Our Model Child

Faven came home from school keen to practice something with Yohannes and Lauren.  Lauren has been sick all week, so Yohannes eagerly stepped up to the plate.  From what I could gather, Faven and her friends are having a ‘talent show’ of sorts at school and she needed Yohannes to be the other ‘friend’ in the skit.  She showed him what to do, and then asked him to do it.  It looked pretty much like a model walking down the runway, complete with sass and attitude. 

Yohannes is not a stranger to being turned into a girl; nor is he a stranger to sass and attitude.  Honestly, he wears it well.   So when it came time to pour it on and head down the catwalk, he was all over it.  Faven was his performance coach, and Lauren and I simply sat back on the couch to watch.

After a couple of runs with only minor modifications Yohannes said, “I’ll be right back.”

I had a feeling that I knew what he was up to.  While he was gone, I asked Faven, “Where do you think he’s gone?”

She had no idea.  “I think he is gone to put on a dress” I offered.

“He better not be in my room! Or he is going to get it” she said.

“Settle down” I told her, “You asked him to pretend to be a girl in the first place.”

Just then Yohannes sashayed back in.  It would seem that he had gone for implants in the brief time that he was gone.  We howled.  He spun around and revealed his new B cup.  But that is not all!

He lined up for his walk down the runway, with a look of cat-like femininity.  He strutted towards us, and he paused before his pirouette and gave his mock-breast a little squeeze (while winking in our direction).  It produced a big squeak, and our dog Abby came barreling in – turning in circles, somewhat confused.  We all peeled with laughter as we realized that Yohannes’ implants were a dumbbell shaped squeaky dog toy.  The dumbbell was just the right length to give him two identical bumps right across his chest.

No one enjoyed this little prank more than Yohannes, in fact he was laughing so hard he fell right off the imaginary catwalk, his breasts squeaking all the way down!

Traction

I was very smart, intuitive really, to have booked my vehicle in a few days ago to have the winter tires put on.  This morning we are experiencing our first snowfall of the season; the roads are extremely slippery and everyone is driving as slow as if this phenomenon never happens here in Calgary.  I would be feeling smug, except that the tires for our (now gone) 2002 Odyssey did not fit our 2006 Odyssey.  They would fit the rims, I was told, but the slight difference in tire size would affect the speedometer by 5%.  So what? - I gestured.  Anything greater than 3% was unacceptable.  Ugh!

I could not have known it was going to snow this year on November 4^th – not really.  But I am still discouraged to be alternately spinning my tires and sliding through intersections while (ironically) there are four snow tires in the back!  It feels unjust.  In my life, I take the extra step to be adequately prepared – and when that doesn’t pay off, it is disheartening.

Perhaps I spend too much time preparing for the eventualities of life. However, it makes me feel more ready: emotionally, mentally, and physically, for the changing of the seasons within my life.  But so much of our lives are unknown, beyond our control or ability to prepare. Though I have learned that I can’t get ready for every situation, event, or season, I think that by attuning my priorities each season I naturally shift the flow of energy to what I can manage. It is however, a moving target!

At this time of year, when the sun tucks in earlier and earlier, I find I need a larger circle of support with frequent points of contact, yet less interaction and stimulation.  This is the hardest time of year for me to get some traction, maybe for most people. 

The truth is, it doesn’t really matter if I have snow tires, or not; I do have fuel and if I didn’t have fuel, well, I would still have money – or I would stay home! My priorities remain consistent throughout the year (or so I think), but my capacity to move beyond the top three: self-care, marriage and parenting, is hampered.  And so I will start the season without snow tires; fully equipped in other ways that will compensate for the loss of traction on certain days.  And when I find myself low on fuel or energy I will stay home, or if needed call (you) for a boost.

A Child's Responsibility

We were walking in the inner city hills, meandering towards the magic tree, when Yohannes stammered repeatedly.

“I want to…,” he started and stopped, “I want to …”  “I want to… OHH, I can’t remember!”

“Have many children?” I playfully asked.

“No, that’s not what I was thinking,” he said impatiently, “But of course I will have lots of kids,” he continued.

“Oh?” I said.

“Of course!” he enthused. “Imagine if you didn’t have any kids.”

Okay, I am imagining it.

“Who would entertain you?” he implored.

I turned to him and laughed, getting another glimpse into the workings of my child’s brain.

Food for fodder

In celebration of Faven’s second year in our family, and in Canada, I opted for Ethiopian food instead of traditional Thanksgiving fare.  I made the chicken stew, or Doro Wet a day ahead, as it takes an unfathomable period of time for onions to turn to paste and to get the deep and spicy taste that is characteristic of this dish.  To add to the menu, I made a traditional Mesir Wet, lentils, thick with onions, garlic and ginger; two kinds of potatoes and (for my more picky daughter), teriyaki chicken.  By now I had a degree of experience with Ethiopian cooking, so I didn’t stress too much about making it just right.  In fact, I couldn’t get to the specialty store to buy Injera, so I had my husband pick up Na’an bread instead.  Unheard of!

Our family had arrived, and I placed the dishes on the table, calling out the name of each one.  Faven was very pleased.  All was well in the world.  Moments later, Faven got up from her seat at the head of the table and went to mix up some olive oil and berbere spice – clearly signifying that I had not made the chicken spicy enough for her.  Not surprising.  However, when she sat back down, I watched with concealed agitation as she doused her whole plate in homemade hot sauce.  I was devastated. 

I tried to bite my tongue. Alas, it didn’t taste good. 

As I have done for two years, I made her action, to spread hot sauce all over her food, about me.  Clearly, I thought, she didn’t appreciate my efforts or for that matter, me!  I gently reminded her that not all dishes in Ethiopia are soaked in hot sauce; some have other distinct flavors RUINED by hot sauce.  My sarcasm and disappointment were lost on her.  She had a great evening with family, and I too, lightened up and enjoyed the family around me. 

The truth is that since Faven’s arrival to Canada in October of 2009, food has been one of the greatest challenges in our quest to assimilate.  That has come as a great surprise to me.  Two years in and I am still amazed, offended and angry when Faven shrieks, “You want me to eat this!”  It happens weekly, despite the efforts we have made to cater to her.  On a good day, I would stare at her with bulging eyes, while thinking, you have got to be kidding me – where were you born?  On a bad day, there would be a long and lengthy tirade about how much work went into preparing this food, how much the food cost, how thankful we should be for this food, and that I did it because I love her!  (Pause to ponder:  How could anyone, lest a pubescent Ethiopian-born adopted child, feel loved with their mother screaming frenetically at them?)  So each and every time I went into a tirade, so did Faven; and hers started with some form of, “YOU DON’T LOVE ME!” 

When Faven joined our family, I was well established as the chief cook and bottle-washer and had done it without criticism.  I cooked a variety of things to appeal to the different tastes and desires within our family.  However, we were all, basically, choosing from the same palette – some wanted more color, some wanted less.  Even when Yohannes joined our family, he ate all the things that I prepared for him, with the exception of potatoes.  In hindsight, I realize that Yohannes had a huge inner drive to become a Flemons, whereas Faven was well on her way to simply being Faven.  That is what I didn’t initially get; I made the great error of assuming that Faven would be thrilled to join our family (and therefore would be overjoyed to conform).  Ironically, I was equally confounded (in 2006) by the fact that Yohannes was delighted to join our family.  Go figure.

Food can be a tremendous source of comfort.  Within weeks of Faven’s arrival, we had hired a part time Ethiopian woman to come and help with the cooking.  On those days, one could see Faven unwind a little bit.  She joyfully hung her head over the edge of the steaming pots as her favorite smells filled the room.  I was grateful.  Whenever I travel to another country, my suitcase is packed with a few favorites, just in case they don’t have anything that I like.  So, why was I having such difficulty accepting Faven’s refusal to eat what I cooked?

I needed more information; I needed to find a way to accept that Faven did not like the same foods as me. I headed into cyberspace to read about taste and taste buds. There was no absolute answer, but it is known that we each experience taste differently.  Our own personal tastes are possibly something we are born with, like a personality trait.  Taste is affected by our sense of smell, the temperature of the food, age and quite likely, ethnicity.  So it makes perfect sense that Faven and I do not like the same foods.   But that is not the whole picture.

Part of my care-taking role is to feed my children; therefore, cooking was integral to my becoming her mother… wasn’t it? My emotions were steamed into the food that contacted her senses.  Food became a tangible thing by which I could measure our relationship.  I had inadvertently created the following ‘formula’:

(Food + Appreciation) Intention = LOVE.

In my baffled brain, it seemed simple and completely rational; food would bring us together.  From the get-go, it was not so.

Through agonizing hours of battle over food, and with significant supportive therapy, I came to realize that the battle was not about food.  That fact, and truly, it is a fact, did not seem to initially lessen my personal reaction to her outbursts.  Her tantrums occasionally bordered on ridiculous. One day, my husband had made rice for supper; this was one of Faven’s favorites.  He went around the table and put a dollop on everyone’s plate.  When he got to Faven, she covered her plate with her hands and shrieked like a pre-school child who didn’t want to take her clothes off at bath-time.  My husband, presuming that she was being silly, dropped the sticky, hot rice on top of her spread out hands.  She reacted without restraint– she thrashed, she railed, she cried and finally she fled.  We were speechless and utterly bewildered. Later, she revealed that she was upset because her Dad did not stop to ask her if she wanted rice.  All of our best logic was lost on her.  She wanted to be asked; she wanted some control. 

Ward and I attended a parenting workshop on the “Circle of Security” and how it pertains to our children and ourselves.  It is a complex set of skills to learn, and is not necessarily intuitive. A basic tenant of the “Circle” is that our key role as parent is to support our children and to follow their need.  That is easy to do only if we completely remove emotion from all situations.  Not realistic.  So, the greatest work comes when dealing with our children’s misbehavior, or rather a behavior that makes us uncomfortable and elicits big emotional reactions (either by them, or by us).  The seminar taught us that our children are not simply misbehaving; the greater purpose of our their behavior is to tell us something important is going on, and that they need our help.  Realistically, we are not always able to understand, accept or handle our kid’s big emotions. But we strive to ensure our kids know that all feelings are accepted.

Faven’s needs are complicated.  She clearly has needs that we do not understand, do not make sense and therefore frustrate us.  However, we undermine the message if we continue to shoot the messenger.  Food is essential to survival –so is love. For love to occur, there must be a secure attachment.  For Faven and I, it is safer and perhaps easier to make food about love, as it is less vulnerable.  If I feed her and she doesn’t like the food, she will be hungry, but continue to yearn.  But if I love her, and she doesn’t accept it, she starves. 

The Race

It’s Friday, and I am tired.

I’ve made fifteen bagged lunches, sorted, washed and folded seven loads of laundry – a rough estimate tells me that is over 400 articles of clothing, especially because a lot of those are children’s’.  The dog is fed; I know that because she woke me up at 2:30 and 3:30 am to let me know that I had forgotten her (again!).  At least the dog doesn’t lay blame.

It’s Friday and I am tired.

Up before dawn: yoga, tea, lite-brite and journaling.  Kids awaken with their dreams or demons hanging on, spreading their demands all over me like salve on a burn.  Calm kitchen, chaotic kitchen.  To school and home again, reading, spelling, agendas, schoolwork (that we never quite get to – gulp!).  I don’t know how to fit it in.  NO, it is not that – I don’t want to fit it in.  I have my kids for such a short time – can’t the school figure out how to help my kids get their work done during the six hours and twenty-nine minutes that they have them?  I have other plans, thank you very much.  Ahhh…I miss the endless days of summer.

It’s Friday and I am tired. 

I feel plagued by obligation.  (Either that, or I am coming down with something.)  The pull of it and simultaneous resistance to it is defeating.  I am certain that there is a Buddhist saying alleging the futility of resistance.  And yet, I am pulled and stretched by duty and jostled by expectation.  But whose?  A Mother’s life remains a To-Do List not ever a To-Done List.  It is simply a race towards --- towards --- towards nothing or something, death, I suppose.  There’s no ribbon to crash through, arms raised high, sweat dripping glamorlessly from your chin, yelling at the top of your lungs, “I did it.”  No applause.

It’s Friday and I am tired.

These five days, I drove 486 kilometers.  I wonder about the mileage for Stephen Harper’s chauffeur– maybe it’s more, but not by much.  How much time does it take to drive that far, both in and out of the city?  Now with the new distracted driving law in effect, I am out of touch with and unable to organize my life while I am on the go.  Surprisingly refreshing.  Drive. Breathe. Listen. Ohm…

It’s Friday and I am tired.

The complete cessation of hormones in the last day creates an imbalance I’m not ready to manage, again.  Cyclical, like a Ferris wheel and equally as nauseating, but much less predictable.  Cycles spin and overlap in a woman’s life, in my life. Flush and flurry, rushed and ready, calm and controlled, wet and sticky, tired and touchy, loving and likeable.

It is Saturday and the radio, which awakens me, promises a warm and sunny day.  What have I got to lose? 

Apology accepted

I was up for two and a half hours during the night with Lauren, who had had a nightmare. I was slow to start in the morning.

I was making coffee when Faven joined me at the counter.   “Mom”, she said with a thoughtful expression, “why don’t you lose some weight?” She said it with the same tone and expression she might use if she had said, Mom, why don’t we walk the dog, or, Mom, do you want me to paint your nails? 

I knew that the meaning for the words she just uttered was lost on her.  I also knew that she was not aware of my interrupted sleep, nor did she know that on this cool and rainy day (the first in weeks) none of my jeans fit.  No, she didn’t know - how could she?  I ought to have let the question go, or (at the least) adopted a playful spirit of inquiry.  But, I didn’t.  Would you have?  (Oh, you ARE a better woman than I.)

I launched into a tirade that would have gotten the dander up on a stuffed wolf.  “Do you have any idea what you are saying?  You don’t say something like that to someone!  That is so hurtful!  Instead you should be proud to have a mom who looks after herself and exercises regularly!  How many of your friends’ mothers play soccer!?”

Now she was beginning to realize that she had said something wrong.  She stammered, “Mom, I didn’t mean it.”

Don’t you love second chances? 

It blew by me. I continued, “What about the cardinal rule – if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all!!”

“Okay, okay” she said, and backed away without taking her eyes off me – lest I pitch the coffee machine in her general direction.

Not one to let someone else have the last word, I yelled, “And don’t ever say that to me again.”  Okay, I felt a bit foolish after that.

The rest of our morning together was not great.  Faven was sullen, and I was self-righteous.  We had to head out to an appointment to get Faven’s eyes checked.  Faven was completely miserable at her appointment.  She was the moody teenager that you see in the movies.  She wouldn’t answer any questions, she shrugged and looked away, she was uncooperative with the testing, and she took her glasses off every thirty seconds and then wouldn’t put them back on.  The optician (and I) did our best, but it was clear that we were not going to get the best out of Faven that day.  I realize now, I should have left the room.

As we were driving out of the parking lot, Faven quietly spoke from the back seat and said, “Mom, I’m sorry.”

Wanting to be clear on what she was sorry for, I asked, “For what?”

“For what I said this morning,” she offered.

“Thank you for your apology,” I said,  “I am sorry too, for over-reacting.”

There are a couple of things that I took away from this event.  One, she was the better person than I; she acted like the adult.  One could wallow in self-loathing over something like this, and I did have my moment of I should haves.  But eventually, and after debriefing with a friend, I saw an upside.  This was the first time, in our two years together, that Faven had apologized; the first time that she had taken responsibility for her part in an upsetting event; the first time she was able to take the perspective of another.  Inside, I celebrated that, not just for the action that she took, but also for the example I have been over our first two years together.  I have modeled responsibility taking and apologizing many times, and she was starting to understand (or at least see the value of it in a moment of disharmony). 

It was a proud parenting moment.  My mistake had turned into something of value, a moment for her practice a new behavior.  My feelings of stupidity, over my childish behavior, vanished like water on hot pavement; all that was left was the pavement and a new opportunity to put one foot in front of the other, while holding hands with one whom I love. 

Complaints Department?

Uuummmm……Hello…….. Excuse me……… Are you there?   I’m sorry to interrupt, but I am having some problems with the job that you assigned me.

Ohhhh? The job I assigned you?  What is the nature of your problem?

Well, that’s just it; the nature of my problems keeps shifting.  (Can you say puberty?)  One minute I am the captain of the ship, and the next I have slipped and fallen overboard, and am barely able to stay afloat. 

My dear, what are you talking about?!  I don’t recall giving you a job on a ship.  And if I did, surely I would have given you a life jacket.

A life-jacket – a jacket to protect me from life, what a good idea; do they work on land?  Oh, never mind.  The problem is, I think I am under-qualified for the job.

Under-qualified?  I don’t think there were any qualifications listed for your particular assignment.

Exactly.  You completely underestimated what it would take to do this job.  If I might speak frankly, I think you called me to this job without really looking at my particular skill-set.

So you are saying that I made a mistake?

Oh, I am so glad you brought that up.

I didn’t.

Oh.  Well, maybe you’d had a bad night, I don’t know!  This is harder than anything I have done so far!

You must realize that I have never made a mistake.

Sure, but hey…. it happens. Right?

Not to me. 

(Sensitive.)

Furthermore, if I remember correctly…… let’s see here…….. ah, yes…….. this particular assignment WAS an answer to a prayer.

A prayer? Yes, I suppose it was.  Hmmm, this is awkward. Okay, so let’s not focus on the past, you did your best right?

One can only hope.  So, tell me what’s going on?

(Like you don’t know already.)  Well, my 9-year-old daughter seems to have jitterbugs coursing through her body.  I don’t really know how to manage them.

I’ve never heard of a jitter bug – and I did create the world after all.  What are you talking about?

It’s just an expression.  Practically speaking, it looks like this: when she is nervous or stressed, she can climb on to the top of my head faster than an angel can save a life; she uses her limbs to strike out faster than a frog catches prey on it’s tongue; she sticks to an idea with such tenacity, that even Superman could not pry her off of it!! And that is not all; sleep eludes her wired body until we are both exhausted to tears.

Yes, this I have seen.  Be mindful: It is more than what you can see.

Well, Duh!

With this particular child, in these moments, you simply need to listen.

You’re kidding right?

Has anyone ever described me as a kidder?

Well, no – but ….

There are no buts,

simply listen,

be present without reacting,

and affirm without teaching. 

Your teacher is before you… listen.

My . . . tu-tu-tu-teacher?

Yes, of course.  Why do you think this child was gifted to you?  You need someone who will help you develop your skill of listening. 

MY. SKILL. OF. LISTENING.  I am a good listener!

Eh hem.

Listening is like the ointment for a wound, the hand that heals, and the backbone in a relationship.   Surely you have learned something from reading that Stephen Covey book: Seek first to understand. Much of what is truly heard requires no response, only a loving nod, an affirmation or a gentle touch.  To listen requires far more of you than talking.  The gap between people widens when only talking occurs. With the focus on talking, one hears mostly his or her words and thoughts.  But when the focus is on listening, one learns about the desires of another; the space between the two shortens.

It sounds good, but what about my other responsibilities? Everyone has high needs!  I can’t cope with it all!

You may have heard the saying, God never gives you more than you can handle, well I started that saying, so that you would know that you do have everything you need within you , and around you, to cope – and even thrive!

Really?

Really.

Everything?

Everything.

But, I have taken all the “Club Mom” parenting seminars TWICE and still, there are times when I feel overwhelmed.  Everybody (in our family) has special needs, and there are times when I just want ordinary – easy street, ya know?

Humans are wonderfully made and therefore each and every one of you is special.  There are no two alike.   That is why it feels overwhelming; each individual in your family has unique wishes, wants and needs.  There is no shoe made that will fit each and every one of you.  You will need to step out of your comfortable Birkenstocks in order to understand where your child, or husband is standing and how they are feeling in that moment.

But it is so hard.  I don’t think I can do it.  What if I fail?

Fail!  What if you don’t fail?  You must make mistakes to see disharmony is part of harmony.  They do not exist without each other.  Just as the earth’s rotation gives us sunlight and darkness, warm and cool, awake and asleep – your mistakes and your achievements are the journey, one providing balance for the other.

I see.  . . . . . .

You know, there are times when I am so tired from the barrage of wishes, wants and needs, not to mention tasks and chores, that I feel like I can’t put my shoes on and take another step. 

Of course, my child, you are human, made with limitations. Accept it.

In those moments sit down, take a breath, light a candle and know that I am right there holding you up. 

What message can I send you every day, so that you will know that in every moment, despite all circumstances, you are enough?

I think…….. I think …….. gosh, well, I think you’ve pretty much nailed it.  When I wake up and open my eyes send me the message that whatever the day has in store, I am equipped to handle it, and I am good enough.

You got it.  And I’ll ask you to do one thing for Me, for yourself.

Sure.

Take your right hand and put it on your left shoulder, take your left hand and put it on your right shoulder, take your eyes and turn them to the heavens – give yourself a squeeze because you are loved.