We may not have a house ...

It's Wednesday and as I sit in my hotel room I'm about to cry for the first time since Friday night.

"I want my home!" Wesley sobbed Friday at Oma's house. "I just want my home!"

Notice he said "home" and not "house."

His words touched me as I lay in bed with my arms wrapped around his body. He fought me, but eventually sank into me and then sank into sleep. He looked peaceful despite the fact that everything he had just asked for -- his cars, his trains, his bed, his home -- was packed away.

Earlier that day I drove with my nearly three year old and three week old sons four hours away from a routine, a clean bathtub, and more than a few sets of ears, shoulders, and arms on which I could rely. My husband and our dogs followed us much later in the evening. The separation was our solution to meeting the competing needs to get Wesley out of a house filled with his packed toys and to stay until the movers finished loading a truck that hadn't arrived.

Wesley and I both were relieved to get on the road and start the adventure. I stopped every 45 minutes to nurse Boden. Wesley's cold sedated him a bit, making the trip more manageable than I had thought it would be. We arrived at my grandmother's home (after driving past Omi's house ... notice I didn't say "home") and Wesley perked right up.

Oma's home is not childproof and is filled with beautiful glass things ... which meant that I juggled the two boys for most of the afternoon and evening. I received some much-needed relief from my cousin Kimi (thank you).

So Friday night when Wesley fell asleep, Boden was in my cousin's arms in another room, and I had a moment to myself I thought about all the things I had left behind and let the tears flow. The tears turned to sobs.

"I was prepared for this move," I thought to myself. "I want this move." I sighed and wondered why change -- the constant sign of life -- can be so hard to accept.

Why not welcome change? After all, I don't want to be who I am today a year from now no more than I want to be today who I was last year.

*Sigh.*

I also desire roots. And roots grow deep when plants are left alone. So part of me is saying, "Leave me alone! I don't want to move! I don't want to start over! I want my home!"

Home. There's that word again.

I moved around a lot growing up and spent grades 10 to 12 in three different schools. During all of my moves I had two constant homes: Omi's and Oma's.

My grandmothers lived less than 1 mile from each other. Their homes have remained the same since I can remember. (Both still had their 70s shag carpet until Omi's recent death.) These two homes always felt like just that -- home.

I wondered, when Omi died, how I would be able to drive by her home again and not be able to stop by and sleep in its crisp white sheets or smell its unique Omi smell. The loss of one of my only constant places compounded the loss of one of my favorite people in the world.

Then, at her yard sale, when I saw all of the quirky things she liked and valued dismantled and out of the places they had been for at least 30 years, I realized that none of these things made her place home. I didn't even reach to save and take home some of the things I thought I would. Somehow, without her there to treasure them, they lost their value.

Some of her things are in my home (or at least in boxes in a storage unit somewhere in Texas). I have a rug my great grandmother made, my great grandmother's silver, her wedding band (melded to my great grandfather's band), Omi's china, her signature strand of pearls, and a few other things. Oh, and I have her signature plant.

If you know Omi, you know the plant.

"I clip them when the get leggy," she used to say. And she'd stick the clippings in water until they rooted and then replant the "babies". She often gave the plants away. I have quite a few in my home (well, in a u-haul trailer in the parking lot ... that reminds me, I need to water my plants and let in some sunshine).

I also have offspring from plants that belonged to my mom, mother in law, Oma, and a handful of good friends. I like to think of these plants as the branches and leaves of my own personal "family" tree -- rooted in my heart.

I don't know how to explain to young child, "Home is where the heart is." It's one of those nice things people say. When I hear it I wonder if people really get the sentiment behind it. I wonder now if I get the sentiment. My heart is right here. But where is my home?

I didn't know what to say to Wesley last Friday and I still don't know what to say to him when he asks for his home and his bed. I tell him that I want a home too, and that we are looking for one.

Now I wonder if I get that home is not the clean bathtub or the predictability of my everyday life? It's not the house I hope to find, nor is it the toys that fill the boxes Wesley longs to open.

What is home? Is it the couch? No. It's the feeling I get as I melt into the couch ...

Bo cried on average every hour of our trip. As soon as he would start to cry (and often right before when I was following my instincts) I would pull off the Interstate and into a McDonald's parking lot and walk around to his side of the car. I'd open the door and start talking to my hungry son. As soon as he heard my voice his face would start to relax. As soon as I picked him up his body would start to relax. As soon as I held him and nursed him he'd melt into me in a way that said, "I'm home."

If he's home. Aren't I?

Our couch may be in storage, but we sink into each other.

We may not have a house, but we've sure got a home. Read more!

My Training, Our Move, and Holes

I spent a 3-day weekend training in Advanced Integrative Technique, formerly called Seemorg Matrix work. What? You don't know what that is by the name? It is one school in the growing field of energy psychology.

This particular seminar was titled Presence and taught us how to use AIT to remove trauma related to dissociation, which interferes with whole presence to the here and now. I enjoyed the training and hope to find a way to work with it in San Antonio after our move. Heck, I hope to find a way to continue all my training in San Antonio -- I love it. Everything I study is enjoyable and I find it rather fulfilling, a definite part of the complete me that as a mom I could easily neglect.

"After our move."

It's just a three-word phrase and yet a lot will shift between now and then.

First of all, we've got to figure out the logistics of moving two cars, two dogs, two boys (one nearly three years old and another three weeks old), and ourselves from North Carolina to Texas (Yes, we are taking donations to the "keep Wesley mindlessly entertained fund"). The logistics, Patrick and I can and will handle. There are a lot of options and some combination of people and dogs and valuables in cars and perhaps planes will get our family to our new home. Every time we make a plan we find new holes to fill, but I'm confident that eventually the only holes that we'll be watching out for will be pot holes.

I am more concerned with bridging my training and education while not being swallowed by all that will be required of me in the first few months. After all, I will have two children to adjust to a new life, one in a new place with a new brother, another to a whole new stage in his spiritual journey.

As you know, I've enjoyed studying transactional analysis, redecision therapy, and more recently energy psychology at the Southeast Institute. You may not know that I have some thoughts brewing on family development cycles, in particular family spiritual development cycles, as well as other ideas related to Drama Triangle roles. I could use a 9-5 week to write full-time in my office without interruption. That way I could organize my notes from all my training and my thoughts around the subjects above. But, as the birth draws nearer and as Wesley requires consistent stimulation through play and adventure, that time is less likely to happen. Which is fine, I can make do with stealing a few moments here and there to work on my projects, punch holes into papers and organize them along with my thoughts into 3-ring binders (I get giddy just thinking about it!).

I'd like to get this work done before the move so that in addition to unpacking, adjusting, and then isolation while Patrick is in COT I am not figuring out where I left off with a pile of unorganized notes. After all, one hand will likely be holding an infant and the other making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, and it's a lot easier to use my toes to turn pages when papers are in order. (Sifting with toes is a whole different skill that I have yet to master.)

So, anyway, here I am ... sleepless at six a.m., and updating the blog, it's better than lying in bed awake tossing and turning in search of comfort. Now that I've shared my goals with family and friends I may have just the motivation I am looking for to turn on the light, take out the hole puncher and get to organizing.

Of course, as I type that I look up and see the nail holes in the wall that need filling, sanding and repainting before we move .... *sigh* ... which holes will get my time? See the dilemma? And Wesley's not even awake yet. The holes in the walls are much easier to attend to: it's a time-limited project with actual results about which I don't care what others think ... my own work, however, is different. I have no idea how long it will take and I DO care what others think. After all, the thoughts, the writing, the field of endeavor itself says a lot about me and who I am.

I'll find a way to make time for both today -- me and the house. How about that? I'll let you know how it goes. For now, I'm going to make a small pot of coffee, put a homemade waffle in the toaster, and get to punching. Read more!

And this is why ...

you DON'T leave a bag of pizza-flavored goldfish within a child's reach.

This was an "oh-well, let him have his fun" moment Read more!

Yes, I'm that Mom

You guessed it, that was me.

Yes, I am the mom who had a hard time at the grocery store's self checkout line today.

Yes, I am the mom who asked for help from the checkout lady.

Yes, I am the mom who told the woman I had already pressed the buttons she had told me to press.

Yes, I am the mom with the child who kept leaning on the bag holder and messing up the scale and reseting my transaction.

Yes, I am the mom who asked her son not to do that anymore and moved him to her other side.

Yes, I am the mom who returned her attention to the card reader when her son started to whine and complain.

Yes, I am the mom who kept her attention on the card reader when her son threw himself on the ground and started to kick and scream.

Yes, I am the mom who picked up two bags of groceries, a tantruming son, and turned to walk out the door.

Yes, I am the mom who said, "have a nice day."

Yes, I am the mom who wanted to cry when your eye brows sharpened into a "V" above your tight-lipped disapproving silence. Read more!

Today is a Double Latte Day

... and it's only 7 a.m.

I'll tell you why when I get back from Lowes. By the way, I printed off a coupon for $10 off a $25 purchase that I found at this blog site.

OK, so I'll be back to tell the tale of the late brother and how it led me to a rare $4.55 purchase at Starbucks.

***I'm back***

I was inspired to plant an herb garden today when I found and purchased 14 herbs for .50 each at Lowes. I even purchased 4 at regular price to round out the garden, which is around one existing blueberry bush. I plan to plant another bush and two rosemary bushes to complete the edible section of that bed. Behind the rosemary bushes I'll plant a climber of some sort, a hydrangea and some sort of fall bloomer to go with the mums over in a corner.

OK, enough about my Lowes spree, back to the story of the morning.

Last night my brother Glen called and wanted a ride to the airport. Sure, no problem, just get here at 5:15 (since you are also borrowing a suitcase and want to print out your ticket information) so we can leave around 5:45.

Patrick and I got up at 5 a.m. because Patrick also had to be at the airport this morning, though we could have slept in until at least 6/6:30.

5:45 rolls around: no Glen, no phone call.

Where is he? I wonder.

I call.

Oh, I'm 15 minutes away, he says ... OK, I say.

30 minutes later he shows up. He spends the next 10 minutes packing and then gets into the car and says, All I need is my I.D. card right?

Um, well, do you know which airline you are taking?

He goes inside to print up his ticket information ...

We arrive at the airport 45 minutes before his flight departs.

So, what did we talk about on the way there? Him.

I told him how angry I was that he didn't bother to call me and took for granted that it'd be no problem to wake up when we could have slept. And what about Wesley?

I made sure to tell him that I love him and that my criticism had nothing to do with who he is, but how he behaved, because I know he has the capacity to think for himself and to be responsible and respectful.

This is an important point anytime we give feedback to others or reprimand our children ... remember to focus on the what, not the who. I'm not sure about this, but it seems to me that guilt is felt when we do something wrong, and shame is felt when we wrap up the who with the do and feel that we -- in our core of cores -- are wrong because we did something wrong. Simply not true.

I didn't call him a jerk, lazy, or a dumby (which I have heard parents do all too often), but rather gave feedback on his actions and how they affected me and my family.

And here's another point ... "I'm just not responsible" or "I just don't follow through" (which he didn't say, by the way, he took everything I said to heart and didn't make excuses -- yeah, Glen, that's so hard sometimes) are not appropriate responses. Responsibility and follow through are not genetic traits, they are skills! If you don't have them, either deal with the consequences and accept your role in those consequences or develop the skill ... responsibility and follow through do come easier to some than others, but that doesn't make them a genetic trait, they are skills that can be learned by anybody.

***

OK, stepping off my soap box now.

So, you see, I went to SB to get a latte to have the energy to get through the day with a very active 2-year-old on only a few hours sleep. While in line Wesley opened his eyes long enough to spot the chocolate milk, point to it and say "that" and put his head back down on my shoulder and fall asleep.

And THAT's how I spent $4.55 at Starbucks.

At least I made up for it with my $10 gift card ... oh forget it .. I don't need excuses ... I wanted a latte, I bought a latte -- good night! Read more!

TA Basics

A Primer

I realized as I started writing my entry "Doing vs. Being" that some background on strokes might be useful. Here it is:

Eric Berne used the term stimulus hunger to define the basic need for stimulation that was observed by Spitz in his work in orphanages. Humans are born with a need for stimulation of the sensory organs, primarily for touch. Without touch, babies do not thrive and they ultimately would not survive if let alone long enough.

As children grow, they learn to replace recognition, such as a smile, a nod, or a word of encouragement, for touch itself. Berne used the term recognition hunger to describe the fundamental cravings that humans have for recognition, or a stroke.

	Conditional	Unconditional
Positive	That’s a lovely picture.	I love you.
Negative	That line is crooked.	I hate you.

A stroke, Berne says, is any unit of recognition. Strokes can be positive or negative, conditional or unconditional.

Strokes help satisfy our recognition hunger, and in many aspects (as related to stimulus hunger) keep us “going.” Children learn to seek out positive strokes, especially from their parents. Where there aren’t any or are very few positive strokes to be received, they learn to substitute negative ones for positive ones, because any confirmation of existence is better than none at all.

Positive and negative conditional strokes train children in the world of "doing," and when used in balance and with the child's best interest in mind build competency. Positive unconditional strokes build the child's since of her/his own lovableness and right to take up space in this world and have her/his needs met. There is no place for negative unconditional strokes in parenting. Of course, if that is all one receives, so be it: A life sustained on bread alone is better than no life at all. And that's how "I hate you" becomes "I love you."

Read more!

Doing vs. Being

"I love you."
"But why?"

I've been thinking lately about my studies in Transactional Analysis and parenting, in particular about strokes and raising Wesley and our soon-to arrive second child.

Strokes are any unit of recognition. They can be positive or negative, conditional or unconditional. (See blog entry above for more detailed information.) Strokes for doing build competence; Strokes for being build a sense of lovableness.

As parents, which is most important? Your answer likely depends on how you were stroked as a child. Often times birth order and gender play into stroke patterns. Generally, first children are stroked for doing, last children for being. Boys are stroked for doing, girls for being. By the way, a doing stroke does not equal the power of a stroke for being. So no matter how much one "does" to feel lovable, it's never enough ... thus, the workaholic, the martyr, the ever-together soccer mom who does everything just right and still wonders what feels wrong.

So, this is where my focus narrows: Prayer.

Ever here or say the words, "I'm going to say my prayers"?

What is prayer? Prayer is a state of being (with God): Being in conversation, being in oneness, just being.

What is saying? Saying is a state of doing.

Why demote a stroke for being, I would say The Ultimate stroke for being to a stroke for doing? Because that's what we know. We were told to say our prayers or we were stroked for doing, rather than being. Doing is more comfortable, so we demote prayer to a checklist item. No longer is it as fulfilling.

I suggest to everyone that you pay attention to your language in the coming days. How many things do you "have" to "do" vs. how many things do you want to be.

How does this relate to parenting? Well, I can reward Wesley for doing a good job of putting away his clothes (which is an appropriate positive conditional stroke) and I can reward him for "being" responsible (which identifies a quality within him ... a way of being). One builds competence, one builds a sense of lovableness, both are required for autonomy in the future. (I'll save my thoughts on, "You're such a good boy/girl" for later. Suffice it to say, for now, the implication is that there is such a thing as a bad boy/girl. A lie.)

You and I can do this act of service together, or we can be in service together. One carries a workload, the other a sense of intimacy. Which are you more comfortable with and which do you want your children to be more comfortable with?

I want to tie this in to the words above: "I love you." "But why?" Recently, Patrick spontaneously told me that he loved me. I asked him what I did to inspire him to say that. His reply was "nothing." I didn't accept it. I wanted to know exactly what I did ... I was willing to demote the power of the words so they were acceptable.

Here's to everyone reading this: You are lovable, you don't have to do a thing to be so ... and neither do our children. Read more!

Thoughts on tantrums and being two

I am not sure where this blog entry is starting or going to go. For most entries I at least have an idea of what I want to mention.

Wesley's Aunt Casey took this picture while babysitting him last week. I attended a half-day of group therapy that I attend once a month, followed by two days of training in Transactional Analysis and Redicision Therapy.

I enjoy both the break from Wesley and the learning opportunity the training presents. One day I will really enjoy going to work as a therapist, when the real training begins. Thankfully, I'll have knowledge of a framework with which I can work and connections to people with whom I can consult when the time comes.

Until then, I am telling myself not to rush this phase of life -- the staying home phase. As difficult as this particular stage (raising a two and a half year old) can be, it will one day be no more. I have convinced myself that the tantrums and other familiar fights of this stage are normal and even beautiful. Now, if I could just convince the rest of the world ...

Unfortunately, some people assume that natural two-year-old behavior is a "problem" and that a "problem" with the child indicates a problem with the parent. What they don't know is that at two, when a child is up and running, talking up a storm, or on the ground flailing his/her arms and legs, the child is completely normal. There is no problem and there need be no excuse. What the parent does with that behavior can be a problem, but that's a much longer post than I would like to get into right now.

So, when you see a two year old throwing a tantrum, don't wonder why he's not sitting still and using his words like a "good" child or make up excuses like, "that poor child must be sick, that's the only way to explain the behavior, last time I saw him he was an angel." That completely annoying to the parent (this one at least) who knows beyond a doubt that the child is 1. still an angel and 2. completely normal.

Accept, at least in Wesley's case, that the parents are doing the best they can to meet the dueling survival needs cherished at once inside of the child: 1. the need for closeness and unity with the primary caretakers and 2. the need to identify himself as an individual who is separate and unique.

With patience, consistency, and firm boundaries, Wesley will find confidence on the other side of this battle.

You can probably guess some of the parenting frustrations that I have bumped into in the last week. Let's just say that I have reclaimed my confidence in my parenting, and it does not waiver with Wesley's moods, though others' perceptions may. I am confident that Wesley is uniquely Wesley, as God intended him to be. And that at the end of this journey he will know and cherish his uniqueness. Just in time for the next child to realize that he or she is in fact a separate being from the rest of the world ;)

So as much as I look forward to working and learning through doing in my field, I am concentrating on being right now: Being here for me and my family.

I think I'll talk about being vs. doing next time, because that too is on my mind lately. Read more!

Places we go ... principles that stay

Wesley and Emily went to the NC Museum of Life and Science today. It's a great place for children. Some of you have been there and seen the butterfly house, the remote control sailboats, the bears, and the giant playground, and can attest to the fun it offers.

Wesley likes to watch the videos of rocket launches and to climb inside a rocket capsule and pretend that he his taking off. "Five, four, three, two, one ... blast off!" he yells.

Today he briefly followed a group of six school children as they looked at native owls, turtles, snakes, alligators, etc. "Oh, wow," he repeated after the six year olds. "Hey, look at that, that's a big snake." Then he'd laugh with them and run to the next exhibit.

We had a lot of fun before returning home and playing with his trains. "Your turn, Mawmaw," he'd say if I hadn't looked up from my book in a couple of minutes. Then he'd take a train and put it in my hand.

The pictures in this post aren't from the museum. Unfortunately, I left the camera at home. Nope, these pictures were taken back in November when Patrick and I drove three hours to take Wesley to Tweetsie Railroad. We sure love our adventures!

He had more fun playing in the leaves and with the Thomas play table than riding a real live steam engine. I don't blame him: It was cold outside and the train was LOUD.

Just yesterday Wesley and I stayed in all day. We didn't even go in the backyard or walk to the park.

Nope, I had to clean.

I was folding laundry when I heard a quiet little voice repeating: "A pure heart. Oh God, my God. A pure heart. Oh God, my God." He mixed up the words a bit, but it didn't matter one bit to me. I beamed and delighted in hearing him spontaneously repeat words from a new prayer.

The actual prayer by Abdu’l-Bahá goes like this: "He is God! O God, my God! Bestow upon me a pure heart, like unto a pearl."

Those moments tell me that his most fun memories fade in value next to his most firm morals. And those, we can offer to him wherever we are.

Read more!