Emptying the nest...

So, I come out of my room on Sunday morning feeling a spring in my step and a sweet tickle in my heart. Had a lovely meditation and am ready to launch into my Sunday; the house is quiet and there are little projects I hope to get to before heading down to the beach.

“Joni Mitchell would be nice,” I think to myself. For some reason Blue keeps playing in my head and I decide to put it on while I make breakfast. Musing a bit about my boy and his upcoming high school graduation, I head toward the stereo.

“Blue…Songs are like tattoos…” and unexpectedly, my heart breaks apart and I’m on my knees. And there you have it—a wave, in many ways the first real one, has hit. A bit like labor...but this time I'm birthing my son as he emerges further into his own life, rather than arriving into mine.

I’ve been told it can be like this. Wild fluctuations in mood—both for the teen and the mom—as we edge ever closer to departure for college, and with that, the beginning of a new chapter in his—in our—lives. But I’ve been pretty good so far, excited for him and living blissfully in some state of denial.

And there you have it. Denial, apparently, wears off. I’m like the bird in those cartoons, flying along and then smacking into the window, caught unawares.

The sobbing is primal, gut-wrenching. I’m astonished by its force, and the sudden appearance of this grief. I allow it, give it space: Take all the room you need, as if it wouldn’t. It’s impolite and demanding, and takes over the room, my heart and this day.

I find myself unable to breathe; the air is coming in and out, but I can’t feel it. I’m picturing him not here, not at his dad’s, not at his friend’s, but 3,000 miles away, which is where he’s theoretically going to be in two months. I realize he cannot go. He simply can’t go. I’ll talk to him. He’ll agree. He’ll understand it was all a big mistake and decide to go to the nice community college down the road. Or maybe some other little college within a few hours drive.

Of course I realize I’m insane, but I let myself play that scenario out, coming to the inevitable understanding that I’m insane and he is going to the very best place for him—for who he is and what he needs right now to become more of who he is, out from under my watch.

As it happens with grief, it subsides after a time and allows me to eat something. I wander around for a bit, considering who I might call—what friend who’s going through this right now, or what seasoned mother/ friend/ sister who has already been where I am and lived through it. Instead I just stay present with the waves as they come and go, not wanting to engage my left brain enough to actually try to talk about it.

Eventually, there’s a peace—that depressed sort of peace where you’d like to lay on the couch and stare out the window. But I rally, and set about cleaning out a box of papers, periodically coming across something like a Mother’s Day card or Ari’s selective service notice and the waves come again. Knocked over until it subsides, and then another fragile hold on acceptance.

The sadness follows me around most of the day, but it’s kind enough to let me function reasonably well, and even go down to the beach for a time. I watch the six foot five version of my heart play volleyball; he’s arrived not long after me after being in town with his dad. I leave him be, grateful simply to watch him from a distance after exchanging the proverbial head nod, feeling a little like a stalker.

Six pm or so I’m reading, puttering around the house. Ari comes in the front door and his appearance is so ordinary and blessed; my heart does a quiet little twirl. And then he tells me “a bunch of people are coming—is that okay? We’re gonna watch the Laker game” and my heart does somersaults and I lie through my teeth and say “I was about to go to the store—can I get you anything?”

I hop to the market picking up burger fixings and hot dogs and skip home and my heart is fully bandaged and intact and life is good and as it should be. They watch and eat and at half time go outside, the nine or ten of them, and play catch with a big rubber ball (really.) The game ends, the Lakers win the finals, and the seventeen and eighteen year old guys and gals go out in the driveway and play basketball, like they did after watching basketball when they were ten.

And grief has left the premises for a while.

I guess that’s what it’s like…These days I'm happy for him, thrilled at the adventure that awaits him. I guess you could say I'm in between contractions...

What is it like to be you? Or how to avoid a power struggle...

Here’s what I know happens whenever I come at someone with my point of view rigidly holding me hostage: I become nervous—will I be able to convince them of the validity of my position?; forceful—do I have the strength to get them to see things my way; and/or passive—defeated before I begin. (And yes, I suspect my punctuation in that sentence was lacking…)

Here’s what I know happens when I come alongside someone with a flexible mindset and willingness to understand the situation from their point of view, or at least consider that they have one equally dear to their heart:  I listen with what I call a quiet mind. And most importantly, I come across as genuinely wanting to know: What is it like to be you?

For those of you familiar with my work, you’ll recognize this as Act I. It’s the essential pre-cursor to offering our advice to our kids (or anyone), and our best shot at actually activating their willingness to hear what we have to say, whether it’s a suggestion about how to approach a difficult friend, a critique of their history essay, or an expression of concern about their withdrawal.

When we feel heard and understand, we humans lower our guard and become more receptive. Conversely, when we smell someone’s agenda and their need to inflict it upon us, our guard goes up and so does the wall that prevents us from taking in whatever they’re trying to lay on us.

The next time you have something important to say to your child, your teen, your spouse or your neighbor, try giving them the chance to describe to you the planet they live on. Ask the question, “What is like to be you?” and then keep your lips together and listen. Encourage them to keep talking with, “Tell me more” or “Gosh, that sounds like it was pretty hard when your teacher told you to sit back down just as you were coming to ask for help. What happened then?” 

When we give someone we love the chance to show us reality from their vantage point, we offer them the opportunity to be seen and accepted as is. From there, we have a chance of sharing our thoughts, ideas or opinions, without coming across as shoving it down their throats, or correcting their “faulty” thinking or behavior. 

Consider this the next time you prepare for a difficult conversation—or when one lands unexpectedly in your lap. Start with the mindset: What is it like to be you?Chances are, the conversation will go in a new, healthy direction.

For more information please visit www.passionateparenting.net

Happy Parenting! 

Imperfectly Parenting

Imperfectly parenting

  

A month or so ago I received an email from a young woman who had attended one of my parenting presentations the evening before. She enthusiastically told me how excited she was to start using what she’d learned, confident that things in her family’s life would be changing for the better. She went so far as to email me a week or so later to thank me again, telling me how valuable the ideas were and how she had already seen improvement.

Last week this same woman set up a phone session with me; she was discouraged about the fact that she had failed the utter transformation she was sure would be easy in those first few days after the parenting talk. “I understand so much better what I should do when my kids act up-- but there are times when I catch myself doing the very things that makes situations go from bad to worse. Help!”

I often say that there’s nothing that more inspires a person to grow up and into their best self than raising a child. On any given parenting day we’re offered hundreds of opportunities to be childish rather than mature, sarcastic instead of polite or judgmental versus tolerant. It’s not easy choosing the higher ground, or acting like the grown up.

The love we have for our kids has the potential, however, to motivate us to stretch beyond our habituated ways of behaving. Even when we’re hungry. Cranky. Having a headache, PMS’y. Sad. Overwhelmed. Or just plain tired.

But as determined as we might be to do our best, most of us will inevitably keep stumbling as we learn the steps. And that has to be okay.

What I recommend to parents as they try out new approaches to parenting is that they set the clear intention to try one new thing for a few days, focusing on one specific behavior they’d like to improve.

Here’s what that looks like. First, identify the behavior you’d like to change. It might be setting a more loving tone in the mornings, or less uptight when the kids get up from the dinner table again…and again…and again. Announce--to yourself, your journal, or your husband/ wife/ cocker spaniel—how you’d like to handle potentially triggering situations.

            “When I go into my boys’ room to wake them up, I’m going to have warmth in my voice, a friendly smile on my face, and a sweet connection that lingers as we move through the morning…

            “When the kids get in the car for the drive home from school, I’m going to focus on letting them know—by my words and a quick hug—how glad I am to see them…”

          As simple as it is to set an intention, don’t underestimate its value. By giving attention to what we want to happen with our kids, we set in motion an undercurrent of possibility for that to come about.

Focus on any successes, however small. If you nearly scold your son for talking back but you catch yourself before the full blown lecture spills out of your mouth, pat yourself on the back. If you end up delivering half the lecture and then stopping yourself, congratulate yourself for that, as well.

And if you blow it altogether? Pick yourself up, acknowledge your imperfection with humility, and keep on keepin’ on.

Do your best, and join the club of imperfect-but-ever-improving parents, growing into our best selves, and guiding our kids to do the same by our example.

 

Those of you with babies, toddlers, or extremely cute little children--perhaps the kind missing their front teeth--may not want to read any further. I'm about to talk about the process of letting go, which happens to be something I'm learning a lot about right now as I integrate the fact that the best college for my son (of the ones he was accepted to) is 3,000 miles away.

First, don’t get me wrong. I’m not one of those parents who doesn’t want my son to grow up. (“Ha!” those of you who know me well are saying.) Okay, I haven’t exactly been thrilled at the idea that he will someday move on and out, but still, all of my parenting has been aimed at helping him develop autonomy, maturity and a commitment to becoming the young man he’s meant to be.

Well, that’s all well and good in theory, but when you see The Departure looming around the corner, this letting go thing becomes very real.

So here we are. He’s still a high school senior. I still made him something to eat before he went to school and a lunch to throw in his back pack. I canceled dinner plans because I found out he had a home volleyball game and we both wanted me to be there. I’m still parenting in that sense, at least for another couple of months.

But I’m also far less aware of where he is at any given time. He stays up later than he should and I’ve generally accepted that when he goes to sleep is his business. He makes—and often eats—strange foods, like the two bags of pasta he made with his buddy the other night with pesto and alfredo sauce, accompanied by bread. (Ugh.) He went to the weekend Coachella concert in Palm Springs and I didn’t know exactly where he would be staying (on the floor of a motel room with friends.)

I have a deep love/hate relationship with this process. Like most parents, I rather savored the phase where I was a mini-god in my son’s eyes. As annoying as it was to have him follow me into the bathroom when I took my shower (one benefit of which was that I learned how to write little sentences backwards on the shower door to enhance his reading), I loved that he could hardly bear to be apart from me.

Fast forward to now. He can, shall we say, handle being apart from me. He loves being with friends, and he loves his solitude.

And…we are, in a sense, closer than ever. It’s hard to describe. Those of you who know what I’m talking about, know what I’m talking about. The moments we’re in the same room may be fewer, but there’s a depth and quality to our connection that’s extraordinary. The love is deeper, in a way. There are actually moments where I suspect he even appreciates me a little. And most of all, he tells me things about his life and his experience which bring me straight into his heart.

It’s a dance, this holding on and letting go. I am for sure a neophyte, still learning the steps, stumbling a whole lot and probably making a fool of myself out on the dance floor.

But I love it. I love watching him interact with people, coming across as a young adult rather than a boy, only to see him goof around like a seven year old a few minutes later. I love watching him handle disappointment with the grace of an adult, and then reach for comfort from his mom when things get rough. I love seeing him argue politics with someone three times his age. I even love that he found the right school to further his passion for politics and international studies, despite the fact that it means I'll be seeing him less.

I know we’ll stay in touch, because we’ve been working on figuring out how to do that for eighteen years now.

But then again, ask me how I’m doing come September.

Every 15 Minutes

Last week I was involved in a program at my son’s high school called Every 15 Minutes, based on the fact that every fifteen minutes someone dies of an alcohol related accident. The program, which involves many agencies, is nationwide and has proven to have a remarkable impact on reducing drunk driving in teens who have been exposed to it. Day 1 began with a simulated car crash involving eight students, many who I’ve known since toddlerhood. The CHP, fire department and paramedics were all on board and played their part with haunting realism to 10th, 11th and 12th grade students who sat transfixed in bleachers as events unfolded, from the moment of the “crash” (with mangled cars and participants in place behind screens which parted when the viewing audience was assembled) to the departure of ambulances with the “wounded.” As the “drunk driver” was handcuffed, she looked at two of her friends covered from head to toe, and there was pin drop silence among the crowd of usually rowdy teens. That night I helped lead a retreat for the students involved in the simulation. As I sat there listening to each of the kids share their experiences of the day—watching them simultaneously shaken up and transformed by what they’d gone through, I felt that I was witnessing one of the most extraordinary moments of my life. These kids—and what they said from such a vulnerable and honest place—brought me to my knees. The second day a simulated memorial service was held in the gym for those who had “died”, including the reading of letters from students and their parents who had the experience of peering over the edge of life and death. A film showed the events leading up to the crash—kids celebrating an anticipated team win that night with vodka and OJ on the beach before heading off to school—and we watched each of them as they innocently said goodbye to their parents that morning as they did every other day, believing it would be an ordinary day. Kids in the audience watched their peers express the myriad unspoken feelings towards their parents and friends, and the hopes and dreams for their lives that would not come to fruition.  Even the hardiest of kids was silenced by it all. In the days since the event, I’ve spoken with many kids from the high school, and the feedback has been unanimous; this was a major life experience, both for those who watched, and of course for those who took part and have been talking with their friends about what they went through. To say that those days were powerful for me and the others who put on the event is an understatement. When we met a few days later, we were all still reverberating, honored to have been allowed to walk alongside our kids as their adult selves begins to emerge, and to help even a little as they learn life lessons that might spare them the agony of true loss as the result of someone driving under the influence. I share this with you because I saw firsthand what an exceptional program Every 15 Minutes is, and want to encourage you to look into hosting it at your child’s high school. Teen after teen told us at the retreat how easy it is for them to tune out speakers who drone on at assemblies about drinking and driving. The Every 15 Minutes experience, on the other hand was real; while not truly turning lives inside out the way an authentic accident like this would do, it impacted our kids enormously.   For more info please visit www.every15minutes.com

“It’s Not Fair!”

If you're a parent, chances are extremely high that you hear this phrase regularly. And if you haven't heard those exact words, you have heard their cousins: "You're the meanest mom in the world...", "You're the only dad who refuses to...", or "I hate you!"

For most of us, these dramatic statements are guaranteed to trigger a defensive comeback. "Fine, hate me then. But I love you..." or "Some day you'll thank me." Regardless of what words you deliver, I can assure you of this: Your children will not hear what you're saying if they're upset, and they will certainly not back off from their accusations just because you came up with a clever retort. Angry children can't process words very well, making your comeback either useless or inflammatory.

What to do? Should parents allow their children to fling hurtful remarks in their direction without trying to diffuse things? Should we allow our youngster sto say things that are obviously untrue...and mean?

Of course not. But if you’ve heard me speak, you know that I believe it’s vital that parents hold the role of Captain of the ship in their child’s life. This means that regardless of the storm you might find yourself sailing through, it’s essential that you hold that role of confidence and sanity that will get the ship through rocky seas.

A child who delivers the “It’s Not Fairs” is in need of feeling heard far more than getting their way. (Although naturally they would disagree with this assessment.) Even as adults, despite often feeling desperate to prevail in an argument when we believe passionately in our position, what we need more than the other person giving in or agreeing is to feel understood, heard and respected for how we feel.

If (or should I say, when) your child is so upset that they make these kinds of declarations, my suggestion is that you avoid engaging with the content (I call this the “Neck Up” part of their message) and avoid taking their words personally. I don’t know about you, but when I’m upset or off center, I am very capable of saying things that aren’t very accurate or true. When someone challenges me on the accuracy of my words, I feel deeply misunderstood, and my frustration only gets bigger as I scramble to justify what I’ve said.

Instead, focus on the feelings behind their message. (But please, don’t say, “How do you feel about that?” Most of us hate it when the people around us use therapist-y language.)

“You desperately wanted to stay up later to watch that show, honey. I get it.”
“It’s tearing you up that you can’t go to that party when most of your friends get to go.”
“Finding out at the last minute that the movie we were going to see isn’t suitable for kids your age—and telling you after you’d told your friends you were going to see it…that was pretty awful…”

Start by helping translate the message behind the accusations and hurtful words, and you’ll usually find the hysteria and drama will subside fairly soon. If it doesn’t, there are other issues at play.

Remember: rather than taking a child’s angry words at face value and entering into debate about them, hold on to your position as the one they can lean on to help them through the storm. You—and your child—will be glad you did.

With son at inauguration in D.C.!

Up at 5:30 (that’s 2:30 in the morning, California time, where our bodies still think we are.) We’re on the train by 6:00 a.m. amidst throngs of people all going to the same place, for the same reason.

We get off the train near the National Mall with throngs of others, the light in the sky shifting from a dull grey to a hint of blue and rose. The atmosphere is electric already; people of every age, shape, color and demographic all having pushed through some obstacle—or many of them—to be here for what they feel is a once in a lifetime experience.

Ari and I wait for several hours in the tunnel on 3rd street surrounded by thousands of fellow adventurers, sharing stories with whoever we’re beside for those few moments until the movement of the crowd separates us and we find ourselves with a whole new group of friends. That’s how it goes. Helping someone find a lost glove. Giving our hand warmers to the teenage girl who wasn’t quite prepared for twenty degrees. Sharing with the young man from New Orleans or the older ladies from Memphis why, despite the crowd and colds, we each felt we should come.

The day unfolds magically. We eventually emerge through security, believing we’ll now be able to move onto the Mall, but instead we’re told we have to walk 15 blocks to another entry point. Finally, five or six hours after setting out this morning, we find “our spot” and the people within our fifteen feet radius become our family for the next few hours.

The night Obama won the election, my son looked at me after his acceptance speech and said, “We have to go.” As a political junkie and a kid passionate about history and international relations, I saw this as a chance to stoke his fire.
But a power outage in my neighborhood the night of the election meant that I booked airline tickets sitting in front of someone’s house, stealing internet access with their signal and my laptop. Tickets I held while looking for a better deal disappeared by the time I came back to compare them with my new find. I leapt, and booked flights; it wasn’t until the next day, when I could research the whole thing, that I discovered two interesting things: One, hotels were $500.00 on up and two, you needed tickets to go to an inauguration.

But it turned out to be one of those “leap and the net will appear” experiences. Pamela offered her parents house; her folks picked us up and took care of us like we were their own, until we moved to a friend’s empty apartment in Silver Springs.

So we had our adventure. And now I sit in the Baltimore airport, watching Ari chat with a young man who worked for Obama’s campaign in the Asian-American contingent. Across from where they sit are two ladies covered in Obama buttons, hats and scarves. Ari has on his “I Witnessed History” t-shirt. I have my “I Was There” button.

When my son was little, I used to think that when he got older, parenting would invariably be a lot less fun. I considered the idea of having a teenager sort of like a consolation prize; they haven’t actually left home yet, but it’s a lot less sweet than when they’re little boys who run to the door when they hear you come in.

But I have to say, despite the yucky moments and teenage attitude, my son’s adolescence is in many ways the best part of raising him so far. I get to see him discover parts of himself that are just waking up. I get to watch him start exploring what he’s passionate about.

I get to see him turn to the older lady from Saint Louis he’s been standing beside for hours on Inauguration day and give her a big hug as the the crowd goes wild. I get to listen to him discuss Obama’s speech with the history professor from Rhode Island on our airport shuttle. And I get to see the look on his face as I see him listen to the speech of a man he so deeply admires.

Many have said that they went to the inauguration to witness history. As true as that is for me, what I can say even more fervently is that I went to witness my son take one more step along his journey towards becoming the fullest version of he is meant to be.
I Was There. And it was pretty cool.