That's the Spirit (19 February 2021)

 

That’s the Spirit!

(19/02/2021)

This week I re-read Mary Sheedy Kurcinka’s Raising your Spirited Child. I will always be grateful to Ms Proud, who introduced me to the idea of spirit, which has been a gamechanger for my relationship with Jack of Hearts and understanding more about who he is in a world that has often not appreciated his spirit. I’ve recommended this book to other parents I’ve met along this journey, but I have yet to meet anyone else who has read it, let alone implemented some of its ideas (apart from those kindred spirits in the Facebook group).

Parents who coast along, navigating the ups and downs of family life seemingly with no need to interrogate or acknowledge why they do they things they do, mystify me. There is always room for growth and new understandings. Even with my pursuit of knowledge and understanding, I am far from perfect. Perfection and happiness are not my goals, but becoming content with one’s self, and having the security and support to continue to pursue one’s passions describe my brand of realistic.  

Having fallen into motherhood aged 20, I realized very quickly that I needed help to learn how to be a good mother. Much of what I do has been borne of effort, self-examination, reading, talking, thinking and attending courses such as Kath Silard’s Peaceful Parenting. I had a good start, with parents who imbued me with many positive qualities and abilities, but being a mother is far from effortless for me, at least. Growing up alongside LabCat and Guitar Hero has scrambled some of the learning. I made many mistakes, some of which I would definitely go back and undo, if it were only possible.

My second round at motherhood has been challenging. There’s the upfront obvious of being in a lesbian partnership with dads also in the picture, (as opposed to being the embittered single mother defiantly working to counteract the hostility emitted intermittently by her ex-husband). There’s the fact of not bearing my children and having people question my integrity as their (non-biological) mother. (Do they really need two mums?) The world has changed a great deal, and the issues of technology and climate change constantly affect my every day journey as a mother.

As a single mother my children always came first. No matter what. Partly from a deep-seated need to protect them, I didn’t pursue a romantic relationship until they were well into their teens. I knew I wanted to try motherhood again, and I knew I could do things differently this time. I wanted to create a bigger family in which Guitar Hero and LabCat would be proud older siblings who would model their ways of being in the world. I wanted my children to be informed, and unselfconsciously embraced as part of my quirkily Jewish family. I wanted them to relate to the world without having their parents’ messed-up relationship colouring the background and intruding inconveniently at seminal moments in their lives. Of course, life was never going to be that simple!   

When Jack of Hearts was born, Brown Owl and I received a number of parenting books, each with different perspectives and recommendations. I read most of them, but Jack seemed from the very beginning, to be a different kind of child. I worried that it was his external circumstances that caused the difference. I felt extremely judged by the outside world when Jack did things differently. The messages were always about control – about saying “no”, and the child somehow falling magically into line with society’s conventions. It was not just Jack’s attraction to weapons, nor his uncanny, innovative and unconventional uses of furniture. It was Jack’s allure – the appeal of his free-spirited energy that attracted the attention of other children who usually lacked his mental and physical agility, and that led to the disapproval and ire of those children’s parents, that hammered home that Brown Owl and I were mothers who were (perhaps) “good enough”, but did not meet society’s criteria for the representative, healthy woman-headed family we felt we needed to show the outside world.

The qualities proposed by Kurcinka to help identify whether a child’s temperament falls into the categories “spirited”, “spunky” or “low-key” include Intensity, Persistence, Sensitivity, Perceptiveness, Adaptability, Regularity, Energy, First Reaction and Mood. She also looks at how these are expressed differently by people who are more introverted or more extroverted.

Aged 3, Jack was obviously intense (5 = a living staircase of emotion, up one minute, down the next; every reaction is deep and powerful), persistent (4 = never takes no for an answer), sensitive (4 = acts out parental stress; strong reaction to how things feel, whether pleasant or unpleasant), perceptive (5 = notices things most people miss; forgets multiple directions because attention is grabbed by other things), slow to adapt (5 = cries when one activity ends and another begins; may be very upset by surprises), moderately irregular (3 = slow to toilet train, needs to eat frequently in between meals), energetic (5 = when forced to stay in one place seems ready to burst; always on the move, even when sitting, fidgets), rejects at first and watches before joining in (5 = holds back before participating, immediately says no when asked to do something – especially something new), not terribly moody (2). Jack is also an extrovert, needing to get his energy from being with and bouncing off other people. He scored 38, well into the category of “spirited”.

My discovery this week that Wizard (aged 7) is also spirited, has shaken the foundations of my understanding of how to parent him. I feel like I have mis-characterised him, failed to take into account the way that his temperamental qualities distort the way he is seen (or ignored) by the world. I have a lot to learn, and to impart to Wizard. I’m excited by this, because I now have access to a palette of tools and filters which he and I can apply to life, and colour it differently for him.

Aged 7, Wizard is intense (4 = every reaction is deep and powerful), persistent (5++ = sticks to his guns, never lets go of an idea or activity until ready), sensitive (5 = has to have quiet to sleep; complains about lights, noise and smells, especially in crowds; a “selective” eater), perceptive (5 = will not be diverted from something that captures his attention until he has had his fill), slow to adapt (4 = becomes upset with changes in the routine), irregular (4 = never falls asleep at the same time), not overly energetic (2 = plays quietly for extended periods of time), rejects at first or watches before joining in (5 = learns by watching; is distressed by new activities or things; immediately says no when asked to do something), is often serious and analytical (4 = sees the flaws and what needs to be fixed; usually serious). Wizard is an introvert who needs to be able to withdraw and recharge on his own, rather than being in the midst of a crowd all of the time. He relates better to one or two friends at a time. He scores 38, just like, yet very unlike Jack.

I’ve noticed since returning from our year in Canada that like Guitar Hero and LabCat, Jack of Hearts and Wizard have formed a tight sibling bond. This makes me happy, although I’m aware that adversity and hardship have driven its formation. It is one of the things Brown Owl and I hoped the children might gain from the exchange experience.

Here’s an example of how Wizard expressed his intensity and persistence this week, as well as his reluctance to accept something new and different.

Wizard travels home from Red Deer in a pair of runners we bought at WalMart. The soles of these runners have already started to separate from their uppers, before we leave, even though they are his “inside shoes”, (alternated with snow boots for the outdoor world). We suggest and state a number of times that we intend to buy him some new shoes. Four weeks in, and he continues to refuse to entertain the idea of wearing different shoes. His shoes have become deplorably embarrassingly disgustingly wrecked.

Jack of Hearts is become enamoured with the drive to play Aussie Rules Football. Over the past month he badgers us to find him a club to join. Brown Owl does some research and discovers a club that is starting pre-season training on Thursdays. Last Thursday was hot and training was cancelled, much to Jack’s loudly and often-expressed sorrow and displeasure. As part of our negotiations around out-of-school activities, Brown Owl suggests that Wizard might also like to play footy, although he adamantly expresses many times, his aversion to being part of a team. He tells me more than once that he won’t do it.

It is 38 degrees when I pick them up from school, but I say not a word about footy training being cancelled. At the appropriate time, we get into the car to see whether anyone else is down at the oval. Wizard refuses to put on his shoes, because there is no way he is going to play footy. During the drive, Wizard and Jack have a conversation about playing footy at school. Jack very sweetly supports Wizard’s assertion at how good he (Wizard) is at playing football.

There is no one at the oval. It is too hot. Training has been cancelled again due to the Hot Weather Policy.  Football is, of course, a winter sport. However, Wizard leaps out of the car, straight after Jack, and states firmly that he is indeed, of course, going to train for footy, too!

(This turn-about would not have happened if I had continued to pressure Wizard and put words into his mouth. He needed to reach this confidence on his own. Seeing the place where training will happen helps him to project his possible successful self into the possibility of playing.)

I tell Wizard that we can go to the sports store to buy him some more shoes for school. Jack is eager to get studs, and mouthguards and other football paraphernalia. I firmly state that we are only going to buy shoes for Wizard, but that Jack is free to look around. Wizard says firmly that he doesn’t need new shoes and will not wear new shoes. Off we go. There is no point in contradicting the child.  

We arrive at the sports store, check in and sanitize our hands. Jack immediately wanders off with great gusto. I know by now that despite his constant statements of how he wants this and he needs that, he respects the intention that I stated in the first place. I’m no longer triggered by his enthusiasm. Wizard half-heartedly follows me into the store, staying close. I find the display of runners that are on sale. He doesn’t like any of them. None of them are his size. He doesn’t want new shoes.

I understand this. I really do. I spot a gadget in the corner for sizing feet and get it out. I place it on the floor and suggest that Wizard remove his shoes and stand on it, so we know what size he is. A salesperson fortuitously approaches and explains that Wizard should stand there for 10 seconds to get a heat reading of his feet! This is intriguing. It turns out that Wizard’s feet are at least size 4. I am amazed. We go back to the display stand. He still doesn’t like any of the shoes. None of them are the right size for him. I am reminded of LabCat’s astonishment late in her childhood, to discover that unlike op shops, clothing stores carry multiple sizes of the same garment.

I explain that if Wizard shows me which style he likes, the salesperson can go and find the right size for him to try on. He hates them all. Plus, from Size 3 upwards they are all lace-ups. It’s clear he cannot imagine himself wearing any of the shoes.

I notice a stack of shoe boxes under the display shelf and pull out a box marked Size 4. I open it, show Wizard. He moves marginally closer, looks into the box, relaxes ever so slightly. This time when I suggest he sit down and try it on, he is willing! I sit beside him, but the Size 4 are a little too tight. A salesperson approaches and I ask for help. Size 5 that fit well. She ties the laces and Wizard is ready to go. “I’ll buy them,” I reassure her, as Wizard gets to his feet and gingerly walks up and down the aisle. No, he doesn’t want to try any others. He has his shoes now.     

 

 

 

The Way It Is Supposed To Be (15/02/2021)

As I wave the boys off to school this morning I try hard not to feel smug. The house is mine, now. At least for a few hours. They pedal off down to the corner and I shut the driveway gates, collect the fallen passion fruits and make my way inside. 

Last night I finished reading Backman’s Britt-Marie Was Here. I reflect on how much I relate to Britt-Marie. I too, have spent years caring and putting energy into making sure things are done in the correct way, in order to forestall and avoid conflict of any kind. That way, I reason, when conflict and crisis does occur, at least everything will be manageable and leave me in a position of being able to manage it. I am my own foregone conclusion. 

My younger self believed that doing things correctly every time was a way for me to control the universe. If I hung out the socks in pairs, the world might end, and it would be my fault, because there was always an odd sock left at the bottom of the basket. Not wanting the world to end, I did my utmost to prevent that, by doing everything correctly. Boy did I regret it when I did fail, and things did go wrong, or someone I loved got hurt, or whenever I made a simple mistake. Although I have consciously let go of that magical thinking, it remains easier to blame myself, rather than hold others accountable and responsible for doing things that affect me and those I love. 

I am a superb manager. I’m laughing at myself, queen of my domain, trying not to be smug as I tour my patch of country, absorbed by mundane tasks, taking in with pleasure the smells and the dampness of the earth, saying hello to the chickens, feeding the fish, checking on the portulaca I spread out in the poppy patch yesterday, moving the sprinklers, stroking the cats, flowing from one small task to another, and enjoying every moment of it. I plan what I will do next – feed the chooks, move the sprinkler, collect the seven sunburned quinces, hang out the washing, move the sprinkler, wash the dishes, chop the quinces, empty the compost, turn on the slow cooker, turn off the sprinkler and go walking with Chestnut. I even find the A5 envelopes I was sure were somewhere in our capacious cupboards, perfect for mailing the photographs I promised to post for Brown Owl. 

Last night I finished reading Backman’s Britt-Marie Was Here, but I found it hard to let go of the novel and get to sleep. I wanted a more conclusive ending, even though the point of the novel was that there was no point. What will happen next? Maybe Britt-Marie will make some unexpected choices? 

I listen to the night sounds of Kilburn. People leave, car doors slam, conversations drift... Someone whistles merrily on the footpath outside our home. I quiver uneasily, wandering through my mental checklist to ensure I’ve kept my side of the bargain and done everything I possibly can to secure the house against intruders. I breathe deeply, start listing fruits and vegetables in alphabetical order to soothe myself to sleep. The whistling continues. I am lulled, almost asleep, stalled on the letter ‘u’ when my mind bursts abruptly into explosions of colour as the merry whistler changes his tune and lets out an almighty bellow, just for the fun of it, I suppose, right outside our house. It is strange how stress and fear makes me see sound in a way that I usually don’t. 

I nudge the brick to prop open the side gate, where its broken profile aligns perfectly against the corrugated iron. Birds crisscross in the sky, shrieking and oblivious to my gaze. Hello lorikeets, I say. Hello galahs! 

How much of my being and my doing do I spend in avoiding conflict? What don’t I know that I don’t know; what lies behind that veil? What is my pay-off for managing the lives of my family with such finesse? What do I lose by prioritizing other people’s comfort at the cost of my inner world? If I were to draw my life as a pie chart, how big would I allow my slice of selfishness to be? And besides, I hasten to redirect myself – no one has asked me not to be myself; no one has asked me not to place the needs of others ahead of my own needs; I have created my own life and therefore I must lie in it. 

Britt-Marie does not avoid conflict. She says what she thinks because it’s the right thing to do, and damn the consequences for anyone else. She is always right, (not that she’s judging). She stays silent when that is the right thing to do. She believes (as do I) that she is doing her best, that she has a wonderful life, that there’s nothing she’s missing if she says there’s not. She weeps into a towel in the stillness of the night because she is overwhelmed and scared and has no one to turn to for comfort, because that’s the way her life turns out despite her best intentions. 

Some people wouldn’t recognize an indirect reference to themselves it if came labelled with a name tag. Wizard’s not like that. The other night when I'm putting him to bed, he struggles with getting the covers just right and he absently calls me an idiot. I’m not an idiot, I mutter in response and he goes rigid, upset by the inference. He proceeds to climb out of bed and into ours, refuses to speak, refuses to be comforted, won't accept my apology until I make him a bed on the floor, drag his unresponsive dead weight onto it, rub his back and sing him to sleep before getting into my own bed next to Brown Owl to continue reading about Britt-Marie. As soon as I turn off the light, Wizard appears in our bed again, so I leave him to it and sleep on the floor in his room instead. I feel terrible for burdening the small boy with a label he doesn’t deserve and has no way of resisting. I know I will have to make it right with him in the morning, because he’s not an idiot. Neither am I.

Jack (of Hearts) is so heartily bored on Sunday afternoon that he lies moaning along the top of the couch like a panther with a stomachache, while Brown Owl doggedly tries to get her school work done at the desk beside him. I’m outside in the poppy patch, spreading out the portulaca seedlings that are popping up in clumps, so I put my head in the window and offer to kick the footy with him. He is sullen at first, but when he understands that my offer is genuine, he relaxes. We have a great interaction until he is ready to stop. I don’t call quits, even though part of me is bored and the portulaca is calling. It’s Sunday afternoon, I tell myself. This doesn’t happen very often. Maybe it’s not the way it is supposed to be, but this is the way it is. I smile. I mark. I kick. I encourage, strengthening the bonds between us. 

I love my life in so many ways. I feel smug. I feel privileged. I feel entitled. I feel lucky. I feel safe, most of the time. I feel like my head’s above the water and I’m treading strongly in the right direction. Until the moment it all stops, and I don’t. Because making change takes courage and grit. My life is far from gritty – I’ve worn the edges smooth by my need to keep things pleasant and calm. I endeavour to see only what I want to see, and to wipe away anything that sticks out in a dangerous or unsightly manner. 

The knowledge that change will only occur through my instigation unsettles me like gluten unhinges my small intestine. I don’t want to be uncomfortable. But if I continue to make do, to inhabit the periphery, to seek solace and pleasure only in the ephemeral, I will stay here, treading water and getting nowhere. Naturally, it’s easier for me to consider making changes that will benefit the children first, and me incidentally. 

In my heart of hearts I know that things are not the way they are supposed to be. I cannot maintain our life the way it is supposed to be. Something has to give. Something has to bend, or break. I don’t intend that something to be me, because I’ve been bent and I’ve been broken and that wasn’t much fun. 

So who gets to say how things are supposed to be? I want to see things the way they are. The magic is in seeing what is, acknowledging what is, and being in the now, rather than projecting oneself endlessly into the illusion of some perfect future.