It's raining. Oh shit, it’s raining.

The kids painted croquet set is outside. I should go get it, but it’s dark and I'm tired and don't want to get out of bed. I don't want to do what I should. I feel the panic of one moment at Emily's birthday party today when we sang “Happy Birthday.”

I was fine during the party until we sang and blew out candles. Just for a moment, my voice cracked and I looked at her. She was smiling, unsure of what we were doing looking at the little bits of fire. My body felt like it was melting into the floor, that pit of terror peeking open, remembering how close we were to not having this happen.

And a rush of wanting to hide filled me like stepping on glass. I didn't want to turn and see all those kind people who love us and held us together when she was fighting for her life. I wanted to get away from the permanence of her heart condition. I wanted to be alone and scream. This wanting to hide from a painful truth is a silent part of most days. We moms are good at getting support, letting friends hold us, dealing by bonding.

But I have a darker side in it, too. A childish, rageful side of deep loneliness where I stand on a different side of the river from my friends with healthy kids.

It’s a room without a door in and very little light, no perspective or even compassion. Some of me is unhealed, tied to old places of mute aloneness and uncertain of the value of really agreeing to love another person.

In the black chill of this rainy night, after a raucous, bright party full of delightful people, I choose not to go rescue kids toys from the storm, not to seek comfort for myself, not to talk to my sweet, sweet husband.

I am not the grown up who needs to be here to raise my child in the uncertainty in which we'll reside. I'm not that kind of mother. Is this one of the secret truths of motherhood? Even what we can't do, we do anyway. My heart lives outside of me, tied to little beings who can't promise they will live to adulthood. And I have to stay, dragging the ugly parts of myself along.

By Avvy Mar

Labels: Avvy Mar, birthday party, compassion, Happy Birthday, raining, storm, supportive mother

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We read that it’s good to praise your child, in fact, a ratio of five positive statements to every negative one is recommended. I understand the concept and believe in it. However, I am surprised at how often saying nothing at all is the best response, despite it being incredibly challenging given the driving insistence of my daughter.

Last week, she asked for a skateboard. Her dad bought her one. The next day at the park, she couldn’t get the board to turn without shifting the front end. She was frustrated and asked me what to do.

“Maybe your foot position isn’t right.”

“But, it is, Mommy. “

“Maybe it’s about weighting your feet on the board. “

“I can’t Mommy or I'll fall. “

“I don’t know then. “

“But, Mommy, it’s not working. The board is broken. “

“It’s not broken. You'll figure this out," I say as I walk away.

She feigns crying.

I know from experience that the ONLY plausible response on my part at this moment is to say nothing, no matter what she says, or what she accuses me of: in short, completely ignore her. This is very hard for me, because I am tempted to conjure up just one more angle that might solve her problem. The trouble is that she’s not listening to me, she can’t at this point. She has to realize that only she will solve it.

Friends, this has worked so many times. It worked with her Heelys. She was miffed when I left her stranded in the kitchen one day. But, guess what she did! She set up the kitchen chairs in a row and pulled herself from one to the next until she became more comfortable with the sliding action. Then, she took the chairs away one by one, until she was zipping solo across all the bare floors of the house, then down the aisles at Costco and Target. I could not have come up with the chair idea if I tried.

Will she master the skateboard? I’d put my money on it. Should I keep my advice and commentary to a minimum? Yes, except that I slipped yesterday. She completed a half circle on the board.

“You’re amazing!” I said.

By Vicki Inglis

Labels: Costco, Heeleys, skateboarding, supportive mother, Target, Vicki Inglis

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