Tag Archives: parenting

Working-Mother Mindfulness

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It doesn’t matter how long we’ve been working professionals or how many years we’ve been mothers … Being a working mother is sometimes akin to running a marathon while balancing two plates on your head.

As I head into my 17th year of teaching, my anxiety does not have to do with students, class preparation, workload, or burnout; it has to do with that challenging, rewarding, insane balance of being a full-time professional and being a mom to two young kids.  I want to be an outstanding, unconditionally loving mother who is available in all ways.  Yet, I also want to be a great teacher whose students know she’s dedicated.  I’ve got the class preps completed; I’ve got the administrative pieces under control; I adore my students; I am surrounded by majestic mountains every which way I turn; and I work at a place with supportive, good people.  Seems as though I should be able to jump in with complete ease, right?  But a feeling of anxiety persists as the opening days of the academic year draw near.  Why?  Because, for the last 7 of my 17 years teaching, I have habitually felt a level of self-induced guilt every time I walk out the door to go pay attention to other people’s children.  And as a perfectionistic professional, there is a tinge of guilt when I don’t have as much time to dedicate to certain tasks as my childless peers.  Either way, I induce myself with the sense of not giving either one my absolute best, because so much energy is going to feeling the guilt.

But I am ready to shed the working-mom guilt.  I am ready to find balance.

This is my vow to myself:  When I am with my children and husband, I will make every effort to be mindful.  When I’m with them, I will make every effort to truly be with them – to play hard, to embrace fully, to witness them wholly, to love them as completely as I can in every moment.  And when I am at work, I will make every effort to be mindful.  When I’m with students, I will make every effort to truly focus all of my energy on them in that moment, and to do so out of love and service.  No multitasking, no worrying, no guilt.

One thing in the moment – whether it be family or work.

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If I had a daughter, this is what I would tell her:

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1. You do not need a man in your life to be complete.

2. When a woman is assertive, she is often labeled as aggressive (or worse).  Don’t let that stop you from being assertive in all aspects of your life.

3. Some will label you “weak” if you want to get married, take his name, have children, and stay at home.  Others will label you  ”unfeminine” if you choose to keep your name, focus on career, and be driven outside of domesticity. They’re all wrong.  So long as you make your life choices with your own happiness in mind, the path you choose is right.

4.  The women you think are so perfect have just as many struggles as you; they just hide them better.

5. The models you see in magazines and on TV do not really look like that.  They are airbrushed, made up by professionals, and surgically altered.  You need not envy something that is not real.

6. When you look in the mirror, try to fill yourself with gratitude instead of disdain.  Someday you will no longer have this body that works so hard to keep you alive.  No matter what its size or shape, remember that your body is miraculous and deserves love, not criticism.

7. If a man calls you a name or puts his hands on you – even once – he is abusive, and it will get worse if you do not leave.

8. If you’re sexually active, people will call you names.  If you’re not sexually active, people will call you names. They’re all wrong.  What you do with your body, who you do or do not choose to be physically intimate with, and when you choose to be sexual, is your business and your choice.  Whatever you choose is OK, so long as you do it with self respect.

9. Never let any teacher, parent, friend, or boyfriend dampen your sense of self worth.  Know in your heart that you are perfect as you are – no matter what grades you get, no matter what friends may say about you, no matter what any man thinks of you.

10.  Women can be our own worst enemies.  We sometimes gossip about or judge each other, but  these behaviors are born of jealousy, and jealousy is born from insecurity.  If you participate in any of these behaviors, you are perpetuating women’s collective low self esteem.  Try to celebrate another woman’s beauty, success, or happiness, and you will be part of the evolution of womanhood.

Any choices you make in life – from the trivial decisions of what to wear and what movie to watch, to the greater decisions of whom to marry and where to live -, make them with self respect in mind.

 

Truth #2: You are a genius.

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“The true sign of intelligence is not knowledge but imagination.” - Albert Einstein

English: Albert Einstein Français : Portrait d...

English: Albert Einstein Français : Portrait d’Albert Einstein (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

You are a genius.  Yes, you.

Maybe people – parents, teachers, society – told you directly that you were “stupid”.  Or maybe it was said slyly, covertly, through low grades or minimal expectations for your ‘success’.  Or perhaps it was communicated to you with eye-rolling exasperation at the way you did – or didn’t do – things.  If any of this resonates with you, I’m here to tell you:  They were wrong.

We’re taught to think that academic achievement, impeccable grammar, or a PhD represents intelligence, while bad grades, fewer degrees (if any), or manual labor professions represent some kind of ‘lower’ intelligence.  That’s all a lie.

Academic achievement in an average American public school typically recognizes two or three types of intelligence:  those who can study well, those who can memorize information from hearing or reading it, and those who learn what various teachers like and then oblige.  There is no question that students who earn high marks do have terrific brains in this capacity.  But this is merely one type of intelligence.

It may be hard for teachers or parents to see, but if we look deep beyond the labels of ADD, hyperactive, or “dumb”, we can and will see extraordinary, oftentimes untapped genius.

Genius is the auto mechanic who understands what a rotary engine is and knows how to fix it. Genius is the artist who intuitively frames, crops, and presents a stunning photograph. Genius is the athlete who gracefully runs a 5k or hits a home run. Genius is the woodworker who knows precisely how to cut 90-degree angles and secure them together to build a jewelry box. Genius is the daycare provider who patiently soothes and distracts a tantruming toddler. Genius is the chatty child who can make a room full of people laugh. Genius is the piano player, the painter, the dancer, the plumber, the dog trainer, the repairman. Genius is you.

There is no such thing as “dumb”; there is only unrecognized genius.  Now go discover yours.  

Letting Go

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The love I feel for my children is indescribable in words, for no word could ever begin to do this kind of love justice.  This love is more dynamic than gravity, more intense than a black-hole, more radiant than a hyper-nova.

So, it is no surprise that I was having a hard time letting go of my first-born’s early childhood.

It hit me for the first time on his seventh birthday, when he whispered shyly, Ohhh, that was embarrassing … after he called his father Dadda in front of all his friends.  A few days later, his first tooth fell out, and suddenly his face metamorphosed into that of a child who is no longer a baby, but rather a young boy who is on the edge of the awkwardness of the pre-pubescent years.  Then came the health check-up, with the doctor warning me that puberty happens much younger these days and to look out for signs beginning in the next year.  Gasp.

And so, with all of these signs of blissfully wonderful, healthy growth, my heart ached.  It ached for the time when he slept in my arms, for the sweet high-pitched voice that mispronounced the simplest of words, for the smell of newness on his breath, for the days when it was perfectly acceptable to call me Mommy and his father Dadda in front of his friends, for the unmarred innocence and naivety that shone behind his bright eyes.

Last night, as I was tucking him in, instead of treating him like the little one he once was, I accepted that he is growing up and out of of his earliest childhood years.  I let him take the lead in our conversation, and we talked about Pokemon, about life after death, about engineering, about why his friend’s parents might have broken up.  I accepted who is at this moment, a growing-up boy who is experiencing the world and learning to navigate it at his own pace.  My heart still ached a bit in the background, yet this conversation with my little man was refreshing and exhilarating, a glimpse into the evolution and joys that lay ahead.

After our conversation, Kyan looked at me with those same sweet brown eyes that I have looked into a million times before, reached out his hand, and asked me to hug him.

Which I did, for a good long while.

When Time Doesn’t Heal a Broken Heart

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GetAttachment-6.aspx

 

My dog Vanecia was my first love. She was also my caregiver, my playmate, and my confidante. I loved Vanecia so much that one day when I was 7 or 8, I dressed her up in a white nighty and married her, a marriage witnessed only by the warm spring sun and our family goldfish. But I married her nonetheless, and at the time, you could not have convinced me that I was anything less than Vanecia’s wife. I was the center of her life, and she was the center of mine.

 

When Vanecia was a puppy and I was barely old enough to walk, she loved to run freely along the creek, staying just a few feet behind me at all times. When we were a little older, we spent our afternoons wrestling in fallen leaves, drenching ourselves in sunshine and immersing ourselves in crackling, crunching, leafy joy. This was childhood at its finest.

 

We learned to rely on one another in myriad ways. Vanecia learned to count on me for meat handed to her surreptitiously under the dinner table, for endless games of tag, and limitless affection and love. And I could always count on her to be waiting for me at the end of the driveway at exactly 3:08 pm, when the bus let me off and closed its doors on the anxiety and loneliness of another torturous day in grade school. At bed time, it became a comforting ritual to lay on my right side and dangle my left hand off the edge of the bed, resting it on the tip of Vanecia’s thick, coarse fur as we drifted into sleep. I trusted her to keep my secrets about how I longed for the coveted Chris M., whose wavy blonde hair curled just so at the nape of his neck- my first bitter taste of romantic rejection. And most of all, I grew to count on burying my head in her soft warm fur whenever I hid in the corner of my bedroom closet, scared of life as I knew it. This was the purest, safest, most extraordinary friendship, my anchor in the midst of an unpredictable and volatile ocean.

 

I remember walking to the bus stop one spring morning in fifth grade; I had this slimy, sinking feeling in my gut. It was field day at school, which was far more dreadful than any math or English class could ever be to me. But something else was nagging at me. As always, once I reached my bus stop a quarter mile away from our house, I quickly untangled the very geeky braids that had been the subject of much torment at school, and I hugged Vanecia good-bye. But I felt compelled to squeeze her a little tighter than usual, to embrace her just a little longer. And into a flickering, furry ear I found myself whispering, “I love you soooo much.”

 

The bus came. I climbed on. And I never saw Vanecia again.

 

When I got off the bus that afternoon, and for all the afternoons that were to come forever after, there was no more Vanecia to greet me. No more Vanecia to walk me to my bus stop every morning. No more Vanecia to fall asleep with. No more Vanecia to ease my unbearable preteen loneliness. No more Vanecia to place my arms around every day. And worst of all, no more Vanecia to hug on sad childhood nights when I felt like Chris M., and my parents, and my brother and sister, and even my stuffed animals, didn’t love me.

 

To this day, I miss her.