August 24, 2011

To Parent

A lot of my friends are either pregnant and having a first child, or pregnant again, or just had a child.
It is an interesting phase and I am learning a lot from their reflections and comments and journey.
My biggest hope is that they can guinea-pig things and I can have a handle on that whole 'parenting' thing if I ever get that far in life. 

Because you see: I have no idea how a parent should act.

I reflected the other day that my 'baby' was turning 11 in 5 months.  From the first couple hours that she was born I held her.  All the trip to the big hospital in the city, with the ambulance breaking down part way and the crowd gathering to stare at the sick white woman and her baby.  Keeping her head covered and taking care of her when mother was recovering from the D&C and the long years of nights of rocking her to sleep to my favorite songs after mother had nursed her....
And then my baby boy.  He turned 8 a couple months ago.  Again, I cared for him for what seemed like every waking moment.  When he was a year old I wrote something in my diary about how wrong mother was for taking him from me because he was more mine than hers.
I know how to care for children.  In fact, I would dare claim to be an expert. 

But I haven't the foggiest on how to Parent.

The other night at the store a parent angrily ripped a piece of fruit-leather out of their child's hand and told them that they weren't getting any 'more' treats that evening.  The cashier I was bagging for saw my discomfort and said it was late at night (almost 9pm) and the parent was probably tired and over-stressed.
I looked at her and said the strangest thing I ever heard myself say:
"They are the adult.  A child at 9pm may be excused for wanting another treat or piece of candy.  They are a child and dont know better and cannot necessarily control themselves and dont know that sugar at that hour is bad for them, etc.
HOWEVER, the parent has no excuse.  They are an adult.  9pm or not, one should not snatch, be rude, or nasty just because they are fed up and tired."

The truth is that I never thought about it that way until the words came out of my mouth.  I was raised thinking that my behavior affected my parents and made all the difference.  It was a real struggle for me to realize (at 19 something) that my mother's snappiness and irritability were not something I was causing or could necessarily cure.  It was NOT MY FAULT.
And it was NOT the fault of the child in the store.

Permission to Live makes a great case for not spanking.
and my dear friend Anne writes about her thoughts on how she wants to raise her daughter.

I have said before that I dont think anyone should be a parent.  What I meant by that was that if parenting includes all the mistakes and hurts and fear and misunderstanding that I have seen from my parents, from the parents of friends, and from stories: why not just do away with the family system altogether?
Is it really worth the hurt and damage and results?
Do I really want a child if I am going to ruin them?
Why would an all-knowing God allow children to be broken and wounded like that?
Is there any way to avoid this?
Do I want to take the chance?

ahhh, once I again I leave with more questions than answers.

August 16, 2011

Love pt 6

I am finding a pattern.  Love makes me weep.
I heard a lot when I was little that my father or mother 'loved' me.  I was told often, I think.
But it didnt mean much, if it meant anything.  The formality you say when hanging up the phone.  The required (yes, required) response when leaving for bed.  In fact, it became something I was disgusted with.

I remember back in 2010 when I did not respond "love you too, daddy" and was reprimanded for it.  I hated myself, but I was an 'obedient' daughter and I said it.  He then told me I needed to smile when I said it and made me repeat it until he felt that I was smiling nicely and had a sufficiently truthful and 'loving' tone in my voice.  (making the heart change is a big thing with Pearl discipline.  Make them repeat or re-do until it with cheerfulness and in a complete and thorough manner.  From washing dishes to saying 'I love you')

Is it any wonder the word meant nothing?  And that when other people would use it I would scoff, or question, or challenge the sentiment? 
"Why?"
"Oh, really?"
"Yeah, yeah"
"I know"
"Whatever"

The word meant nothing.  The sentiment was a foreign one.  The meaning was lost.
But not irretrievably.

I find when I really feel loved or when I truly love someone else or something: I leak.  Tears, or emotions, or poems, or effusive hugs, or physical closeness/proximity.  But most of the time I cry.

I remember back in 2006 when I was talking with my grandmother on the phone about something unimportant and nondescript when I suddenly began crying.  She asked what was the matter and all I could get out was that I really, really loved her.  She was obviously confused and surprised by the tears, but was glad to hear that I felt that way.
The middle of this year a father-figure wrote me and my sister a kind and beautiful letter.  I cry every time I read it. . 

I have also become more sensitive to how other people (mostly vicariously through movies and books) love and its effect on people.  Like a fascinating new subject I am esoterically peering at through my microscope.
Nevertheless, I am learning a lot.
I can see why people want a God of love.  I can see why people who have truly felt His love never look back.  Why when Mrs. G. talks about her beliefs her eyes light up.  Why she clings to her faith through the things that daily knock her off her feet.
And I want that.

August 15, 2011

a little girl

Eyes are the round windows to the heart. The open holes into our heart.

Her face was oddly pale and she was slim and petite for how maturely she carried herself. Her mother looked distracted because her little brother was making a fuss in the seat of the cart. Her older sister was obviously in charge, pushing the cart and keeping her in line.
The store wasn't busy at that moment and I didn't have anything else to do, so I walked over to the line they were in and began bagging the quarts of milk.
When I got out a second bag for the smaller boxes of macaroni and cereal bars she pushed past her sister's guarding frame and reached up on her tippy-toes to grab a product and put it in the brown paper bag.

I looked over, surprised. I hadn't ever had a kid so eager to get in on the work. As my eyes fell to her level I was taken back. My heart gasped as her soul leaped through her eyes and brushed roughly against mine.
Her eyes were starved; barren and desperately pleading for approval and understanding. She so wanted to help me. But more than that: she wanted me to love her.

Little children are the most real people in society today. They have not learned the walls that adults put up to hide their frailty and vulnerability. They don't know that it is not polite to throw your soul onto another begging shamelessly for attention and to receive joy and approval and kindness. They don't realize that people are supposed to pretend. Especially not at the age of five or six.

I realized there was something different about her. In the split second when she threw her soul against mine I felt fire pierce my heart. I hurt all over. Thoughts of my little siblings and my love for them came flooding over me. The way I felt growing up, the love I wanted I saw she did too.

In a strange move, I put the bag I was packing on the floor. I handed her the few remaining items.  She eagerly placed them in choice spots and smiled up at me, so grateful and so happy.
I hoisted the heavy bag from the counter and placed it in her mother's cart and told her she could lift the bag on the floor.  Her big sister (either out of a similar need for acknowledgement or control) grabbed it from her and put it in the cart herself.  She looked at me for approval and I smiled and told her it was good.  I smiled at the little boy in the seat, and turned back to the little girl.  She looked crestfallen; her sister having taken all the glory.  I got down to her level and high-fived her and told her she did amazing.

Her eyes lit up and the ache in my heart only got worse.  Her mother hustled them all out of the store and she didnt look back.  All I could think about was my younger siblings and my younger self.  I knew exactly how she felt.  Alone, even though she had siblings and parents and 'family.'  Longing for something unknown and nameless even though she is 'loved' and told she is 'loved.'


I could not get her out of my mind all the rest of that day and week and even now (a month later... as I finish all the writing that I have been storing up) the mark of where she was, the burn-mark she left, makes me question whether she was safe and properly cared for.  I prayed for her, and I dont pray much these days.  There was nothing else I could do.  I cried for her, and for the child I used to be, and for those who dont have a random grocery-store-bagger to make them feel special and useful and important.

I want to see her again and talk with her.  I want to be there every time she comes in the store.  I want to help her.  I want to love her.  I want her eyes to be beautiful and shining.  I want her to be happy. 
And I going crazy?