and community.

The Calves:

Well defined, they have run mile after mile as well as paced worried floors.

The Knees:

Kneel to pray.

The Thighs:

Lap of comfort wide enough for babies.

The Hips:

Having crowned heads and been portals to lives, their spread is noble feminity.

The Bottom:

We sit upon our look upon and find there more to see.

The Girly Parts:

Kegel. Kegel. Kegel.

The Waist:

Muffin-topped.

The Breasts:

Have fed a baby or two, or three, or four, or more, and, as such, now may droop in salute.

The Shoulders:

Broad and strong, they carry the burden of a job description that constantly creeps and changes along with endless chores.

The Clavicle:

“Mommy, Mommy, what a big clavicle you have!”

“All the better to accent my pearls with, my dear.”

The Heart:

Trusts Love to Win and God to be God.

A prominent clavicle, like pearls, go with everything.

The Neck:

Tight and corded, it clenches to swallow pride and rise up to protect the esteem of children.

The Jaw:

Chiseled and confident, it dwells in possibilities.

The Mouth:

Open and smiling, it sings, “I’ll Love you Forever.”

The Nose:

Sniffs out the truth like a reporter on a deadline.

The Eyes:

Etched with smiles and the patina of tears, they seek and celebrate.

The Hair:

Rarely matches the color of the high school graduation picture.

The Mind:

Sings Hallelujah and records the reason why.

Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Prelude to Suicide

Ok.  Back to it then.

We’re back; time to pick-up the conversational thread from Suicide Ain’t Painless.

When we last convened on the topic, we agreed that in our society talking about suicide is about as etiquitte savvy as asking an obese, 40+ woman, “Wow! You’re like huge! How much weight have you gained since high school? And what year was that again?”

We’d come to consensus on the realization that there is a relational onus to create space in discussions, healthcare, families, treatment, and ideology for people to pause, breathe and heal enough that they can bear their circumstances without suicidal measures.

This post will identify the most common reasons people suicide in categorical terms, as well as metacognitive dialogue from the various point-of-view of suicidal ideation.

Before we do that, however, with all this talk of suicide, I expect you might have a question for me.

And that’s good. That’s appropriate.

So ask me.

Ask me if I am thinking about hurting myself or taking my own life.

It’s the perfect question to pose if you are concerned, and it won’t make me catch suicidal ideation like strep throat if you ask me.  Were I considering suicide, you’re asking me could create the space I need to realize it is possible to continue living my life differently.

Thank you for your concern.

I am not suicidal or in any way considering hurting myself. I am, however, very concerned about suicide.

In 6 reasons Why People Commit Suicide, Alex Lickerman, MD, enacapsulates a succinct list of the most common categories of why people choose to end their lives.

Dr. Lickerman asserts that in general, there are six reasons people attempt to/end their own lives.

1. They’re depressed. Clinical depression may lead to feelings of intense sorrow, unrelenting pain, self-loathing and hopelessness. Physical symptoms may further complicate the condition and include changes in sleeping and appetite patterns, lethargy, nhedonia (loss of pleasure in daily rhythms and routines) and impaired concentration. Another common aspect of clinical depression is recurring thoughts of death or suicide. The cumulative weight of all these complications distort perspective and pace. People begin to feel that the pain is too much to bear, that their lives have been reduced to feelings of loss and pain and/or it would be better for their family and friends if they were gone.

The metacognitive soundtrack of clinical depression might perseverate on the following refrains: “Life is too painful to go on living.” “I can’t keep on living this way.” “Anything, nothing would be better than living this way.” “I can’t imagine living this way.” “I’m tired, I’m done, there’s nothing left for me besides pain.” “It would be better if my children didn’t have to see me like this.” “Caring for me like this is too much of a burden on my wife.” “I can’t stand it anymore, it hurts too much.” “Pain is all that is left  for me.” “It would be better for everyone if I end it.” “I should have never been born.”

People may attempt to mask depressive symptoms due to shame or despair. If you or someone you care about feels intense sadness during the majority of each day, especially in the mornings, it could be clinical depression. As a primary symptom of clinical depression is recurring thoughts of death or suicide, such situations/persons are at increased risk of suicide. Interventions strategies and treatment are available for clinical depression.

2. They’re psychotic. Unlike depression, psychosis is difficult to mask. Psychotic individuals are tormented by dark, inner voices that compel them to hurt/destroy themselves. These voices may so command a person’s perceptions that s/he feels unable to do anything other than obey their malevolent edicts. When asked, psychotic patients may honestly report what the voices demand they must do, and if they are considering suicide as an option to quiet them.

The metacognitive soundtrack of a psychotic might perseverate on the following refrains: “You must die. “You must kill yourself.” “You are worthless and must die.” “I command you to die for me.” “I order you to kill yourself.” “I demand your life.” “Your life is already over; you’re life is forfeit to me.” “You must sacrifice your life as penance for your sins.” “You must sacrifice your life to prove you love me.” “You must sacrifice your life to serve me.” “I will only love you if you kill yourself.” “I will reward you beyond imagination if you kill yourself for me.”

Like depression, Psychosis is treatable and intervention available.

3. They’re impulsive. Acute stress and drug and/or alcohol use may induce intense feelings of despair/pain that compel people to impulsively kill themselves. These situations may arise without previous indications of depression or suicidal ideation, and often operate outside of a premeditated plan or prior intent. Because the onset of impulsive activity is acute and unpredictable, it is difficult to foresee the likelihood that acute stress, drugs and/or alcohol use could lead a party to suicide.

Similarly, outside of an impaired or altered lens, it is difficult to render the metacognitive soundtrack of an impulsive suicidal ideation.  This script is purely hypothetical: “Oh my God, I never realized how bad it all is.”  “Shit. Nothing makes sense. This is all a perverted joke.” “I can fly! Oh, my God, I can fly!”

4. They’re crying out for help, and don’t know how else to get it. Even though we are a society that does not talk much about suicide, it is keyed into the fabric of how we triage resources. Attempts of suicide are a certain measure to alert the world an individual is in distress and in need of intervention. Young adults and adolescents may choose suicide attempts as a means to call for help that instead becomes lethal; for example, jumping from a height too high to survive, taking a dosage of a medication that was not believed enough to end life but does, and cutting a vein or artery more deeply than intended.

The metacognitive soundtrack of crying-out-for-help suicidal ideation is also difficult to template.  Its hypothetical script could read: “Then they will know,” “If I do it, then they will help me, ” “They won’t know I am serious unless I do this.” “They won’t believe how bad it is unless I show them.” “This is the only way to get their attention.”

5. They have a philosophical desire to die. Outside of depression, psychological illness, impulse or desperation, some people reflectively plan to die in a strategic-end-of-life-plan. Terminal illness, medically progressive diseases, duty (in the line of service, protection or combat) and financial impetus are examples of reasons people intentionally plan suicide. What distinguishes this category from the others is that people who philosophically choose to die operate outside of mental disorders or acute emotional features.

The metacognitive soundtrack of the philosophical-desire-to-die converses differently and in flat notes of certainty without the sharps of desperation. Such utterances may sound clinical and objective: “I don’t want to suffer and die slowly in pain while my family wastes away with me by my bedside.” “I have lived a full and happy life. I am lucky to have enjoyed such longevity and experienced all in life that I have. I want to quit before I get sick in mind or body.” “I don’t want to use up my life savings in a futile attempt to prolong a life that is at the end. I want to be able to leave behind financial security for my family.” “I am no longer able to perform the tasks that make me the most happy. I am no longer able to contribute in a meaningful way. The quality of my life has decreased in a trend that can only progress and continue.” “It is my duty to do this so that others might live.” “Not him, me.” “I can buy them more time.”

6. They’ve made a mistake. Sadly, there are many too many recent ways that people, especially young people accidentally kill themselves. Many of these situation involve experimentation with oxygen deprivation to induce a high that goes too far. Some argue that texting while driving that results in fatal car incidents or driving while impaired could also be categorized as cases of suicide by mistake.

I can only imagine what the metacognitive soundtrack these situations impart: “What would happen if I tried it?” “Just one more second.” “I will just answer quick.” “I couldn’t be hurt.” “Mascara won’t run from the front of my face or down my shirt.”

It helps me to know that there are categorical reasons people choose suicide. It unveils some of the myths around suicide to know that there are indicators for suicide that are as consistent as risk factors for tooth decay. Decay, is at the core of suicide. Instead of an erosion of tooth enamel, it’s a striping away of hope. Depression, psychosis, impulse, desperation, philosophical intentionality, and mistakes all create conditions that make suicide more likely. A person who attempts suicide may or may not have actually desired to die. The context of each death by suicide is as individual are are people. That said, there is enough commonality to suggest that most every condition that increases the likelihood of suicide is treatable. Intervention and help is available.

Ready help and intervention strategies will be the focus of the next post in this series.

For now, I respectfully close with these final thoughts:

1. If you or someone you know is seems clinically depressed, or seems unusually low or disconnected from the joys of daily life, it’s time to for you to talk to someone, or you to talk to that person. Asking someone if he is considering hurting himself does not make it more likely that he will do so. It can, in fact, it could create the space for ready help to rush in. Furthermore, if you have come to believe that suicide is the only way you are able to escape the pain in your life that makes you feel overwhelmed and joyless, I assure you that there are services available to assist you. 911, local emergency rooms, and suicide hotlines are all direct patches into the network of resources in your area. People you know and love, as well as people called to intervention work are literally standing in line to support you during this time. Even if you can not remember a face of love in your daily life, I promise you that you are an adored child to the One above, and He seeks to prosper and not to harm you. There are ready alternatives to hurting yourself, friend. You have years of light, and love ahead of you. Consider all the lives you can touch if you choose to seek help and live on.

Live on.

Live on.

2. Liability demands I state this part crystal clearly:  I am not a physician or therapist. I cannot offer medical or psychological advise or treatment. If you are concerned about your situation or the situation of a loved one, I encourage you to consult your doctor or area mental health resources for treatment advise or referral services.

3. Suicide leaves the house left in shambles. I will never be able to think about its impact the same way since G surrendered his own life.

As such, I commit to work hope, exercise prayer and Praise the Light of the World.

My focus will be on education, treatment and prevention.

My face will look up to my Portion Deliverer as I research, write and cling unto my Rock.

I will be still, and know that He is God.

There is nothing too big or scary for my God.

I reject the outgrown chains of my history and shame.

Darkness will have no victory in this circumstance or over G’s community.

Nothing will turn me away from the Face of Love.

Well it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall and the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Time Capsule- Poppy Love

Monday nights and Thursday nights are big homework gigs in our home.  It makes sense, of course, the kids come home with their week’s curricular load Monday afternoons, process it throughout the week, and study for Friday assessments on Thursday evenings.  The pace is brisk as I switch hats and offer the support they need.  I help check, edit, copy and find stuff.  I am the last refuge of lost things.  I lost the battle to socks long ago, but I can usually help excavate the missing book, file or coveted item.

Tonight while I was searching for a Spelling assignment, I came across a piece I wrote about my son for a magazine long before I began to blog.  It creates such a provocative juxtaposition to the texting-all-but-teenager (62 days, and yes, he’s counting,) that I wrote about in TXT Spells Love and Trophy that I thought you might enjoy a Flash-to-the-Past peek at The Boy’s first love.

The piece is something of a time capsule.  Written 10 years, 3 children, and 120 mortgage payments ago, it’s part of our family archives.

Poppy Love

My son recently recovered from his first case of puppy love. He’s three, not thirteen, and the subject of his affection was his beloved Poppy (pacifier), not a pretty girl.

My husband argues that it’s not an entirely fair comparison to liken our son’s love of his pacifier with the fleeing infatuation commonly associated with puppy love. This was neither a brief nor fleeting affair; this was a loving, and long-term relationship.

It all started innocently enough. At seven weeks old, The Boy had an insatiable need to suck. Assured by our pediatrician that as a well-established breast feeder he was not at risk of “nipple confusion,” we introduced him to the pacifier. Initially, the chemistry between them was lukewarm at best. He spit it out a lot. He seemed frustrated that no matter how hard he worked it that it yielded no milk. His exploring fingers would dislodge it or spin it upside down. In fact, it was during this initial getting-to-know-you period with all its popping it in and out of his mouth that we began to call his pacifier a “Poppy.”

It wasn’t long before things got pretty serious between The Boy and his poppy.  They soon were going steady and no car ride, nap or bedtime was complete unless they were together.  The Boy would hold his poppy, stroke it lovingly along his cheek and fall asleep happily every night with it in his mouth.

My husband and I were pretty pleased with his catch.  What else could provide him that kind of priceless comfort, pleasure and security for our baby- let alone for $1.69?  We encouraged them as a couple.  If The Boy was crying and I needed to get dinner done, I gave him Poppy.  If he was fussing and we were only half way through the grocery store, we pulled out  Poppy.  As parents, we had a relationship with that magical piece of plastic too.  It was a quick, easy, fix that he truly enjoyed.  Poppy soothed him.  It soothed us.

When The Boy was about to turn two, we realized we needed to come up with a plan to wean him from his beloved Poppy.  We had already restricted its use to only naptime and bedtime, and knew that soon we would have to eliminate it entirely.

Our intentions were noble, but my spirit was weak.  I loved Poppy as much as The Boy.  I had just had my second child and was beginning the process of potty teaching The Boy, and simply did not have the courage or energy to take from him such a primary source of comfort.  Truth be told, I did not want to take it away from me either.  I counted on Poppy.  It helped me make my little boy happy.  It reversed tears to contented smiles in nothing flat- much often faster than I could do on my own no matter how animated my face or tone or warm and tickling my hugs.  The Boy’s mama was as much a Poppy junkie as was her son.

Potty teaching The Boy was not difficult, nor was I at all sorry to see the diapers and wipes and messy ointments go.  Poop in the potty meant less work for me.  It was The Boy’s accomplishment, and for me, a declaration of independence of sorts.  Giving up Poppy, however, well that was another thing entirely.  That simultaneously increased my burden as it took from my little boy his last vestige of babyhood.  On a deep and unconscious level, I was hanging on to Poppy in a futile attempt to hang on to my baby boy.

Such was the maternal ambivalence that found my three year old, “baby boy”, potty trained, reading and Poppy dependent.  I soon realized that my relationship with Poppy had become dysfunctional.  The Boye had outgrown the need for Poppy and needed my resolve to let her go.

We used a gradual approach.  It began with the Poppy pinned to his pillow, then his blanket, then mattress, and finally the Poppy sat alone on his dresser.  We explained to him that when he was ready and could go three nights with the Poppy on his dresser, the Poppy Fairy would come and exchange Poppy for a toy certificate that he could take to the toy store in exchange for a new toy of his choosing.

Every night during this week-long process, The Husband and I would go up to watch The Boy sleep.  We would hold hands and laugh quietly as we watch his craned little neck stretch to hold Poppy in his mouth.  When he could no longer reach it, he slept upside down so he could touch it.  It was painful to watch.  It was the first thing he loved that we had to take away from him.  Our first parental betrayal.  During those nights we reconsidered the wisdom of Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.  Giving up Poppy was his loss, but we grieved too.

Gone was the infant who suckled with such intensity.  Gone was the baby who loved to play hide Poppy under the blanket.  Gone was the medicine that was a sure cure to the scrapped knee of the toddler whose fledgling steps missed.  Our baby was gone and this bright, beautiful Poppy-free boy had taken his place seemingly in a beat of my racing heart.

I couldn’t part with Poppy forever.  It lives now in my hope chest next to the shirt I brought him home from the hospital in and my positive pee stick.  As long as I’m living my baby he’ll be.

I am resolved to the sobering prospect that his hurts will now always be harder to fix.  Behind us are the simple days when a $1.69 purchase would guarantee comfort and the notion that I can protect him from all hurts.

His delight as he picked out a talking Tonka truck at Toys R Us with his Poppy Fairy Gift Certificate was complete, but for me, the journey was bittersweet.

****************************************************************

Glory, I was naive.

Now The Boy is almost 13 and not 3.

We’ve both got some scars to prove I can’t protect him for all hurts.

I love my man-boy.

I miss my baby boy.

I hope for the man The Boy will become.

Well there was a time when you let me know
What’s really going on below
But now you never show that to me do you?
And remember when I moved in you?
And the holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Math Update

According to plan, my daughter went to school yesterday committed to a new kind of behavior count.  She resolved to expect and to record every smile, laugh, greeting, high-five, comment, kind look, and miscellaneous, positive, social gesture.

I can’t measure how much hope actually filled her heart, but she was willing to play the believing game. I drove into the pick-up line with her day on my heart like body armor. The Boy walked up to the car and says, “The Girl’s not coming.” “What do you mean she’s not coming,” I challenged him like a field medic in triage mode, “What happened to her?” “Uh,” he hesitated, catching the peril in the air, “She’s going home with B?” “I thought she said last night she didn’t want to go home with B,” I pressed.

“Dunno,” The Boy grunted in adolescent dismissal. I pulled the car out of line so I could walk over to my daughter. She was like one, big, chillaxed grin. “Mamma!” she gushed, “My day in MATH was great!. I really, really want to go home with B.” That girl has always been quick, quick, quick with math. My heart soars to hope that new Math won’t trip her up like it did me. Her path will undoubtedly be uneven as her teenage years ahead call like a Siren. She will fall again, but she will also rise and lift her own voice in Hallelujah.

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

New Math

One of my daughters and I have been having some intense conversations about Math.

Not the Order of Operations, equivalent fractions, long division kind of Math.

This new Math is way harder and the solutions more elusive.

In fact, this Math rarely divides evenly, and the greatest common factor eats esteem for kicks.

This Math intersects my girl with mean girl dynamics.

My daughter struggles with computation errors.

It doesn’t add up to her that girls who were kind to her yesterday are mean today.

She doesn’t understand why the group has divided and how uncertain she feels about her social position.

She can’t simplify the equation without feeling less than.

She subtracts confidence in her own power when endless study leads to more confusion.

My daughter cannot see the exponential strength of her character that evidences itself through these growing pains.

Tonight we vowed our common denominator would be to count the good stuff and cover the rest in prayer.

Tonight we plotted a new graph with the closed set expectation of joyful relationships.

She looked at me with such adult weariness as I tucked her in, as if she sensed, but did not want to articulate, that there’s no answer key in the back of this textbook.

I have been a Language Arts girl all my life and have had Math struggles of my own.

You know the inevitable watershed assignment when you have to admit to one of your kids you can’t help them with their homework?

I can still help her with her math assignments, but this new Math?  I had to tell her that I kind of suck at new Math.

All I can promise her is that we will work out each problem together as it arises and pray for our daily bread as we cleave unto the Rock.

Well Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
she tied you to her kitchen chair
And she broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Well baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah