A dear friend and I talked today about the alarming uptick in irritation with our kids lately. Naturally, we were unable to really HAVE the conversation because of the galloping and hollering of said kids. (Climb the tree, climb the tractor, run barefoot into the barn; I want to SWIM but I won’t put my head under; Mama milk! Mama milk! You get the idea.) So I sat down this evening to write out the rest of what I wanted to say, and it is this:
I’ve been sitting with your concerns about parenting and patience, not least because they are also mine. I feel like maybe I hit this particular wall (at least, most notably, most recently) earlier this summer, so by now I’m both more cynical and blessedly more tolerant. Of my own failings, that is. I don’t like them, but I accept them and continue to work on trying to change them.
What’s trickiest for me is this: the circumstances that lead to shortness and eruptions are partly about me (have I scheduled the time I need for myself; am I using that time to best advantage; am I taking proper care of myself in all the textbook ways; am I feeding my creative energies; am I nurturing the relationships that I crave…) and partly about the world as I see it (am I using my gifts productively in the world; am I addressing problems I can see and help with; am I contributing to my kids’ lives in the ways I’d like to; am I speaking my truths to the powers that I humbly submit need to hear them). It makes me crazy to have this bifurcated diagnosis. I’d like to imagine that a renewed commitment to mindfulness as a practice would solve everything. Truth is, it would help, but not solve. I’d like to believe that finding meaningful paid work would fix things. Truth is, it would help, but not solve. In fact, it would create a host of other issues by draining away some of that vital attention that I now try to direct to my boys (which is, all by itself, getting harder as I get more interested in more and different things). I suspect this is in part the curse of the smart, dedicated, socially-conscious parent: we engage with our kids and are fascinated by them, but there’s so much else that also engages and fascinates us that it’s hard to keep focus. I feel like the theory of part-time work is beautiful, and sometimes it works out that way in real life as well. But other times, we spend our days checking the clock or checking our email or jotting lists of things we’d rather be doing. Of course we don’t hear everything the kids say. They aren’t the only ones we’re listening to anymore. And that’s hard for all of us.
Sometimes I wonder if shifting to full-time work would be a better plan. Sometimes I wonder if giving up on work altogether and pouring myself into the kids, including home-schooling of a sort, would be a better plan. Often I think that one or the other is an absolute necessity. Now. Today. But my reality is that while I am not skilled at tacking back and forth between critical, engaging priorities, I seem to NEED it. So I try to imagine that THIS is my work: this daily, excruciating, exquisite practice of loving everyone and everything I love according to their needs and my capacities. That means it doesn’t always look the same, and some days feature a lot more cursing than others. But I figure my kids must be learning some key lessons about the preciousness and precariousness of our lives, and they sure as heckfire are learning how to read and work with the moods of others. I need to believe there’s value in that, too.
Most days, I think a little more structure would help; I turn to Pinterest for more ideas about creative play and how to get a handle on our lives. Every day, I think a little more mindfulness would help; even a tiny practice like a three-minute meditation while the coffee brews has helped me enormously in the past. It gives me distance from my life, in a way, and lets me see myself and my struggles in the vast context of the universe — and that, of course, lends me a little more humility and tolerance than I might otherwise be able to find. I’ll take what I can get. Mostly, these days, I’m working hardest on letting myself off the hook. It feels a little like defeat, but hey. Defeat and acceptance are siblings, I hear, and I’m trying not to ruin my life for the sake of some macho Western illusion.
Anyway. This is all to say: I feel your pain. Holy SMOKES, I feel your pain. And for what it’s worth, I think you are an extraordinary parent: creative, loving, attentive, compassionate, smart, nurturing, supportive, concerned. Your soft voice and obvious enthusiasm for your kids are models to me, as is your willingness to say yes, to follow them where they need to go, to give them the room to be themselves (within safe limits). If I could cultivate your patience, I’d imagine myself a ten times better mother. But I know how you feel, and that’s part of the point: the feeling is not necessarily well-calibrated to reality, and when it is, it just makes us cringe. So we try to keep our eyes clear and our heads (and hearts) in the game and put one foot in front of the other. And as we do it, we try to sing a little song, or pat a little cheek, or generally hold our whole selves open for the ridiculous beauty that just keeps showing up.