Children's books

Sometimes there is some weird stuff in children's books. 

Take this little story for example:

A school principal bakes a gingerbread man cookie and takes it to school in his lunch box.

The principal has a bowl of candy eyes on his desk.

Pencils, pens, gold star stickers ... Bowl  of candy eyes - the usual school administration stuff. 

If that's ON the desk, in a CLEAR bowl, what (dear Lord) is IN the drawers? 

Next up, the Berenstain bears go to the dentist. 

After the kids' visit. Mama Bear and Dentist Bear share this steamy look:

 

What is up with Mama's sultry gaze and flirtatious wave? Not to mention Dr. Bearson's sly smile. 

The only other explanation for Mama's expression that I can come up with is Nitrous. Are Mama and Dr. Bearson taking hits of the laughing gas? 

Not sure which is worse. Infidelity? Drug abuse? Creepy voodoo principal? 

Tech detox

For Christmas this year beloved Hubs gave me an iPhone. 

Though it was hard to give up my prior phone - which had a slide out keyboard - I very quickly became addicted to my new little friend. 

Unfortunately in the depths of this cold and miserable winter, I discovered games. 

I discovered that I really, really enjoy hidden object games. There's an entertaining little plot, tasks to accomplish, and puzzles to solve. 

It seems such a harmless thing. 

Until I notice I'm always playing my game near the kids. Instead of watching them, or heaven forbid - playing with them. 

I had noticed other folks breaking away from technology lately. A few friends bidding Facebook adieu. Others giving up everything fun on their phone for Lent.  An alarming show on NPR about electronics and parenting. 

I decided to join the trend. 

No more games. How hard could it be?

It's hard. 

Embarrassingly hard. 

I pick up my phone frequently (way too frequently) and check my email. Then, with no game to open, I sigh and put it away again. Repeat in 5 minutes. 

It's not getting any easier, either. I really, really want to go download a new game. Right. Now.

The good news is - with nothing to entertain me - I have begrudgingly gotten a few extra chores finished, emails sent, books read, and blog posts written. 

I wish I could say that detoxing from iPhone games prompted a renewal of quality family time. Alas, no. The children are far too irritating for that for the most part. 

But I did have some moments with a wiggly, squirmy, farty, argumentative 4 year old in my lap instead of this phone in my hand. 

And I suppose that is good. 

Toolbox

I frequently talk to my yoga classes about their mental/spiritual "toolbox". A group of tools we can access as we work on our mat. The thing about yoga though, is that we practice with our tools on the mat in order to be able to use them off the mat - in real life. 

We can put a lot of good stuff in our toolbox. Deep breaths, sighs, ujjayi breath,  kindness, forgiveness, discipline, stillness, lack of expectation... The list goes on. 

During a yoga practice we might need to pull out a variety of tools. A deep sigh at the beginning of class to let go of our day and focus on the practice. Discipline during the physically challenging lunges or planks. Forgiveness and loving kindness during a stretch that highlights the tightness in the shoulders or hamstrings. The same can be true for facing the challenges in our daily life. 

Periodically I like to spend some time focusing on one tool. Honing it. Practicing with it. Making note of its' many uses. 

With respect to the seasonal change (dear God, please let the season change) I've been focusing lately on the tool of openness, or lack of expectation. 

In late winter we know that spring is coming, yet we are able to anticipate its' arrival without throwing open the door every day enraged by the lack of crocuses and balmy breezes. If we take, on the other hand, our experience on the yoga mat - how easily do we await the arrival of the practice where we finally touch our toes in forward fold or when we make it through sun salutions without huffing and puffing. 

We don't. We curse ourselves and our hamstrings, our lack of cardiovascular endurance. And while we're at it - we curse that bendy lightweight who never huffs, nor puffs, nor struggles. 

SO. Openness. Lack of expectation. 

On the mat we work to approach each practice with openness, without assumption. Obviously, this is hard. Yoga is repetitive and we know where our weaknesses are. So we work. We work to let go of our expectation. We work to enter each practice, each pose, each moment as if we've never been there before. Because, in reality, we never have. We've never been in this moment before, and we'll never be here again. 

The way to begin using this tool, cultivating that openness, is simply to observe our mind. When our instructor names the next posture or sequence what pops up in the mind? First we become aware - then - we can let go. Then we can come back to this moment. Experiencing the pose this time, without comparing it to last time or judging it against an expectation of how it should be. 

Like all things in yoga, we practice this on the mat so that we have it in our toolbox off the mat. So that when we encounter that same difficult person, or that same frustrating situation - perhaps we could be open to a new encounter, a new experience. 

Just as on the mat - first comes observation. Noting the way we mentally prepare to interact with a person we know before they even arrive. Knowing just what they will do and say. Knowing just how they will be. 

The way our shoulders elevate and tighten as we walk toward that certain meeting at work. Knowing the way it will go. Aggravated before it even starts. 

SO. First, the observation. Then, the letting go. We figure out how to quiet the mind (and relax those damn shoulders) before our interactions. Sure, things may go down just exactly the way we had anticipated. But, they may not - and if we are not open to a different experience -then it will certainly never be any different. 

Being able to let go of expectation, it's a powerful tool. I promise. All that endless chatter and preparation (those imaginary conversations and arguments) take up an awful lot of mental energy. Without them clogging up the works, we become truly present to a situation, with access to our own inner wisdom.

So whether we are a yogi or not - we can observe our mind. What arises as we approach all the people and events in our day. First, we observe. Then, we let go, coming back - time and again - to this very moment, with nothing between us and our good heart. 

Namaste!

"I hate you." A Parenting Milestone

My youngest son, the Wee One, is four.

He is a combination of the stubbornness and poor coordination of age 2 mixed with the impulsiveness of age 3.

He has a temper like my retired US Marine Corps father and the manipulative skills of a charming 16 year old girl.

The intensity of his rage appears undaunted by the smallness of his stature.

In the space of 30 seconds he has been known to say:

"Mama, could you please fetch me some water? My cup is empty and I am thirsty."

And then:

"Mama? Is this still today?"

And then:

"MAMA! THIS SPOON WILL NOT SCOOP!"

And then:

"Mummammuumma garbeldygook babytalk gibberish"

It is challenging to keep up with his wildly swinging moods.

He will hug me and then mid-hug begin to choke me - yes, on purpose. He waits until I ask him to stop. He does this so often that I'm fairly certain he is testing the exact pressure at which hug becomes pain and he wants to be statistically certain that his value is within an acceptable standard deviation.

He head butts. He pinches. He bites. He yells and throws himself on the floor. He jumps straight up and down when frustrated - which would be absolutely hilarious if not for the surrounding tantrum.

He is challenging to parent.

He requires a level of sustained parenting commitment that is difficult to maintain. He needs me to be on my A-game from 5am to 8pm. Every day.

If I stay fully engaged with him, moment by never-ending moment, I can help him regulate his moods, impulses, and urges. But, I can't realistically do that. Yet another way I fail as a parent, I suppose.

Nonetheless - now you have the background for the tantrum that occurred last weekend.

I forget what was the precipitating event. He was asked to go to time out.

He refused.

He was asked to walk to his room.

He refused.

He was carried to his bed. His wails and screams echoing throughout the house. His kicking and flailing becoming increasingly aggressive as we approached the threshold of his room.

He was placed (perhaps not entirely gently) into his bed, and I took my usual seat during tantrum-time in the rocking chair.

My philosophy during tantrums is to sit nearby, letting the rage run its' course, offering support, guidance, and consequences.

As the fruit of my loins thrashed on his bed he began to yell:

"I hate this!"
"I hate my room!"

wait for it ...

"I hate you, Mama!"

There you have it.

Inside my head there was a moment of shocked silence. Then a myriad of voices began to chime in:

Sweet, motherly voice: "I think a piece of my heart just died"
Intellectual voice: "QUICK! THINK" How do we respond without permanent damage?!"
Angry voice: "That little $%*# Imma kill him."
Tired voice: "Where is hubs? I'm done."
Sweet, motherly voice: "There. We've done it. We've ruined him forever."
Intellectual voice: "What would Dr. Sears say??!!"
Angry voice: "Still mad here. Really mad."
A voice that sounded like my own: "I'm the worst mother ever."

In the end I said something like, "How would you feel if I said that to you? That's a very hurtful thing to say."

Later, Hubs made him apologize and we talked about how hurt feelings are like boo-boos and they take time to get better.

I wish I could tie this all up and say he sweetly sat on my lap later and the dead piece of my heart was healed ... but alas he continued to be a pain for the remainder of the weekend. Thanks, daylight savings time, and the truth is - he's not much for cuddling and warm fuzzies.

I suppose this will not be the last time he hates me, and I better get used to it. Adolescence should be fun.

Parenting, my friends, not for the thin skinned.