"Don't embarrass me..."

My four-year-old and I were visiting my dad at his office the other day. As we were leaving, he walked down the hall with us and started heading towards the bathroom. In a loud, clear voice, my daughter asked, “You going pee, Grandpa?” There were a few other people standing around and they chuckled. My first instinct was to tell her that we shouldn’t point out other people’s bathroom needs in public, but knowing how sensitive she is to being told she’s made a mistake, I stayed quiet and waited to see how Grandpa would handle it. He smiled at her and remained non-committal, neither confirming nor denying his need! Her question didn’t really get answered, but as we walked away she had a bounce in her step and I knew that her heart was okay. I’m confident that she will soon learn not to publicly announce people’s bathroom needs!

I wonder, though, whether I am as confident that I will be able to un-learn those instincts that would shush her and point out her errors in front of other people. It’s something I struggle with, these feelings of embarrassment that drive me to respond in less than desirable ways. Whether it’s a meltdown in the grocery store, a display of defiance at church, or a poorly timed observation, I too often find myself thinking about what other people are thinking instead of what my children need.

If I’m embarrassed, I’m unlikely to recognize their behaviour for what it is: an unmet need. Honestly, I’m more comfortable thinking of meltdowns and defiance as misbehaviour that needs to be disciplined rather than as needs that need to be met with equal parts nurture and structure. The more we learn about our children, though, the more we are realizing that what we used to think of as misbehaviour is actually an opportunity for us to meet a need and connect with them. The correction will come, but often it needs to wait until the need has been met and my child and I are re-connected. Sometimes their needs are physical – hunger, thirst, exhaustion, sensory overload – and other times their needs are emotional – unexpressed sadness, fear, and frustration. Whatever the case, I will not be able to see past the behaviour to the need if I am blinded by my own embarrassment.

So what is at the root of being embarrassed by our children? What is driving this blinding flood of emotions? Embarrassment is all too often a manifestation of shame, and if we can learn to see it for what it is, then we can take steps to own it and deal with it.

When my children are not behaving as I would like them to and I feel embarrassed, I am actually experiencing shame because I am afraid that other people are judging my worth based on my kids’ behaviour. Since I don’t enjoy feeling worthless, I am tempted to transfer my shame to my children by communicating my embarrassment to them and using shame to motivate them to behave more appropriately. Of course, this is a short-term solution at best. I may achieve better behaviour in the moment (or I may not), but am I really okay knowing that I have contributed to my child’s own feelings of shame?

As an adult, I recognize that I have carried a lot of shame around in the form of insecurity and fear; this is not a burden I want to place on my children. Part of my journey in the last while has been learning to rest securely in the fact that my identity is rooted in God’s great love for me. My abilities as a parent do not determine my worth, nor does the behaviour of my children. As I practice resting in this truth, I find that I am better able to focus on my child in those difficult moments and have become less distracted by my own fear and embarrassment.

One of my desires as a parent is that my children will know deep, deep down in their souls that they are precious and loved. It will be difficult for them to believe this if they think they’re an embarrassment to me. So I must continue to work to identify the ways in which I am motivated by shame, and fight against those tendencies with the truth of my identity as a deeply loved child of God. Then I will be free to teach my children about their true identity, their great worth and preciousness, especially in those moments when it would be easy to teach the very opposite.

(This post originally appeared at Empowered to Connect.)

Managing my expectations at Christmas

Look at this gingerbread house. The cheerful candy has nearly disappeared and the icing sidewalk has been consumed. We built it just a few days ago. This wasn't how I envisioned our gingerbread village would look with a week to go until Christmas...
I just assumed that the kids were aware of how the whole gingerbread house thing works. You build it, you decorate it, and then it sits around until after Christmas sometime when you gleefully demolish it and nibble at the stale candy and icing, pretending that it's delicious. I forgot that, last Christmas, we built and decorated the gingerbread village at Grandma's house and then we left it there, where it was safe from little fingers. It took me a couple days of saying "No" at least a hundred times and dealing with escalating levels of defiance and disobedience before I realized my mistake. I had set us up for this misery by putting something they really wanted out in plain view and then expecting them to be okay with being told they can't eat it. It was, in hindsight, an unrealistic expectation.

I've known for a long time that one of our kiddos in particular has great difficulty handling disappointment. If things don't go the way he expects them to go, he can melt down very quickly. We've learned that this is fairly common for children from hard places - hearing the word 'no' and feeling like circumstances are out of their control can trigger a fight, flight or freeze fear response. They may be reacting out of a fear of abandonment ("When you say 'no' I feel like you don't love me") or perhaps they need to feel in control because life has been chaotic in the past and their fear is driving their need to be in charge. Whatever the underlying beliefs are that our children brought with them to our family, the result is the same: they are incredibly fragile when it comes to accepting the word 'no.' This does not mean that we can't ever say 'no' to our kids. We will try to be gentle and compassionate, though, and give them chances - outside of the moment - to practice being okay with a 'no' through fun activities like role play and puppets. We'll also practice pausing before we say 'no' to figure out if we're reacting with a negative response for mostly selfish reasons when we could be giving a joyful 'yes.'

As I reflect on the now destroyed gingerbread village, I realize that I have a lot of expectations of how things will go at Christmas. I love times of anticipation, and I expected that my kids would as well. I remember picking up and shaking presents, savoring the feelings of hope and excitement. That kind of anticipation is almost unbearable for one of our children; the stress is just too much for his system. This year, we are spacing out the gift giving, instead of keeping it all for Christmas morning, hoping that helps him cope a bit better. The kids also started a new tradition with my mom - she took them shopping (one at a time) and let them pick out their own gift. They then wrapped it and left it under the tree at her house for a few days before they opened it. They did really well with that waiting! (And what a sweet Christmas tradition with Grandma!) So I find myself adjusting my expectations. Is it a big deal if we eat our gingerbread village within days of building it? Not really. Next year I might try buying two: one for eating and one for looking at. Is it a big deal if the kids know what they're getting before they open their presents, or if they get to open one a week or two before Christmas? Not at all. As they get older, we can practice waiting and guide them as they learn to navigate seasons of anticipation.

In the meantime, I will practice taking a step back, breathing deeply, and asking myself some important questions when I start to feel frustrated and impatient: Is this a realistic expectation? Is my expectation based merely on tradition, and is it a big deal if things don't look the way I thought they would? Am I looking at my children with eyes of compassion and working to understand where they are coming from? Ultimately, I am grateful for the demise of our gingerbread village. It's been an important reminder of the need to slow down, reflect, and try to make this season, the one that's supposed to be all about joy and hope and peace and love, a little less stressful for our family.

I'd love to hear more ideas - what do you do to take the pressure off your kiddos at Christmas?

Crazy?! Definitely.

Why do difficult parenting moments have to happen at church?! In theory, I'm all for keeping it real and letting other people see us as we really are, I just wish it didn't feel so uncomfortable...! Take Tuesday morning, for example. We had a very busy weekend with family and friends in Saskatchewan, and we probably should have stayed home for the day, but I had already missed the previous week's study and I really wanted a little time away from the kids. Everything went well until one of the boys dug in his heels and refused to go in to his class. This happens with this particular child once in a while; I'm still trying to figure out what motivates it. Sometimes I wonder if he's over-tired, other times I sense that he is needing extra closeness - perhaps because we got a little tense and impatient in the process of getting ready to go to church?! This particular morning, I suspect he was needing a quiet morning at home (as quiet as it gets at our place, at least) and some cuddle time with mommy.

Even though I knew what was likely motivating his resistance, I still felt frustrated when I saw his little body flop to the floor and his bottom lip jut out. My mind quickly calculated how many minutes of "me time" I was going to have to sacrifice to get him to a point where he'd be willing to go in to his class. I tried a few potential quick fixes, hoping that if I stayed connected and compassionate he'd hop through that doorway and I'd be free. No luck. By this time, a couple of kind souls had already tried to cajole him in to detaching from me, but this just made it worse. He responds to those types of interventions by burrowing his face in to whatever part of me is closest, and I respond by getting defensive and annoyed. I was now finding it extremely difficult to stay compassionate to my son's emotional state because I was busy imagining the mix of pity and criticism with which other people were viewing the whole situation. Wondering if I'd have to just pack up and go home, I decided to try one more thing. I put on my mental blinders in an effort to shield myself from my perception of other people's opinions, and headed down to the cafe. I bought a coffee for myself and a yogurt for the boy, and we sat down at a table. I'd like to say it was a warm and fuzzy time of connection, but it wasn't. He ate his yogurt while persisting in his insistence that he wanted to stay with me. I drank my coffee while persisting in my efforts to not let self-pity and frustration overwhelm me. Within 10 minutes he agreed that he could probably go to class, so maybe low blood sugar was part of the issue. Whatever it was, I was finally able to drop him off and join the ladies at my table.

At some point in the morning, our conversation turned to the topic of how critical and judgmental we are of each other as parents. We talked about the pressure to be "Super Mom" and how none of us feel up to that challenge. We agreed that we all feel judged (at times) by others, and that we are all prone to feel critical (at times) of others. I think that if we are serious about pursuing deeper relationships and developing our ability to treat others with grace and compassion, we need to deal with both ends - our tendency towards both superiority and inadequacy. Parenting isn't a competition; it's a relationship. And if I'm caught up in the trap of comparing myself to others and worrying about what they're thinking, then I'm not free to be fully present for my children, and my relationship with them will suffer.

As I practice keeping my focus on my children and what they need, I am encouraged by the example of Jesus in John 4:6-42. While resting at a well, a woman comes to draw water and he engages her in conversation, asking her for a drink. She is surprised and his disciples are shocked that he would speak to a woman in this way, let alone a Samaritan woman. But that's one of the many cool things about Jesus - he doesn't let the opinions of others, even his closest friends, stop him from seeing and meeting the needs of hurting people. The fact that he sees this woman (and offers to meet the deepest needs of her soul with grace and love) changes her life and the lives of many in her village. It's a beautiful picture of just how crazy he is about us - that he would risk acting scandalously to bring healing and hope to our wounded souls. I'm pretty crazy about my kids, and my prayer is that I will keep my focus on what's most important as I parent them.

Clouds in the Forecast

A couple of crazy storms moved through Calgary yesterday. There's something about a surprise summer storm, complete with wind, rain, hail, lightning, and a 12 degree drop in temperature, that reminds me of how quickly and dramatically my 3-year-old's mood can change. She can go from happy to miserable in milliseconds, and the resulting destruction might make you think a tornado had touched down!

I've been following Annie McClellan's blog posts on Tapestry's website this summer, and I really appreciate the insights I've gotten into my children's brains. In "Name It To Tame It", we are reminded that a child's feelings are often overwhelming and confusing for them, and that by teaching them how to put into words what they are feeling they can learn to manage intense emotional states much more successfully. In "Let the Clouds of Emotion Roll By", we learn that children may need help recognizing that emotional states come and go, and that we can do this by acknowledging their current feelings while reminding them of a time when they felt differently.

I love the idea of acknowledging a child's emotional reality. It seems so respectful, and honouring of them as people. It's how I want to be treated when I'm having an irrational overreaction to something. And I think it's important to treat our children this way as well. As with most good parenting ideas, though, it's easier said than done. The last thing I want to do when dealing with a meltdown is get down on one knee and communicate to my child that I get where they're coming from. Especially if we're in the grocery store! I'd much prefer to tell them to snap out of it, get over it, and generally move on. Sometimes I feel like laughing at how ridiculous they're being. What I'm trying to learn to do, though, is teach them to communicate respectfully, even when they're really upset. And the only way they're going to be able to do that is if I can show them how.

As I was thinking about emotions and how God invites us to share all of ourselves with Him, I was reminded of the conversation between God and Moses at the burning bush in Exodus 3 and 4. God wants Moses to go back to Egypt and lead the Israelites to freedom, but Moses is reluctant. He is afraid that he'll be rejected and unsuccessful, and he tries to convince God that he's not the one for the job. God goes to great lengths to assure Moses that he'll be given everything he needs, that the plan will work, and that God is good, strong, and trustworthy. He does not dismiss Moses's fears, and He certainly doesn't ridicule them. I like that. A lot. I like that we can share our fears with our Father and He will not brush our fears aside. Even though our fears (or whatever emotional state is overtaking us in that moment) must seem ridiculous to Him, He invites us to trust and assures us that He will be with us (Exodus 4:12).

Much of my parenting journey has involved learning about God's great love for me, and then striving to show that love to my children. One way I can do that is by seeking to understand how they're feeling, which will teach them to trust me with their feelings, which will enable us to move forward together.

Compassion?!

I feel like I'm losing it. Not my sanity, although some moments I think that's probably gone, too! No, I'm talking about my compassion. I've found myself easily frustrated and irritable with the kids the last little while, and I've been wondering where my compassion has gone. When I force myself to stop and think about the losses our kids have experienced, it's easy to feel compassionate; they've all experienced the loss of the woman who bore them - her warmth, her voice, her being. In addition to that, the boys endured the loss of their foster family. Although they were too young to have conscious memory of it, they lost a mom and a dad, and two awesome big brothers. Kolbie came to us after he had already securely attached to his foster family... not an insignificant transition. This is a lot of emotional upheaval for a growing brain to process - so it's really no wonder that we're dealing with a few things that seem to be related to these early losses.

So why am I losing it?? It seems I suffer from a sort of amnesia when it comes to this stuff. It's easy to remember all the reasons my kids have for feeling sad and fearful and out of control when I'm talking to other adults, or when they're all sleeping and looking like perfect little angels. But put me in a room with them when I'm over-tired, dealing with a migraine, and wishing I had an extra pair of hands to clean up the most recent mess while keeping one of them at arms' length from the other, and I'm just annoyed. Frustrated, even. Okay, I'm angry. Compassion?! Forget it. We just had this discussion last week/yesterday/five minutes ago. It is NEVER okay to whack somebody in the head with a hard toy because they didn't get out of the way fast enough. Never. At these moments it takes every ounce of self-control I have (and sometimes I don't have enough) to not turn in to a 3-year-old and vent my frustration in a decidedly child-like manner. I've written before about how hard it is to show love when they're misbehaving, and I'm discovering it's a theme I need to re-visit.

So, what does love look like when I'm dealing with my kids' misbehaviour? I believe it looks self-controlled and respectful. I'm pretty sure I should try to do what I'm asking them to do - express my feelings and make my point in a way that doesn't hurt or coerce anyone. I know I have to remember where they've come from, and that they may be reacting to my voice and body language with fear and anxiety. "Love is patient and kind... It does not demand its own way. It is not irritable, and it keeps no record of being wronged." (1 Corinthians 13:4,5) Darn. I do impatient and irritable so well.

So, how am I going to remember all this the next time I feel like stomping my feet and indulging in a little temper tantrum?! Practice, practice, practice. Remember the re-do? Turns out it's not just for kids. And I'm hoping that the more I practice, the better we all get.

"Love never gives up, never loses faith, is always hopeful, and endures through every circumstance."
1 Corinthians 13:7