Patience and Compassion

I’m an impatient person. I have ALWAYS been impatient. (Ask my mom about the raging tantrums I threw as a baby.) I’m reminded of the time I expressed my impatient disposition to Tom T. during my time at GM. He said, “You can only manage your weaknesses; you can never truly get rid of them.” Throughout my life and experiences, and specifically, motherhood, I have, true to Tom T.’s sentiment, slowly learned to behave more patiently, even though I don’t always feel patient, internally. My children have definitely been my spiritual guides to patience.

Before my initial ascension of the Infinite Learning Curve of Patience, I often resorted to reducing things and people to stupid if they didn’t fit in to my vision of smart, right or whatever. I can’t even estimate how many times I’ve said, “That’s SO stupid.”

It’s pretty embarrassing to think about that, because now days I possess more compassion than I did before motherhood, and I am a recovering the-world-revolves-around-me type of thinker. Now, when someone doesn’t perform to my standards, the question I ask myself is Was my expectation was fair to begin with?  rather than What in the hell is wrong with that person? I also consider what a person might be going through and how they have been shaped throughout their lifetime, acknowledging that there’s far more I can’t know rather than do know about any given person (or situation).

Patience and compassion. Two gifts acquired along my mothering journey thus far.

How’s that for a paradigm shift?

Choose happiness

**This is a blog transplant from my private blog Positive from April 1, 2014, which I edited a bit for this post.**

My last post was very romantic, sharing accounts of intimate moments with my kids. But let’s be real, there are plenty of moments when I stare blankly while ingesting copious amounts of chocolate, listening to the kids scream and cry, hoping it will cease before my brain explodes. Or times when I see red because M just won’t stop hurting my other baby. Parenting is stressful, VERY stressful, and some moments/hours/perhaps even days/weeks just suck.

I think it’s important that mothers feel entitled to express their grief and tribulations as they raise their adults-to-be. Venting can be an effective mechanism to relieve stress, and sharing the woes of motherhood with others can be validating and most therapeutic.

As with everything in life, however, there is threshold, a tipping point beyond which venting frustrations becomes overly negative to the extent that it might spill over into other aspects of one’s life, parenting, friendships, and so on. Once upon a time it was my observation of people who were constantly annoyed or in combat with their kids that left me leery about wanting to become a mother, myself. Negativity, in general, is never attractive, and I didn’t want to hate my life or myself, not to mention my kids.

When I became pregnant with M and started a parenting blog, I chose to name it Positive as a sort of triple entendre: 1. the pregnancy test indicator was a plus sign 2. I made a commitment to myself to give my child(ren) positive experiences, and 3. perhaps more importantly, I was going to enjoy motherhood as a positive time in my life. I didn’t want my experiences to be like many of those which I had observed where parents seemed miserable and out of control of themselves and disconnected from the fact that they were engaging with children.

Our perception is reality
Make no mistake, I’m not suggesting that we lie to ourselves and pretend that every moment of parenting is fantastic. It’s not. I’m very much a realist, and I know there is frustration, anger, pain and madness. But I also know that the good doesn’t invalidate the bad, and that the bad doesn’t invalidate the good.

Being a realist requires having appropriate expectations, and I think this is what helps me the most. I simply expect and accept that we’ll have rough days. I expect and accept that my children will push boundaries and one another as they find their way out of wee-dom. I expect and accept that their capabilities and limitations (mentally, emotionally, and physically) are/will be in a constant state of flux, well into their teen years (and beyond). I expect and accept that I’ll make a zillion mistakes as I navigate my way through motherhood.

Accepting the ups and the downs is, in my opinion, the first step to being able to parent more positively (for everyone involved).

Perspective
When we know better, we do better (a little nugget of wisdom that I first heard spoken by my midwife). I accept that. I embrace it. I don’t really kick myself over mistakes passed. I’m much more inclined to look forward for a chance to do better next time. I’m also likely to look ahead (to tomorrow or even a few years down the road) to try to pull myself out of any funk I might fall in to.

I noticed a poster on the wall at the dentist’s office that said “Choose Happiness” and was immediately reminded of a friend, specifically because she told me that she cognizant-ly chose happiness during the aftermath of her stillbirth. I think of her all the time, how she still thrives in the face of great loss, the way she continues to live, mother, be a wife and a friend and a midwife, all the while enduring a loss that is truly indescribable and will never go away.

Choice. Perspective.

The way we experience life stems from our perspective of it. We do have a choice. We can be respectful to our children even when we’re livid. We can clean the slate and have a do-over. We can take a step back and calm down when we’re losing our patience. We can let go of anger and frustration and just be (wrong, right, or nothing at all). We can let things slide once in a while. We’re not always the best versions of ourselves. There are countless reasons to excuse one’s responsibility for their perspective. We can choose how we address and grow from the challenges that come before us.

I like to say that if we treat people like thieves and idiots, we’ll get thieves and idiots. I extrapolate this to motherhood as well: if I treat my kids like adversaries who annoy the shit out of me, what kind of adults can I expect them to become? What kind of relationship will we have decades from now? I try to roll with the punches. I apologize when I lose my shit. I adore and affectionately engage with my little guys as much as I can. I choose to be happy with them and myself, overall, rather than dwell on our collective mishaps. And when the going gets rough, I eat chocolate.

My boys

**This is a blog transplant. I originally published it to my private blog Positive on March 17, 2014.**

Gently and lovingly, I push back the furry, red curls popping out around his ears, smoothing them down, admiring the light glistening off his sweet head of hair. Admiring every curvature of his face and those gorgeous, enrapturing, blue eyes, I breathe deeply, slowly, recording every aspect of his beautiful existence to memory. He’ll never be this way again, this wobbly-walking, squawking, jump-in-my-lap-shower-me-with-cuddles cutie ever again. Sweet, sweet C.

Admiring the way he studies every movable object, determined to understand its inner workings, my heart swells. Today it was the lower rack of the dishwasher that C hulked away from the door and onto the floor. M put it back, moving it, examining the rollers, iteratively figuring out its proper position. After ensuring it rolled smoothly in and out, he asserted that he’d fixed it; not sure who was prouder, he or I.

At bedtime he approach C as I nursed him; he snuggled him, gently and sweetly, whispering goodnight before climbing into his bed. Brothers.

Sustenance for my soul.

Never again will my boys be exactly who they are at this time. Each day I balance romance against turbulence, love against frustrations, all in the name of appreciating and celebrating each version of my boys as they progress toward adulthood, lest I look back with regret at being too overwhelmed with the work and commitment of motherhood. It’s not easy. Nothing is sweeter than the sweet, nothing is as complicated, infuriating nor exhausting as the challenge. Neither invalidates the other, but romanticizing their cuteness, innocence, and wonderment is the very best part.