Trip Report, Part 1

On the way down to my mom's place in Southern Illinois, we stopped at Lincoln's tomb in Springfield.  The monument is just right--not too showy or ornate, as suits a humble fellow such as Lincoln, but dignified, as befits his accomplishments. I was talking to a tour guide about reading "Team of Rivals" and how much more love and respect I felt for Lincoln now. He asked where I was from, and when I told him Minnesota, he pointed out that there was marble from Mankato, MN in the monument. I was touched--he really wanted to find a way to let me feel connected. In front of the monument there's a bronze bust of Lincoln based on his Mt. Rushmore head, and my mom told me afterwards that it's customary to rub his nose for good luck. Wish I would have known. He would have loved that custom, I think.

At my mom's place, I'd say the big highlight for the kids was going to the Bonifest, the annual beginning of summer carnival at my old church, St. Boniface. There were lots of inflatable bouncy things to play on, Grandma generously kept buying tickets, and Bridger and Cass totally wore themselves out--that night was the first time they both slept through the night since, oh, I don't know, Cass's birth three-and-a-half years ago. We also got to see my sister's ex-boyfriend's cover band play at the fest, and Cassidy busted some seriously funky moves to "867-5309" and that old Steve Miller song about being a joker, a smoker, and a midnight toker. It was fun to be at the Bonifest as a mother, watching the teenagers roam around looking for their crush objects, remembering being in their shoes.

I'd said in my last post that I was hoping to connect more with my son Bridger while we were traveling, and some really nice things did happen with him while we were at my mom's house.

One day he got frustrated because my mom had brought out a wooden 3-D airplane puzzle for Bridger to put together and it turned out to be very confusing and hard to do, especially because it was late afternoon, not the best time concentration-wise for Bridger.

Bridger declared the puzzle impossible and stomped off in a huff to find me--I was hiding in my mom's study looking something up on her computer.

"We should just throw that dumb thing in the trash!" he declared.

I paused. I think he expected me to say something along the lines of "We can't throw the puzzle in the trash." But instead I said, "Wouldn't you rather have a flamethrower? It's wood, isn't it? So you could really get rid of it if you burned it."

I treasure the look he got on his face--of wonder-filled surprise and relief.

"Or an incinerator," he said. "Or a laser gun."

In the end, we decided to just put the puzzle away in case another grandchild wanted to do it, and Bridger was able to let go of his frustration pretty easily.

Another day, Bridger bumped his head on a table trying to get away from my mom kissing him on the neck. He got very upset and was crying and yelling up a storm. I took him in the spare room and held him. He started yelling, "Let's leave Grandma's house and never come back!"

I could imagine how hurt my mom might feel about those words. But I could also sympathize with Bridger.  So I didn't silence him with talk about how Grandma might feel about him yelling that (albeit in another room). I tried to do active listening--to say "You really don't want to be here. It's hard to be away from home" and so on. Eventually he got up and went outside to sit in the van, still insisting calmly but firmly that we were going home now and never coming back. I asked him if he'd take a bike ride with me instead, and he said, "Why not?", his new phrase for "Yes." I walked beside him while he pedalled. I didn't talk much--unusual for me--or try to draw him out more. I tried to let the silence, the time outside, the exercise and just being together, be enough. And it was. He stopped talking about wanting to leave. He seemed to feel better, and he ended up having a very good visit with his grandma and my stepdad Steve.

In the past, I have gotten really rattled and self-conscious when Bridger gets frustrated or emotional around my mom.  This time, I just didn't feel as self-conscious.  I felt more trust that Bridger is finding his way, and that it's good that he still expresses strong emotion when he feels it. He hasn't learned the self-destructive habit of silencing his strong reactions to please other people, but at the same time he is learning to modulate his responses so that he doesn't hurt others with his anger.  What more could I ask for from a six-year-old boy?  From this particular six-year-old boy?

I also viewed my mom's responses in a different light.  Before, when she frowned and wouldn't look me in the eye when the kids got upset, I assumed her response was disapproval and judgment.  More and more, I suspect she's just distressed to see me and the kids having a hard time and afraid of saying the wrong thing.  I can be very prickly with her when she responds to the kids or me in what I think is the "wrong" way.  So I found myself trying not to assume so much about what she was thinking, realizing that deep down I really didn't know.  That helped me feel calmer around her.

As I mentioned in my last post, right before we left on our trip, I talked to Scott Noelle, a parenting coach that many of you might know about. We talked about my trouble with knowing what I genuinely feel and believe, without it being all mixed up with what I think I'm supposed to feel and believe. This last week, I really worked on checking in with myself more to ask "What do I actually feel right now?" instead of going down the road of "What do I think my mom is feeling about this, and how do I feel about myself as a result?" 

It's probably going to take me a lifetime to unlearn the habit of stifling my own intuition to suit other people. I am hoping that if I can learn to listen to my own children without so much judgment, without jumping so often to impose my point-of-view, that they will have an easier time than I do answering the question, "What do I truly believe?"  And if that isn't possible, given their own particular combinations of upbringing, temperament, genetics, and experience, well, I hope that if nothing else I can be a positive, encouraging voice in their heads as they sort things out.