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IGNORE is a four-lettered word

May 21, 2012 by kristinherdy

Sitting in the restaurant with two cranky girls can get a mom down. Wendy likes to kick, kick, kick her sister in the shin under the table. Mia likes to yell at her kicking sister to let her know that the kick punched aaaaaallllll her buttons.

She wants just the right amount of attention, not too little, not too much

“Just ignore her, Mia;” I tell her, “pretend she’s not here.” Wendy hates being ignored more than anything else, even peanut butter. Mia turns her head to the window, determined to erase her sister for a few blessed moments. Wendy’s face scrunches up and she starts to cry.

“Did she kick you back?” I asked Mia.

Wendy: “No! You said ‘didnorg’ me. That’s a bad word, Mom, a bad word!”

To Wendy, ignore or “didnorg,” as she says, IS a bad word.

————————————————

She takes being overlooked very seriously.

Wendy: But when you got married to Daddy, why didn’t you let me be in the wedding?

Me: You weren’t born yet.

Wendy: That’s not nice, Mama! I just want to be a wedding girl

To most of us, ignore is a four-lettered word.

I wouldn’t like it if my sweetheart didn’t pick up the phone when I called. I wouldn’t like it if my mom marked my email as spam. I wouldn’t like it if I left message after message with my boss and she never called me back.

I don’t like it when I am talking to someone and their eyes rove about the room.

Remember holding your hand in the air and your teacher would call on everyone around you, but not you? Remember when all your friends had dates for the dance, but you seemed invisible? Do you ever have days where you feel that no one will make eye contact?

Conversely, have you ever had to ignore someone for your health? Have you ever hid anyone from your news feed on facebook to avoid saying something you would regret to their constant, inane, stupid, careless or embarrassing posts?

We don’t follow the golden rule when it comes to turning a blind eye and deaf ear to others. How do we maintain that distinction in our subconscious? Ignore is only a dirty word when someone does it to us because we can justify it in a million ways.

Let’s not pretend we are going to give everyone our full attention. Let’s not pretend that we will be so convicted that we will turn from our silent treatments and mute receptions and suddenly become rapt with attention for every person we meet.

We make choices. We have priorities. We need order, and to spend some quality time with our kids and loved ones. Start small -

Don’t ignore your children – apart from the occasional tantrum, when it might be best to let them have it out – children want you to pay attention and watch. They want you to show interest in their interests.

Don’t ignore your spouse or significant other – it reeks of contempt and having read and taught Gottman’s four horseman of the apocalypse, I can tell you contempt is a destroyer of relationships.

Don’t ignore your parents – I’m not saying to follow your parents blindly, accepting their faith, politics, prejudices or vendettas, if they have them, as your own, but listen to their stories, consider their advice, and adopt the traditions that you enjoyed and want to pass on.

Don’t ignore your heart – do what you know is right. Do what you know is good. Stand up for those who can’t do it for themselves.

Don’t ignore your close friends – they love you. They may not always keep in touch as much as you’d like, but they know you and your heart and they know what’s out of character for you. Trust them to want what’s best for you.

—————————————————-

Too much attention might be a bad thing, on the other hand.

Wendy: Mooooooooom! Mia is ….

Me: Pull yourself together. I don’t want to hear whining and crying.

Wendy: Ok, I won’t cry this time. (composes herself and wipes her tears). Mia is a ‘coffee cat’ and ‘coffee cats’ are mean. That is all

Coffee cats are indeed mean, showing all the wrong kinds of attention. Pay attention with minimum laughing, mocking and, of course, coffee catting.

photo from google images — it’s coffee cats. They are notoriously mean

—————————————————–

During Wendy’s most recent illness, I took her to the doctor and hovered over her, solicitous over her health.

sad little sick thing, but doesn’t want too much attention

Wendy: Can you go back in your seat?

Me: Why?

Wendy: I don’t want you to get sick too!

Me: I’m not going to get sick, sweetheart.

Wendy: Can you still go sit back in your seat?

Me: Why?

Wendy: So you can stop bothering me.

Sometimes, people beg to be left alone. When you hear those pleas, please, don’t ignore those either.

Who/what else should you not ignore and why?

Posted in Kids Say, Parental Trials, Relationships, Wendy's Randomly Astute Observations | Tagged , , , | 2 Comments »

The gifted obmutescence: when bright kids get lonely

May 18, 2012 by kristinherdy

My ex-husband and I get concerned about our children, as all parents do. We worry that Wendy may never learn her alphabet (she’s still not interested) or that Mia doesn’t eat enough or that Mia isn’t learning enough history in school thanks to changes by the Texas State Board of Setting Up Our Children to be Ignoramuses, but that’s another post.

One of our biggest concerns is Mia’s socialization. Gifted kids sometimes have a difficult go of making friends their own age.

Mia loves people.

On Mother’s Day, we drove with my boyfriend, Trey, to meet his maternal grandparents. On the way, we picked up his Uncle Mark, whom they had never met to see his grandma and grandma, whom they had never seen. The girls marched themselves right into the unfamiliar house, Mia in the lead, introduced themselves and began exploring.

Mia loves to talk to adults more than other kids.

At basketball, Mia seemed more interested in talking to the assistant coach on the sidelines, rather than playing.

She’s more likely to hide so she can listen to adult conversation, even if she can’t join in, than want to go play with the other children.

She’s been watching films not made primarily for children since she was three, and has little difficulty following complicated plots. She would prefer to discuss these films with adults than with kids her own age.

I’ve done some research, and found that this is a common enough problem with gifted kids (and gifted adults).

Research here and here suggest that children will look for other children they can relate to, to explain what’s important to them. If no child in their peer group can discuss the things that are important to them, they start looking in grades higher than theirs for children to speak with and if none are found, will gravitate toward adults, who often have a knowledge base on their subject of interest.

This loneliness can lead to depression. That is not something I want for my daughter.

This research explains that gifted children are socialized against socialization, by creating more challenging INDIVIDUAL assignments to keep gifted kids busy.

Such movement toward isolation only increases the problem.

Growing up in the G/T program at my school, I can attest to a few of these issues. I had the most trouble making friends in 4th and 5th grade, because I, like many gifted kids, wanted to hang out with and speak to older children. They seemed to understand me more, get my odd sense of humor and appreciate the references I made to their popular culture. Fourth and fifth grades, though, were at a different school than those I “clicked” with, usually 7th and 8th graders. I found a kindred group in my G/T class, but the rest of the day was quite lonely.

In the 1970s, Elisabeth Noelle-Neumann postulated the Spiral of Silence theory. She suggested that we all have an innate ability to take the political/social “temperature” of the room and calculate the possibility that our opinions will be well-received. We then gradually lapse into silence if our opinions don’t seem to match up with the population at large. .

There will always be outliers. The hardcore on any opinion will always speak out, but they may also be ostracized, relegated to the proverbial kids’ table.

Imagine that your mind works in odd ways, that you make strange connections, have an uncanny ability to observe other humans and draw sometimes uncomfortable conclusions. What if you had the mindpower of a real-life Sherlock Holmes. If you speak those observations aloud, you’ll be shunned, ignored or hated. Do you speak?

Kids want to be well-liked. Heck, adults want to be well-liked.

It’s not idle worry, this. I have reason to believe that Mia loses friends at school maybe as often as she makes them, because she hasn’t yet learned to spiral toward silence. I don’t have higher hopes for her if she does gain the “gift” of obmutescence. Self-enforced muteness is no prize over peer-induced blackballing.

If you’re a “gifted” adult – what helped you cope in your kid years? If you have a gifted child, what do you do to help them make and keep friends? What skills should we be working on?

Posted in Parental Trials, Relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 5 Comments »

The Big Messy Post about Trey: It’s all over

May 14, 2012 by kristinherdy

It was interesting while it lasted, but now, it’s a thing of the past. I’m not going back there. I don’t want to look over my shoulder to what might have been or should have been. It’s through.

In it together

That time in my life where I lived for myself and my children and my own “thing” is behind me. From here forward, it’s a we thing, not a me thing. Decisions are made together. Plans are plotted together. Hopes are held together. Children are (whenever possible) together. Duties are shared together. Dinner (again, when possible) is cooked together. Trips are made together. Prayers are uttered together.

That may not seem like a big deal, but this thing we have, this relationship, it’s a big honkin’ deal.

This changes everything. Being with this man changes absolutely everything EXCEPT who I am. That’s what a successful relationship should change. It should shake up the routine, mess with the balance, take two, make one, fold here, bend there, crease right, flip it over and make it fly.

I didn’t think the man existed who could take my world, make it messier, and in doing so, make it complete, until I remet Trey, anyway.

He’s a great dad. I’ve been witness to that special moment, when dark is creeping in, and he gives his kids their baths, deposits them, fresh and clean into their beds, recites their prayers and kisses them goodnight, and it seems more than natural; it’s beautiful.

I have this really clear picture in my mind of him pulling two wagons at the zoo, one with two kids, one with one kid and he had Wendy on his shoulders. Messy, but absolutely beautiful.

He’s a good friend. I love that he’s still close to the guys he knew in high school, that they go out, have boys’ weekends, recharge, play basketball, paintball, golf and joke around. It keeps him plugged in and he gets all smiley because he genuinely likes his friends. And, when he gets smiley, his dimples show. Have I mentioned I love his dimples?

He’s a good boyfriend. Scratch that, he’s a GREAT boyfriend. I get snuggles and calls and “thinking of you” texts and gifts just because he thought I would like them, he pays attention to what I say (like, I don’t like getting flowers, but I love spending a free afternoon in the park) and he is completely, totally and willingly capable of taking care of and entertaining four nuggets.

He’s a good worker. I love a man who loves his job. He is good at what he does. His team members respect him, his bosses fight over him and he’s fair and friendly. He’s willing to give it up, though, if situations change down the road.

More importantly, he supports my hopes and dreams, to write the book, to return to school, to invent a laundry basket that cleans, folds and puts away mounds of laundry…

There are things we disagree on, but even that is respectful, cordial, almost playful. When you love someone, those disagreements don’t have to signal the end of the relationship, but the way in which you disagree can signal the end of something else: the end of that time in your life when you lived it for one – for yourself.

I don’t have any big announcement to make in this post, just that I’m done with the old life, and I’m facing forward. That era of selfish living, selfish parenting and selfish loving is past and the future looks messy, and beautiful.

What does your future look like today?

Posted in Relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 12 Comments »

The Mommy Wars don’t take a cease-fire for Mother’s Day

May 11, 2012 by kristinherdy

Monday morning on my drive into work, I listened to the local radio station. They had a caller on who was adamant that work-from-home moms don’t deserve the same privileges that stay-at-home moms get on Mother’s Day.

HELP! I’m under direct fire!!

The caller, whose name was Bonnie, claimed that she was more of a mother because she stayed home with her children, KNEW her children and spent more time with her children and was thus more deserving of a special Mother’s Day than a vile, self-absorbed, ambitious mother who let someone else raise her children whilst she worked.

If you’ve ever been on websites like BabyCenter or CafeMom, you know that this is one of those subjects, like breastfeeding, cloth diapering, Ferberizing, vaccinating and circumcision, where every mom has an opinion and everyone else’s opinion is wrong. These debates get nasty. I’ve heard these topics (and others) referred to as the Mommy Wars.

Okay, here’s where I go all conspiracy theory on you: I think the Mommy Wars are the work of Satan, or terrorist cells or the mob, or Goldman Sachs – someone whose livelihood thrives on us killing our own and turning a blind eye to their underhanded bag of tricks

We come battle-ready, armed with baseless studies, “research,” vocal experts, anecdotes, tradition, social pressures and the Bible! We launch spears of flame at our opponents, passive aggressively hurling insults, not at their methods, but at their parenting, and even their children.

A friend had a baby this week, and before the baby was even born, the nurse was trying to convince her not to breastfeed. We can’t even wait until a baby arrives until we start pressuring moms to be one way or the other. We have so many casualties that we have to start restocking the ranks, recruiting new mommy blood

I’ve read stories of wars of years past, how on Christmas day or a holy day for the soldiers, the battle would stop and let the battle-weary men rest and pray and celebrate before starting up again I’d like to see that for Mother’s Day

Let’s call a cease-fire this Sunday, to let moms, tired from the arrows and the laundry and dishes, from the whining and the sibling rivalry and wrestling the permanent markers out of little Sally’s hand, take a much-needed, sabbatical from fighting.

Be kind to mothers this Sunday. Lift them up instead of tearing them down. Mother’s day is a day to affirm the office of motherhood, not shoot at the other mommy camps.

Do I have any embedded mommy journalists who want to weigh in? What horrors of war have you witnessed?

**For the record, I don’t just work because I am a single mom, though, that is why I work 2 jobs. Even if I didn’t have to work, I would, because I like to work, because I like to teach, because I love what I study and what I do**

 

Posted in Joys of Children, Parental Trials, Relationships | Tagged , , , , , | 8 Comments »

On my 8th mother’s day: a letter to the girl who made me a mom

May 9, 2012 by kristinherdy

Dear Mia,

I remember a Mother’s Day, years and years ago, where I told MY mom that you were going to be. That you would be a little person, and smile and laugh and talk and walk and fill our lives. I remember that we were moving that Mother’s Day, and I sat on the floor, and felt faint. I dare not move; I was afraid I would fall over.

When you were still pretty new, before my 2nd Mother’s Day

I have a pair of tiny silver shoes you “gave” me for Mother’s Day 2005. You were nearly 2.5 months old, so I don’t think you picked them out yourself, but I wear them on my charm bracelet. I don’t need the shoes to remember that first Mother’s Day, or the way you smelled when your sleepy head drooped down onto my chest, tufts of silken black hair tickling my nose. I dare not move, because the moment might be lost.

I was treated to dinner out on that first Mother’s Day and I thought about you constantly. I don’t remember what I ate, but I remember that I rushed to get home to see you, passed out in your crib, your miniature fingers shoved up under your neck rolls, where you would pinch to put yourself to sleep. Soon, you would find that my neck worked just as well, and leave red whelps where your tiny nails helped sooth you to slumber. I dare not move, because even though it hurt, the moment might be lost.

I recall a Mother’s Day when I was pregnant with your sister, my head hung over the toilet, with the remains of breakfast floating before me like a sepia rendition of Starry Night. You came into the bathroom, steadied yourself on the step stool and cooed to me that everything would be all right and I would feel better soon. I lay back against the cool tile and you patted my hair until the world stopped spinning. I dare not move, because the moment, and my lunch, might be lost.

There was a Mother’s Day when you stomped your feet and ran to your room crying, one where you threw your food and one where you cried because I got presents and you didn’t. Still, I didn’t want to move, because these days wouldn’t last forever.

I was your mother, but more than that, you were the child that made me one. That’s something that will never change. That moment when I first held your body, swaddled in a small blanket against my chest and felt it burn. It was like touching fire, some supernatural orb that I didn’t understand and would magically, and instantly, turn me from girl into mom.

This mother’s day, you’re handling the gifts yourself. You’ve got a plan that  I cannot know, giving gifts I cannot see and writing cards with thoughts I cannot guess, but there are a few things I know on this, my 8th Mother’s Day being your mom:

I know you are special. I don’t care what anyone tells you along the way, what trash people may speak about you, you are special. You have that same ethereal and mysterious fire in you that makes you brilliant and beautiful. You have an amazing ability to break tension, intense capacity to love and empathize and you are a bold reflection of your Creator.

I know you are growing. You are getting bigger and stronger and faster and more graceful every day. You can backstroke the length of the pool with a cup full of water on your forehead! Just because you are growing doesn’t mean that you can’t still curl up in my lap, that I won’t still love our girl talks and can’t still pick you up and turn you upside down to give you a different view and a laugh.

I know you are going to do great things. You have all the makings of a world changer. Don’t be afraid. Dare to move. If you stop too long, the moment will be over.

I love you, Mommy-maker, because you have been the making of me. That doesn’t mean your sister hasn’t taught me more than I wanted to know about motherhood, or that I love you more, but I have loved you longer, and I did love you first, and it was  YOU who transformed my consciousness about what it means to be a mom.

Thank you,

Mommy

Posted in Joys of Children, Parental Trials, Relationships | Tagged , , , , | 5 Comments »

The Shrinky Dink Jesus: Pocket-sized for your convenience

May 8, 2012 by kristinherdy

I’m buying Shrinky Dinks (TM) for a Decade Days project at the daycare this summer. None of the kids had any idea what I was talking about. In explaining the process of creating Shrinky Dinks, I realized that I was describing how Christianity works for many believers.

Tiny gospel is like toy car, looks cute, but doesn’t go anywhere

You start with a transparent canvas, add beautiful colors and fill it in, then put it through the fire and WHAM! instantly your gorgeous rendering becomes a tiny representation of the big picture.

I’ve seen many come to Christ, had their sins wiped clean, added the richness of color that a life in HIM can provide, but as soon as loving other sinners, showing mercy, giving grace, selling their possessions and the expectation of sacrificial offering are applied, like fire to test their faith, their “Jesus” shrinks down to a cross around their neck, a list of specific sins to avoid or worse, people to avoid.

The kids were singing a childish song, as kids are wont to do, “I wish I had a little red box to put my mommy in. I’d take her out and muah muah muah (kissy sounds), and put her right back in.” I’m not sure where they heard it, but that’s exactly the type of relationship we want to have with our shrinky dink Jesus.

We want to put him in a little blood of the Lamb box, take him out, show some affection on a Sunday or Easter or Christmas, and then stick him right back into his box, the place we’ve set aside for him to occupy. He’s manageable. He’s controllable. He’s accessible, sure, but ineffectual.

We are afraid of a Jesus that’s bigger than our box, bigger than our preconceptions and bigger than our hearts. We’ve shrunk him down to our prejudices and misperceptions.

He’s bigger than I’ve let him be. I discovered at one point that Christ wants me to accomplish more than I’m comfortable with. I’ve had an idea in the back of my heart for more than a year… but I’m paralyzed by how large the task would be.

He’s bigger than my indecision.

He’s bigger than my fears of failure.

He’s bigger than my loathing.

He loves the unlovable. He sees the heart of the cheater, knows the mind of killer, hears the plans of the robber and still loves them. He’s heard my unuttered curses. He’s been privy to my callousness. He’s seen the acts I’ve committed in darkness and he still loves me.

In church on Sunday, we talked about how the gold God used to bless the Israelistes became the gold used to create the golden calf. Before that, the gifts of the garden were used by Adam and Eve to bring about the fall. We have a nasty history of turning our blessings into our downfall. Jesus, pocket-sized for our convenience, might be the greatest danger to Christianity.

When it comes to love, we have to go big or go home. We can’t pop our love for others into the oven like a shrinky dink. We can’t minimize the Gospel.

How can we reverse the incredible shrinky ray that condenses Jesus down to our size?

 

Posted in Relationships, Toward the Mark | Tagged , , , , , | 4 Comments »

The Fear Royale: when there’s nothing left to confess

May 2, 2012 by kristinherdy

Bloggers have fears – that either compel them to write, keeps them from writing or, if you’re me, write under the influence of an anxious dread of THE END.

I confess I like big dogs (and soda) and I cannot lie…

My boyfriend listens to this song all the time that starts “I got another confession to make…” That’s how I feel about every single blog post I write. It’s a confession, and confession, as they say, is good for the soul. I’ve grown as a person, as a writer, as a mother and as a reader through blogging. I’ve made friends, I’ve learned to deal with confrontation and I’ve exorcized some demons through the medium of blogging.

My biggest fear, though, is when I’ve confessed all my sins, insecurities, passions, secrets and schemes, then what? Where do I go after this? What do I write when my need to confess dries up?

I never went as far as to join the Catholic church. We attended for awhile, and both my girls were baptized, but, in the end, it wasn’t for me. I did change my mind about a few things while I went there, like my outlook on confession. Before I went to church with my ex-husband, I found the idea of confession strange and foreign.

I learned to see it as a lightening – freeing myself in the telling from the burden of the sin. I never went to a confession session, but I came to see it as a viable means of letting go.

Again, that’s what this blog is. I can let it go, out into the world, to disappear. Other times, I let ideas go and they come back to me, gathering other opinions and experiences and I feel less alone for having shared my secrets. I feel validated, not because people like what I write, but because their stories sound like mine. I’m not weird, I’m not messed up, I’m not an island when I read comments, when I see pictures, when I hear jokes, when I find friends.

I’m afraid the stories will run shallow, that there won’t be enough material to store for the lean times. I’m worried about a content drought.

I’m going to be as honest as I’ve ever been: I am worried that once I’ve told you all the things I tell you in the name of transparency, that I’m going to be lost. I’ll have built a glass house and let you all see in, and I’ll have nothing left, no mystery to solve in a blog post, no surprises to reveal, and you’ll be bored.

Oh, in my nightmares, you’re so bored.

I worry there will be no platform for advocating passionate change in the world.

This is my neuroses, but it’s my reality as well. I am utterly afraid of the day when I have zilch to share, nada to note and rien to reveal.

My only option at that point will be to start another blog under a pseudonym and commit strange acts that I can hide from everyone I know, and then confess in anonymity.

What would your pseudonym be? What’s your fear?

 

Posted in Writing | Tagged , , , , | 4 Comments »

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