Monday, June 13, 2016

To fail is not failure

H is a perfectionist. She comes by it honestly. Her momma was/is a born perfectionist. I spent my entire childhood and adolescence in the mind frame that if I tried once and was not immediately excelling at whatever it may be, then I should find something else that I was good at. Eventually this evolved from being very leery of trying *anything* new because there was always that risk of being imperfect, not the best; essentially in my brain: a failure. And thus I stuck with what I knew and what I was great at because I couldn't stand to let others down by being less than.
 
As an adult, and most specifically due to motherhood, I have *mostly* learned from, and outgrown, my perfectionist ways. They still creep up on me every now and then.
 
But this made it so, so easy to notice these tendencies in my daughter at a very early age. 
 
I'm still figuring it out, but I am absolutely determined to help her handle her perfectionism in healthy ways and cultivate it for good.
 
No one ever told me it was okay to not excel at everything. No one told me that being challenged and thus, not instantly the best at something, was a good thing. No one told me that simply not being good at something at all was perfectly acceptable. No one told me that is was okay to do something I loved even if I wasn't good at it at all.
 
And so H will know these things (as will her brothers). 
 
She is the only 6 year old in her gymnastics class. Her classmates are all 10 and 12. H loves gymnastics passionately (I've come to realize that ballet will never have her heart as I wished it would, and that's okay!) She did not immediately excel at running round-offs and back bends and cartwheels on balance beams. She had to work *so hard*. Sometimes she'd get mad or frustrated and that little girl in me would want to say, "It's okay to stop. You don't have to do this." Because I knew the pain and frustration of feeling like you're less than. Don't worry though. I put a muzzle on that little girl and duck taped her into a closet and the momma in me instead let her lament her frustrations to me and listened patiently. And then I validated those emotions and pointed out how far she's come. And how far she'll go with more hard work. Being challenged is a *good* thing. That's how you learn and grow.
 
She auditioned for a show choir recently. I held my breath. She can carry a tune better than her momma, but she's definitely no prodigy. But I encouraged her to try it if she loved it, and prepped her that it was also okay if she didn't make it.
 
After her audition I asked her how it went and she replied with, "Mom, I was amazing, of course. I've got this."
 
Ya'll, this girl *has got this.*
 
And she made it (I'm pretty sure all the little kids did). And she's over the moon and ready to challenge herself. Which is a good thing. Because I eventually gave up a deep love of performing because I wasn't half as confident as H. I didn't know it was okay to be confident and not be the very best.
 
So this morning while H was reading a book to me and got jumbled up on a long word she's never come across and immediately began sobbing (see this is where little Ki and momma Ki are two useful people to have in my head. The momma was like "wtf, this is not a rational response" and the little girl was like "this is so rational. I get it. Would you like me to throw that book across the room for you?") I was able to help her.
 
"I'm terrible!" She screamed at me. "I don't know that word! I'm such a failure." (Note to self: discover who introduced her to the idea of being a failure and cut their tongue out. In a very kind and loving way that is for the good of all humanity, of course).
 
"You are not a failure. Even if you never learn to read this word, you are not a failure. You failed to read the word correctly, yes. But we rarely get things perfect the first go around. To fail something does not make you a failure. Not trying does."
 
She cried for a few minutes on my lap. Then she picked that book back up, and she nailed that word perfectly on the second try.
 
I'm just making this shit up as I go. Some days I feel completely ill-equipped for this parenting gig. But I remember that there is a reason God chose me to be the momma of these three beautiful babes. 
 
And just like I've told H, so many, many times. "To fail does not make you a failure. Simply not trying does."
 
And so every day I try my very hardest, but I give the perfectionist in me a lot of grace. Some days I am challenged, and that's okay.  I am not the best at any of it, but I'll keep doing it because I'm terribly passionate about these three tiny humans. And that's all that matters 

Friday, June 10, 2016

In which society failed my child

When I think of B, I think of crazy, long, blonde curls.

He is so much more than that hair though; don't get me wrong. He's funny, sweet, sensitive, creative, friendly, loving.

But sensitive might be the key word right now.

I can say to H, "Please don't do that" and she will look at me with a face that says, "I will do whatever I please, and we both know it." I can say "Please don't do that" to B and he will break down sobbing as if I criticized the very core of his being.

I've always feared a little more for him than I have my eldest child. Because B takes everything so deeply to heart. It's such a beautiful attribute of his. But also one that carries so much weight and will be a hurdle for him all of his life.

For months now B has been asking to cut his hair. B, the sweet boy who has always so fiercely loved his long hair, who'd stand still and let me brush it rather than have it even slightly trimmed. B, who defended his long hair to anyone and everyone.

But slowly, the weight has been too heavy a burden for him to carry.

So many people calling him a lovely little girl.

So many people, even if jokingly, telling him he needed a hair cut.

Those people, all of those people who thought they had any right to comment on his appearance at all, much less dictate to him how he "should" look, they should all be deeply ashamed of themselves.

Because today that criticism became too much for him.

Today society failed my child and crushed a part of him.

Instead of noticing what a funny boy he is or how strong he is or how well he plays soccer or how knowledgeable he is about dinosaurs, too many people focused on his hair until he decided he'd rather give up something he loved than to constantly be criticized by others.

Yeah, that sucks.

He's four and all ready learning how much people just suck.

I'm angry for him. So angry that other people felt compelled to impose their gender norms on him. So angry that I couldn't do a better job protecting him from that. So angry that not only did every person who made a negative comment about his hair, even in jest, fail him, but that I, his mother, failed him by not getting through to him that no one else's opinion of him matters. All that matters is how he feels about himself.

I talk so regularly to my children about how it isn't important what others think of us. That we all have our quirks, and that we should dress and look and act (within appropriateness) however we please, even if others don't agree. But for sweet, sensitive B, that just hasn't been enough.

He needed to hear from more than just J and I that he is so perfect however he chooses. But he didn't. All he heard was how he should change.

Well. He did.

And a part of him will be forever changed.

Also, if you think this is about hair, you don't understand at all.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Thriving with high needs

When I was pregnant with M, I told J several times, "if we have a baby as vivacious as H, I'm not sure I will survive."

H was high needs. She still is. It took me over a year to accept that label. I equated high needs to bad for some reason, and there is nothing bad about H. Challenging; yes. Exhausting; yes. Amazing; yes.

But in the throes of her infancy, it never actually felt that difficult. I assumed it was because she was first. I didn't know any better. I assumed all babies breastfeed for 45 minutes at a time, every 45 minutes, and never slept for more than 45 minutes at a time. Ever.

I remember telling my doctor when H was 3 months old, with a genuine smile on my face, "I get to wake up and see my baby every single hour. It's so awesome!" Why my doctor didn't send me straight the looney bin right then is beyond me. I mean, who says that!? I was clearly just high on baby.

And then chill, laid back B came along. He slept in 3-4 hours stretches, people! From day one. No freaking joke. I would sit him in the bouncer and take a 3 minute shower and he wouldn't scream. I put him in the car and could make it to the grocery store without him vomiting all over himself from crying. I mean, I still had his older sister to contend with, but he was so polarly opposite that I actually assumed there was something wrong with him. Whoops. (There isn't!)

When people ask how M is, my first response is always, "He's so laid back." Followed with, "If all babies were this easy I'd have half a dozen."

Want to know a secret though?

He is just like his sister.

Yep.

He's just as vivacious and demanding as my firstborn, and it phases me even less this go-round.

Maybe because I know what I am in for. Because I know what to expect (which is to never have expectations with babies or kids; they're cray cray).

Maybe it's because I know that as his weight in my arms grows heavier each day, it only means we are growing closer to the day he no longer wants to be held.

I mean, I have a 6 year old. She'll tell you. She's practically a grown up.

As long as sweet M is tucked into somebody's arms, he's happy. Tucked into the crevice of my arm or laying on my chest, he'll sleep for two hour stretches. (J just side-carred the crib to our bed after I asked him to. At this point, he's just going through the motions, he isn't fooled. He knows that baby will never truly sleep in that crib. We both know it. And at the end of the day, we both want that tiny, warm body cuddled with us at night anyway. That's our baby.)

I've also given myself a lot more grace since M came into the world.

Our meals have been wholly simplified. I enjoy cooking nice, elaborate meals for my family. But in this season, it's not going to happen. I hired someone to clean the house. Yep: open mouth, insert foot. I always said I'd never do that. If I'm home all day, I should be able to clean the house, right? Wrong. I've got three kids who I'd rather spend my time with. And I'm okay with that. In this season of life, I'm okay having help so that I can spend more time playing with my children. Because some day I will have all the time in the world to clean my house, and I know I will miss it painfully.

It's all ready going by so fast. I'm floored so many days that I have a 6 year old. And just this week I made arrangements for B's 5th birthday party. I repeat, B's 5th birthday! Oh man, one whole hand full. How can that be? Him turning 5 is more jarring than H being 6. My wee, laid back, peaceful little baby is nearly 5. An energetic, sensitive, hilarious, almost-5 year old.

And M. Sweet M. M who doesn't sleep. M who doesn't like to be put down. M who has given me a run for my money in the feeding department. M who just keeps growing like he doesn't realize he's my itsy bitsy baby. Sweet, lovely, wriggly M. My wise little dude.

He's just as vivacious as his sister.

But I have the ability to meet his needs, as emotionally and physically depleting as they may end up being some day, just like I do his sister's. It's kind of the same way as when you have only one child, you wonder how in the world you could every love another human as much as that one? And then  you have a second and realize your love has grown exponentially, it hasn't been divided at all. That's how it works with meeting their needs, too.

I had days before there was M where I wondered how I could ever meet the needs of a third child. I felt like I was so stretched thin with only two, that I was on the brink of not being quite enough, what would happen with a whole other person being dependent on me? But then there he was, and there I was. And it was just like I'd been doing it all along. Some days I do feel stretched thin, some days I wonder if it's enough, but never any more so than I felt when I had just one; because those are feelings you have no matter how many small progenies you have, I suppose.

So we have another baby as vivacious as H, and we are doing better than surviving. We're thriving.