The Princess, The Witch, and The Door

09 Feb 2013 8 Comments

by Deb D in Crack A Smile, Greatest Hits, Just Life, Parenting Tags: , , , ,

photo credittruthluvr.blogspot.com

photo credit
truthluvr.blogspot.com

 

For years I’ve been trying to instill in my children the practice of knocking on a door before entering a room.  Two out of three have mastered the skill.  But Principessa, the oldest, struggles with this basic concept despite (or because of) my repetitive instruction and begging.

After a recent infraction, when daughter barged in on me in my bedroom (alone, thank goodness) I snapped.  In response to a reprimand, Principessa defiantly replied, “It’s no big deal, Mom.”

Really?  We’ll see about ‘no big deal.’

The next day, when Principessa was out of the house, I enlisted her brother’s help.  He had just woken at the crack of noontime and wasn’t feeling especially generous until I filled him in on my plan – to remove his sister’s bedroom door.  Suddenly devoid of morning stupor, Beagle popped out of his seat and ran to get the tool box.

When Principessa returned home and entered her doorless room, she, how should I say it?….Freaked Out.  In retrospect, I believe her reaction was a full-blown panic attack.  No privacy, too loud, too bright! Her concerns were numerous.

Principessa demanded that I return her door immediately.  She had ‘gotten the point.’  Silly girl.  Why would I put the door back so soon when I had gone to so much trouble to remove it?  Sorry, Love, lesson is not over.

For two days the family endured Principessa’s ranting.  Gradually, she began knocking on bedroom doors.  Unconvinced of her sincerity, I held out for the rest of the week just to be sure.

I knew it was time to rescind the consequence when Principessa entered the kitchen for a glass of milk.  In a show of the utmost respect, Principessa walked up to the refrigerator and knocked on its door.  “It’s not answering, Mom.  What should I do?”

At last!  We had moved past anger to acceptance and finally to humor.  Lesson complete.

I did the parent victory dance that day.  You know, the one where you celebrate the fact that you’ve managed to teach a lesson without losing your cool or getting sucked into the endless cycle of parent-child power struggle.  You’ve managed to use your grown-up skills without resorting to arguing with irrational young ‘uns.

One week later, Principessa failed (for the millionth time) to turn off her bedroom lights before leaving for the day.  I calmly explained that her next lesson would involve turning off power to her room.  Still smarting from her previous consequence, Principessa snapped to attention with apologies and promises and pleas to spare her the agony.  She knows I mean business.  But I fear that some lessons are best learned the hard way.  And I suspect I’ll be in the basement searching for the right fuse to pull before the end of the week.

Poor Principessa, she’ll probably want to take her door off so she can let in more light from the hallway.

A Sensitive Boy

29 Jan 2013 5 Comments

by Deb D in Insights, Love and Other Things, Parenting, The Jig Is Up, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , , ,

Part I:  A Vicious Cycle

Once upon a time there was a sensitive boy.  He cried at the drop of a hat.  This annoyed the boy’s father who tried to toughen him up.  “Don’t be a sissy!” Dad said, which made the boy want to cry even more.  But he knew it wasn’t safe.  Instead, the boy choked back his feelings and hid them deep down in his belly where only he could feel the crying.

The crying worried mother, too.  “You’re too sensitive.” She said.  “You’ll get bullied.”  The boy believed her.  With practice, the boy became better at hiding his feelings.  But he didn’t stop feeling them.  Mother noticed that sometimes the boy’s face would turn red.  His lip would curl and tremble and his body would tense.  But he never cried again.

Over time, the boy would learn all sorts of tricks to hide his feelings.  He hid them so well, that even he couldn’t find them after a while.  One day, when the boy became a man, his wife would complain that he was devoid of emotion and unable to truly connect.  This confused the boy.

When the boy had a son of his own, he began to feel something stirring inside himself – something peculiar but familiar.  One day, the son got his feelings hurt and began to cry.  The boy, now a dad, wanted to cry too.  It hurt him to see his son hurting.  He remembered feeling that way when he was young.  But crying was wrong – dangerous even.  So the dad did what he thought was right and told the son to stop crying.  And the son did.

………

Part II – “My Son Is Too Sensitive”  – Is It True?

There is a story we tell ourselves about who we are and how it is.  We are too this.  Too that. Not enough of anything.  Every story is a variation of this shouldn’t be happening. Who would we be without that story?

Welcome to ‘The Work’ a la Byron Katie.  A process of inquiry.

I worry about my son because he’s too sensitive.  I want him to stop crying when his feelings are hurt.  And especially in public.  If he was tougher I wouldn’t worry about him being bullied.  I don’t want to see him hurting.  I don’t want him to get hurt because of the crying.

Belief:  My son will get hurt if he cries

  1. Is it true?   Yes
  2. Can you absolutely know that it’s true, that your son will get hurt if he cries?  No
  3.  How do you react, what happens, when you believe that thought? I get scared and angry and worried.  I try to toughen him up.  I try to help him not to feel.  I feel like it’s my job to change him.
  4.  Who would you be without the thought ‘my son will get hurt if he cries.’  I’d relax about him.  I’d comfort him instead of yell at him to stop crying when he’s hurting.  I’d be a parent who loves her sensitive son because I do love him so much.  I’d see how caring he is.  How he can sense what other people are feeling – which is a gift. I’d be able to love him and not worry about how sensitive he is. I’d support him.

Turn the thought around (to statements that are as true or truer): ‘My son will get hurt if he cries’

  1.  To the self:  ‘I get hurt when he cries.’  (True.  I suffer with worry when I think of what his crying means.)
  2. To the opposite:  ‘My son won’t get hurt if he cries.’  (Might be true.  I don’t know how people will react.  Maybe he’ll meet with sympathy and understanding.)
  3.  To the other:  ‘I hurt my son when he cries.’  (True!  I disrespect his feelings.  I dishonor him when I tell him he shouldn’t feel the way he feels. I do what I’m afraid others will do to him – I hurt him when he cries!)

……

I realize I have two sons in my mind – the son I have and the son I think I want him to be.  The real one and the one I imagine to be better and safer.  I try to change him because there’s fear inside that I don’t know what to do with.  When I question my thoughts and meet my fear, I see that in my desire to protect him, I am actually hurting him.  Where is the love in that?

I don’t have to change what I believe. But I can, and should, question it.   Because if I don’t challenge my thoughts, they plague me.  So I ask myself again, who would I be, who would he be, without these thoughts? Can I find one stress-free reason to keep my thoughts?  In the questioning, I begin to see that none of my thoughts are true.  On the other side of the questions is freedom – for both of us.

It turns out, the world is perfect.  It’s what I think about the world that needs work.

 

The Perfect Post

17 Jan 2013 6 Comments

by Deb D in The Jig Is Up Tags: , , , , , , ,

(image credit Lama Jigme)

(image credit Lama Jigme)

I’ve been accused of appearing perfect.  BA-HA-HA-HA! (Excuse me while I ROFLMAO.)

It seems that this alleged perfection of mine can be intimidating.  This concerns me on several levels.  Primarily because if I’m supposed to be this ‘perfect’ person,  I’d like to enjoy it.  Perfection must have a benefits package that includes perks like flawless fingernails and the ability to walk gracefully in stiletto heels – neither of which I currently possess.  (Point me to Human Resources;  I’ve been gypped.)

The idea of my perfection is as absurd a notion as the misconception that my children eat liver.  It’s just not true.  All the same, I’ve amassed enough of these false accusations  that I must set the record straight.  Because I believe I’m being set up.  (I do hope someone from the FBI is reading this post.  I could use help debunking this conspiracy theory.)

You see, I am a perfectionist.  Or as I like to think of myself, a recovering not-good-enougher.  This is not to be mistaken for actual perfection.  Allow me to explain.

There is a demon inside of me who set up camp many, MANY, moons ago.  This demon believes it is protecting me from the pain of judgment and shame.  It thinks itself a shield – a very heavy one – that needs to be carried around constantly in order to earn approval.  Without this shield, I risk death.

Ok, that’s a little dramatic.  But to the hyper-sensitive little girl inside, not being enough is a death sentence.  And the world is a very scary place.

The irony is, the perfectionism shield scares people away.  It makes them defensive.  And they, too, prepare for a fight.  Only, they have swords.  And daggers that come out of their eyes – especially when I show up at the morning bus stop showered, groomed, and ready for the day after a 5 a.m. workout.

Sometimes they throw stones when they see what I eat – a wide array of healthy fare – because it makes them feel bad about their own choices.  So they try to hurt me without noticing that I’m already hurting from the dietary restrictions my body demands.

On occasion, they get their big guns out and attack where it hurts most – my parenting standards.  They see that I’ve written a book for tweens and equate that with a claim that I am a perfect parent. Deep down, beyond their own fear of being imperfect, they know – and I know – that there is no perfect parent.  But the wanting to be one, that does exist.  And it causes a whole mess of disappointment and misunderstanding.

If one really needs proof, I’m happy to pull out a file box of imperfections.  Just this week I’ve filled up an entire drawer with mistakes.  BIG ones like forgetting my BFF’s 40th birthday.  Ouch!  And medium ones like mistakenly ripping off daughter’s ski club ticket that was supposed to remain on her coat for the season.  (Then having to swallow my pride and admit that I am that parent that didn’t follow simple instructions.) And little mistakes like missing a doctor’s appointment.  All in one week!  In fact, I’ve noticed such a sudden increase in personal imperfection that I’m wondering if someone is in possession of a voodoo doll named Deb.  If you are, I beg you, leave her alone.  She needs a rest.

She, the perfectionist, works really hard at not wanting to be perfect.  She considers perfectionism an affliction, a cross she bears.  This cross is not one she would have chosen had she known how heavy it would be, or how many miles she’d have to carry it.  There are times it makes her fall to her knees and her loved ones have to peel her off the ground.  They might even offer to carry the cross for a while.  But the fact is, the cross belongs to her.  She will be crucified on it, I’m afraid.

For now, she walks on, practicing self-love, learning how to trust herself and to trust life.  Trying, and often failing, to show herself a bit of compassion.

Please, do not envy the perfectionist.  Do not mistakenly label her as perfect.  That label hurts more than you know.  She is not only wildly imperfect like the rest, but also acutely affected by imperfection, and incapable of embracing it in herself.

Most importantly – LISTEN UP – she doesn’t think she’s better than you.  Nor does she want you to feel bad about yourself.  She only wants to protect herself in a world that, long ago, taught her it wasn’t safe to make mistakes.

Oh, The Places We Go

12 Jan 2013 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

In one week I am informed that two of my friends have cancer.  Another has died.  I’m at that age when really tough things happen at an increasing frequency – divorce, illness, death.  It’s happening all around me, but not currently to me.  So instead of the drama of utter despair, I have the luxury of a more detached melancholy.   A friend’s cancer reality will not change my day to day life, but it does change my view of the world.

Allowing myself to go to ‘that place’ – the deep fear place where the world is unsafe – is a slippery slope.  I fear I will be swallowed up by demons of all kinds and never climb out.  But go, I do, because it pulls me in.

I see myself sitting before God with childlike eyes and grown-up concerns.  I throw no tantrum, nor even ask for help.  I simply sit.  No questions come.  Perhaps because I know there is no answer – at least not one that I will understand or agree with.

All of my beliefs and convictions about life are pulled out of me and laid on a virtual table before me.  I sort through them, easily discarding those that suddenly, no longer have value.  Like the one that makes me floss every day and fret over the dirt on the floor.  The rest of the pieces I re-arrange, trying to make them fit together.  These trinkets are an awkward excuse for a belief system.

My child sitting beside me calls to me from what seems like a distance.  I catch myself daydreaming and scoop up the pieces scattered in my mind, tucking them away in a safe place.  I will examine them again, perhaps later, when the kids are in bed and my confidant comes home.

For now, I will continue my superfluous day wearing a new set of glasses.  Not the rose-colored ones, nor the sunglasses.  Today, I see clearly, almost too clearly – like when the eye doctor adds drops to your eyes that dilate them.  If only I could block out the light.  This new vision is just too much.

One week later, I return to a more comfortably numb state of being.  The “meaning of Life and Death” is not in every sip of coffee anymore.  My normal, slightly cloudy, vision is back.  I walk down the street called “My Life”.  It is flat terrain for now.  But I can’t help looking  back to see what it was that I kept tripping on.  And to be sure that whatever it was, is not following me.

New Rules

06 Jan 2013 6 Comments

by Deb D in Reconciling, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

2013Every year I denounce New Year tradition and proclaim my distaste for the practice of resolution-setting.  I suspect it has some relationship to my inner teen who still rebels against what she ‘should’ do.  Or the adult me who finds certain practices trite.  I mean really, how many times can we disappoint ourselves by setting up lofty expectations that crash and burn before Valentine’s Day?  We mean well, I’m sure.  There is nobility in wanting to improve ourselves.  But when we fail, as we so often do before year-end, bitterness sets in and we end up feeling worse about ourselves.  Silly mortals.

That being said, I’m willing to risk disappointment this year because I need a kick in the pants.  If you’re an avid follower of this blog (thank you) you know that my posting frequency has slacked.  I could blame life for getting in the way, but we all know that’s a grossly overused excuse.  Nor can I claim lack of inspiration; life is too rich for that.  My problem seems to be a set of impossibly high standards.  You see, I want to inspire and motivate and educate.  I want to write only meaningful material.  I want to entertain you.   I want, I want, I want.  Mercy!  The wanting gets in the way of the doing.  And writing is something I really want to do.

So I’ve decided to change my own rules. (Calling them rules instead of resolutions might make them stick.)  I can’t promise to be a writing rockstar, but I can promise to write.  This year, that will have to be enough.  So here goes:

Chaos and Clarity Rules 2013

1.  I reserve the right to post even when the content is not profound.  Sometimes simple is better.

2.  I will write about life as I see it, not as the world might wish to hear it.  That means things might get uncomfortable from time to time.  Reality isn’t always pretty.

3.   I plan to write once per week.  This will be more likely if Rules #1 and #2 are followed.

4.  I will not chastise myself for breaking any of the rules.

Simple, right?  Cross your fingers and toes my friends.  And comment and share on blog posts, even if you disagree with me.  I respect differences in opinion and enjoy the occasional debate.  I promise to behave if you do.

Happy New Year!

Deb

Is Love Alive?

16 Dec 2012 7 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Love and Other Things, Reconciling Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

candle2After hearing about the school shootings in Connecticut, I tried to fight the lump in my throat, but it threatened to choke me if I didn’t release the sadness welling up inside.  I’ve never cried so hard for someone I didn’t know.

As a rule, I avoid news-viewing of this sort.  But this day I am fixated like the proverbial moth to a flame.  And I am singed, feeling the sting of another’s horror.

This blog post will not pretend it has answers.  Nor will it join in the cacophony of anger towards guns or politics or school systems or even God.  As it likes to do, this blog will remind us to pause long enough amidst the chaos – even if only for the blink of an eye – to glimpse a spec of clarity.

At the funeral of an eight-year old that I attended years ago, the priest offered a metaphor that has influenced every challenge I’ve faced thereafter.  He said that life, at times of tragedy, is like a pot of boiling water.  When we are plunged into it, two very different things can happen.  If we are like an egg, we will harden.  Our shell remains unharmed to the naked eye, but inside we react to the heat with hardening in the form of bitterness and anger.  In contrast, the same boiling water, to a carrot, has the opposite effect.  The carrot becomes soft, allowing itself to be stripped of its rigidity as it gives way to a new form.

Therein lies our only choice.  For we cannot escape the pot.  Not one of us will coast through life without taking our turn with loss.  Which will we be, egg or carrot?

When I lost a baby to the treacherous business of childbearing, I cracked, like the egg that couldn’t stand the heat.  At first I raged against life.  Then I abandoned it.  Time became irrelevant; joy non-existent.

One morning I lay awake in a familiar state of numbness and noticed that the darkness of the room and that of my soul blended together.   The void that was me was so vast, it had no boundaries.  All that had once defined me was gone.

Vaguely, I was aware of my curled form, head down, no more than a lump on the ground.  Out of nowhere, a voice commanded me, “Look up!”  When I did, I heard one more instruction, “Remember who you are.”  With that, rapid screen shots of my life flickered before me – distant, fleeting reminders of purpose.

This was the day I began my healing.   Like the lame man in the Bible who was told to get up and walk, God had reached down from Heaven and picked me up by the scruff of my neck like a cub.  ‘Enough,’ He seemed to say, and sent me on my way with a gentle nudge.

This is how I learned about grace.  When I began to examine the depths of my experience, I became privy to the great life lessons that seem to be reserved for the experience of tragedy.

I saw the courage and loyalty of friends who refused to let fear withhold their extension of love, even when it meant doing nothing but be present.  I saw the tears in their eyes and the heard the sadness in their voices as a reflective measure of my own sadness and it comforted me.

I learned the value of family – the ultimate crutch.  The ones I can curse to or curse at and still expect their love.  The ones who pick up the pieces long after most people think the puzzle is back together.

And I saw the resiliency in myself.  No matter how far I had fallen, I could always rise again.

In the face of loss, I found these reasons to have hope.  When I allowed myself to experience sadness for all its potential, it led me back to love.

This is what I know to be true:  that grace exists for all people.  That we are never abandoned.  That healing is always possible.

We, friends and strangers alike, will gather around this enormous loss trying desperately to fill the gaping wound in humanity.  We will pray and think and do, yet still the wound may refuse to close.  Life has its own plan, its own clock.  Sometimes all we can do is wait for grace to arrive.

This is my winter song.

December never felt so wrong,

Cause you’re not here where you belong;

Inside my arms.

Is love alive?

I’ll be your harvester of it

And send it out tonight

So we can start again

Is love alive?

-Sara Bareilles/Ingrid Michaelson

Love-olution

09 Dec 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Love and Other Things Tags: , , , , ,

ThankYouNoteThere is a house.  In the house lives an elderly man.  He is all alone with no one to care for.  So he cares for his house.

This is how our story goes.  The one my children and I have concocted from our observations.  Every day for years we’ve taken notice of this particular plot which sits on the corner near my children’s school.  It’s a simple house, probably as old as the man himself when he bought it to raise a family in.

The elderly man is, by all appearances, fastidious.  Mr. “F” we’ll call him.  His lawn is manicured, his wood pile impeccably stacked, even his  trash cans are arranged with great care.  I can’t explain why, but we adore this man we’ve never met.  Secretly, we offer blessings as we drive by.  ‘Have a peaceful day, friend.  Keep up the good work!’

Sometimes, the man’s comings and goings prompt us to add snippets to our story about him.  Like the day we saw a middle-aged man on the stoop accompanied by a police officer.  We allowed our imaginations to run wild with horror.  Surely, Mr. F had died and this was his son who discovered the body!  A moment of silence passed before we shared our mutual feelings on the matter – he never knew how we appreciated him!  Regret and sadness filled the car as we offered prayers for our secret friend and his family.

Exactly one month later, fully expecting a ‘For Sale’ sign to pop up on the man’s lawn, we saw him.  Yes, him!  Mr. F was alive and well and tending to his garden.  A shout of joy went up, followed by a bit of shame for our mistaken assumptions.  Our relief at Mr. F’s reappearance prompted my teen daughter’s suggestion, “We should thank him.  You know, for making us happy.  We could give him a compliment card.”

She is recalling a family practice that began when she was seven years old and was inspired by her own enthusiasm for the  holiday season.  So enamored was she of lights adorning homes at Christmas time, she would beg every night to drive around after dark to take in the glamour that is unique to the season.  Witnessing the joy it brought her, we felt compelled to thank the people who decorated their homes.

We decided to write anonymous thank you notes.  Armed with a simple notepad and pen, we’d drive around rating our favorite displays.  Then we’d scribble a note of appreciation, pull over, turn off the headlights, and sneak up to the mailbox to deposit our compliment card.  We’d giggle at our sneakiness, satisfied that we had made someone’s day.   Who doesn’t love a secret admirer?

In an attempt to resurrect the joy of spreading good will, we pulled over to Mr. F’s house and wrote this note:

“We love how you care for your yard.

 It makes us happy to see you.  Thank you! 

Love, A Neighboring Family”

We imagine that maybe Mr. F walks a little taller, bolstered by pride in his work.  And we, too, walk taller.  Not from pride, but from the natural boost that heartful giving generates.

I love spreading love.  It’s free.  It’s easy.  Everyone can do it.  Which has me thinking….wouldn’t it be something if this little blog, inspired by one little girl’s joy, inspired lots of other people to adopt the covert compliment card practice?  What if it created a….love-olution?!  What do you say?  Are you in?

Uncommon Gratitude

22 Nov 2012 Leave a comment

by Deb D in Love and Other Things Tags: ,

It’s easy to be grateful for sunshine and babies and love.  It’s common to be thankful for family and abundance and safety.

But can I be thankful …

  • For a husband who rarely agrees with me?  Yes, because he challenges me to either compromise or to re-affirm my priorities.
  • That I don’t have everything I want, and sometimes not even what I need?  Yes, the limits and scarcity keep me humble and motivated instead of smug and self-righteous.
  • That my body is ‘only human’ – subject to illness and injury?  Yes, the body’s signals force me to respect my limits.
  • That I’m no longer youthful?  Yes, because I get to watch people fall in like with me for my other assets without the distraction of a stunning demeanor.
  • For people that test my patience?  Yes, they challenge me to elevate my game.
  • For my children, my little mirrors, who often reflect the worst in me?  Yes, they present me with countless opportunities see what I otherwise hide from my own awareness.
  • For ‘bad’ things that happen in the world and to the world?  Yes, these things give ‘good’ people a chance to shine.

All of these people and situations belie their purpose.  I can barely fathom what they’re about at times.  But their existence forces me to look outside my own parameters or else suffocate in my self-made misery.

This Thanksgiving, I remind myself of these overlooked blessings in honor of Mom who reminded me before every birthday party that we are to say ‘thank you’ even if we don’t like the gift.

Ode To Twinkie

19 Nov 2012 2 Comments

by Deb D in Just Life, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

Thirteen year old son and I sped through town like our lives depended on it.  In total, we hit five convenience stores and one major food store.  No, we weren’t pulling a Bonnie and Clyde, heisting these stops for cash.  But it felt like it.  With hearts racing, we considered all manner of threats at our disposal to get what we wanted.  We were desperate to find a single, traditional, gorgeous, Twinkie – the icon of my childhood.

My father was the first to break the news to me.  “Are you in mourning?” he asked, and went on to detail the tragic shut-down of Hostess, Inc.  I could scarcely believe my ears.

Those who have known me only since adulthood will be shocked to hear of my intense and solemn reaction to this news.  I haven’t eaten sugar, much less a processed treat, in fifteen years or more.  But for the twenty years prior, junk food comprised the majority of my diet.  So fond was I of Hostess snacks that a friend in college bought me boxes of them as a birthday gift.

For years I have chosen not to indulge, but now, being told that I can’t ever have another Hostess fix, well, that’s a new ball game altogether.

Just last week in the grocery store, nine year old daughter lamented that she had never tasted a Twinkie.  I refused her request on the grounds that we already had too much candy in the house from Halloween.  “Maybe after the holidays I’ll buy one for you,” I half-promised.  Little did I know that she may never get the chance to experience the joy of a Hostess cake. This is the real reason, I rationalized, for my frenzied search.  How could I live with myself if my youngest daughter never tasted a Twinkie?

Beagle was all too willing to join in the fun, pleased as punch to conspire with his ridiculously health-conscious mother in the hunt for junk food.  “I’ve never seen this side of you.” He said with amusement.

At one stop, Beagle tried bribing the young clerk for one of the last eight Twinkies he had cleared from the store shelf for himself.  “Nope, I’m freezing them for later.” The clerk coldly informed.  And I couldn’t blame him.  Every man for himself in cases such as these.

Our efforts yielded a sparse assortment of Hostess cakes – enough for each family member to sample only a slice of each.  During a bittersweet ceremony befitting deceased royalty, we consumed our plate of goodness.  We nibbled with respect, sharing memories of our first Twinkie encounter, voting on our favorite cake, and lamenting our future loss.  It felt as if my childhood was being ripped away bite by bite.

I had considered saving one Twinkie for posterity.  But then I remembered that I’m all grown up, sort of.  And contrary to urban myth, Twinkies do have an expiration date.  Succumb we must to reality.  It appears that Tallahasse (in Zombieland) was right when he predicted, “There’s a box of Twinkies in that grocery store.  Not just any box of Twinkies, the last box of Twinkies that anyone will enjoy in the whole universe.”

Sad, sad, times.

Loving Baby Teen

07 Nov 2012 1 Comment

by Deb D in Growing Up, Parenting, Uncategorized

I wish I could tell you what we were fighting about, teen daughter and I.  But I don’t remember.  There was a disagreement, I guess.  Or maybe just a misunderstood intention.  Whatever the cause, it took me by surprise – for the millionth time.

It’s like that these days – parenting a teen.  One minute I’m cruising through a benign day without conflict, and the next moment I’m ripped from the illusion of peace into a full-blown drama.  With increasing frequency this scenario unfolds.  Yet still I fail to divert it.  I feel as helpless in this regard as I would trying not to fall out of bed.  And the only way to prevent that is to put up a barrier.

I’ve tried that, putting up a barrier between me and Principessa .  But it feels all wrong blocking her out.  I want to be a good parent, a constructive communicator, a positive influence.  But truthfully, I don’t always know how.  And I don’t always know her.  She is changing, as she should be.  As we all do.

I try to glean wisdom from my own experience as a teen and come up short.  I recall only years of unrest followed by an extended period of regret and blame.  My intention to be different – to overcome the stereotypical strain in the parent/teen relationship – falls unanswered to the bottom of the wishing fountain like a heavy coin.

Perhaps my wish is all wrong.  It does seem delusional to hope that we will be the first mother-daughter pair in history to emerge unscathed from the formative years.  But still, I wish.

Because I made a promise so long ago when I birthed her, my first baby.  Standing over her crib, staring into an angelic face, I vowed that I would protect her and nurture her and never, ever, make her doubt my love for her.  I prayed in earnest for the wisdom and courage to be the mother of my dreams to this deserved little being.

Sometimes I think I am that mother.  Other times I feel like the mother I battled at fifteen, beaten down and weary from repeated rides on the emotional roller coaster.  If only I could keep myself on stable ground.  This is the key I need – a way to hold steady whilst the teen tornado swirls around me.

I remind myself that teenhood is tough.  Impossible at times, as I recall.  No matter how overwhelmed I am, my adult life can never compare to the confusion, excitement, and uncertainty of the teen years.  With this in mind, I loosen my grasp on utopian ideals and renew a promise made long ago to the infant version of my young lady.

I will still love you and protect you and nurture you with the fever of a new mother, but add to that the wisdom of a seasoned one. Fifteen years ago you gave me the gift of motherhood – a gift I cherish more than any other.   I renew my commitment to that gift with a strength and compassion equal to ten million mothers.

 Principessa, you are growing into the person I tried to imagine when I first met you.  And I couldn’t be more amazed.  You are perfectly you.  And I am me.  I cannot guarantee that we will not hurt each other as we grow – we are as human as always.  But I can promise that I will never love you less than I did when I first held you in my arms.

 Spread your wings, then.  Take the world (and your mother) head on, and be the strong, independent woman you are.   You will always have me, you will always be my baby, and you will always have a home in my heart.

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