Why Finding Fault and Placing Blame Won't Solve Anything

Yesterday I woke up early.  Mike was out of town, and I knew I needed to get up early to be able to shower and get everything ready before it was time to wake the girls for the day.

I had plenty of time for the things I needed to accomplish.  Get dressed, make breakfast, pack snacks and backpacks, get two 5 year olds ready for school . . . no problem.

Except . . . I decided to open my computer for just a few minutes.  (What was I thinking?!!!)

A few too many minutes went by and in a panic I closed my computer, rushed up the steps, stressed out from how little time I now had to accomplish such a long task list!

 And it's *that* mom that my girls woke up to.

Have you ever tried to get two little kids to do anything in a hurry?  If you have, then you can picture the scene in my house.

Pan-de-freaking-monium!

I woke up Shannay and told her to go potty.  Shannay's not a morning person. At all.  So I give her the extra time she needs.  Except we didn't have extra time today because I made a poor decision.

As I finished getting her sister ready, and then told Shannay it was her turn to get ready she said, "I need to go potty" . . .  just like she does every. single. morning.  She always waits until it's her turn and then SUDDENLY she has to go.  For real.

You see, she has control issues.  It's too much to explain so you can read this if you want to understand what I'm saying.  But the point is, I know this is how the morning is going to go down.  On most mornings, it doesn't bug me.  I don't let her need to be in control be an issue for us.  I politely tell her, "Okay, go potty and let's get ready."

But because I had made the decision to get online and waste precious minutes that I didn't need to waste, I was not the mom she needed.  I flipped.  I yelled like a crazy person said , "Shannay, we do this every single day.  You are not in control.  I am in control."

Side note:  Anytime you have to STATE that you are in control, you aren't.

The morning proceeded pretty much as you would expect it to go with a stressed out, flipped out mom. Lots of yelling, lots of hurrying, lots of tears.

When we finally got in the car, and we were all able to take a deep breath, I said, "Girls, I'm sorry.  You didn't do anything wrong this morning.  I did.  I wasted time on my computer and then I got mad at you because we had to hurry. I'm sorry.  It's my fault."

Nikki said, "Mama, fault don't matter."

Cue my mama tears.

You see, when we have conflict in our house, especially between the girls, there is always such a great need for them to blame, to establish whose fault something is.  And I often just say to them, "Ladies, fault doesn't matter.  Let's just say we're sorry, fix the problem, and move on."

Sure fault matters. But my point to them is that sometimes we are so busy trying to find fault, and place blame, that we get stuck in the conflict and can't move on.

Despite my parenting fail of the morning, she was able to reach beyond the craziness and find the reassurance I give them when conflict threatens to overtake them.

"Fault don't matter."

All that to say, if today you're feeling like you've blown it as a parent, take a deep breath, say you're sorry, fix the problem, and move on. You're probably getting way more right than you think.

I Give You Permission to Quit Trying So Hard

I love the early morning.  Before the girls became a part of our life, I used to wake up early just to experience the peace and quiet of life before daylight and hustle crashed in. It was during those quiet hours that I had the leisure to think my thoughts as they came; untidy, unfiltered, and unpolished.

I still rise early, but it's to be able to have time to brush my teeth and throw on some clothes before the mad rush of the day begins.  Some mornings, as I look back at the woman whose face I see in the mirror, I think, "Man, she's gotten old." 

I notice all the imperfections I see there.  The tired eyes, the fine lines and wrinkles that seem to multiply daily, the haggard look of a woman in her fifties with a whole lot on her plate.  On those mornings, it is so easy to doubt.  Easy to doubt God, easy to doubt His plan that includes me raising babies all over again; easy to doubt my ability to do it well, do it again.

But most mornings, I rise early, brush my teeth, throw on a bra, a t-shirt and some jeans, rake my fingers through my hair and think to myself, "You look pretty damn good for an old lady, Carol Jones."

Then I dash upstairs to greet the day and the two beautiful little girlies who await my morning greeting.

Amidst the frenzied pace of getting them dressed, fed and off to school, I am often caught off-guard by my reflection.  Not the one I see in the mirror, but the one I see in them.  Turns out, some mornings they, too, notice the tired, doubting version of me.  And other mornings, they delight in the me who is ready to conquer the day.

I've been thinking about my reflection a lot lately, because the me I see reflected in them is a much clearer reflection than the me I see in the mirror.  What my children learn and receive and hear and see in me; they will practice those things, they will reflect those things. 

All that to say,  I'm not trying to pressure myself into becoming a perfect mom so that my kids will reflect that.  I'm giving myself permission to relax, take life a little slower, a little easier, let some things go that aren't really important anyway, and let *that* version of me be the reflection I see in them.

And just in case you need it, I give you permission to quit trying so hard as well. What do you say, you in?



Photo by Shauna Maness Photography

Filters

The girls were playing outside in the backyard the other day when all of the sudden, Shannay came barreling through the back door of the house yelling,  "MOM!!!!!  Nikki's digging in the dirt!!!!!!"

I was in the middle of cooking dinner, so I wiped my hands, tossed down the dish towel and headed out into the backyard to see exactly what was going on.



Sitting quietly in the corner was this sweet, little girl who was gleefully digging in the dirt.

Initially, I freaked out.  But before you judge me too harshly, you should know that I have OCD and the thought of anyone digging in the dirt would freak me out.  You should also know that last summer/spring/fall, Nikki consistently dug holes in the back yard and Mike consistently had to fill them up.  It was annoying.  So I felt justified in my anger.

Anyway, as I was about to launch into my "how many times do I have to tell you" lecture, she looked up at me and said, "Mama, don't be mad."

Oy.

I was mad.  About dirt.  About a child playing in the dirt.  Children should play in the dirt.  So, I said to myself,  "What in the world are you mad about?  She's 4. She wants to play in the dirt.  Calm down, Carol!"

I'm good at "Calm Down Carol" pep talks.

I smiled a smug little "Mother of the Year" smile, told her to enjoy the dirt, but not to put it in her hair, and I very calmly walked into the house.

As I walked past Shannay, she looked at me like I'd grown two heads.  She takes after me.  She likes things orderly.  And clean.  So, I stopped for a moment and got down on my knees and said, "Nikki needs to play in the dirt.  It helps her to be happy. Okay?"

She smiled at me, still somewhat confused, eyes bright with tears and lip quivering, and said, "Okay Mama."  She stood over Nikki for the next 10 minutes "supervising" the situation.

I tend to want to believe that people are doing things to make me mad (true confession) or to annoy me; but in reality, they are processing life through their set of filters.  Nikki thinks better when her hands are busy (well, really when her whole body is busy).  Shannay thinks better when things are routine and orderly.  I think better when I'm in charge.  (I may or may not have control issues.)

All that to say, recognizing that each of us are wired and created to process life differently, through different filters, is an important realization, and honestly, an important life skill.

Some Days, I Suck As a Parent

Some days, I really suck as a parent.  I mean, I really suck as a parent.

I lose my temper.

I have adult-sized expectations of my toddlers.

I repeat myself because I am angry, and it fuels my anger to say the same thing over and over and over.

I don't want to  hear one more whiney voice tell me why they want apple juice instead of water.

I don't want it to be bath time or bed time or story time or time to brush your teeth or any other "times" other than "Can Mama just please have a hot bath and glass of wine time?"

I confess it.  Some days, I want parenting to be easy.

I don't want to have to hold my breath as I open the take home folder to see if my special needs child hit the teacher or scratched a friend or had a meltdown because someone accidentally got blueberries on their favorite shirt.

I don't want to have to think about atrocities like child abuse and neglect and a lifetime of mental rewiring that will be in our future.

I don't want to argue with Social Security about why our children need new identities or explain to the hospital where MY CHILDREN were born as to why I need their medical records and why I have the right to have them.

But most days aren't those days.  Most days are filled with barbies and cars and mud and flowers and chasing mosquito hawks through thick grass.

Most days are tiny little feet running into my bedroom and crawling into bed for a few stolen moments of snuggling before the day beckons.

Most days are reminders that God's healing power is at work and that our lives together are not a bleak future but a blessing.

All that to say, most days, most days are good days.

When Their Story Isn't a Fairy Tale

Of late, Shannay has been asking lots of questions about adoption.  There were a couple of colliding factors that prompted these questions.  One was that we were in the pediatrician's office and the only reading material they had in the exam room was pregnancy magazines (weird).  The other factor was that we fostered two babies right in a row, within a week of each other.

For a four year old, both the notion of a baby growing inside of someone, as well as the idea that there are babies who don't have homes, is quite disconcerting and prompts all kinds of questions.

Shannay's questions started off with "Why is her belly so big?" and "Did I grow in your belly?" to "Why doesn't she (the foster baby) live with her mama?"

These might seem like easy questions to some, but with Shannay, you can rest assured that whatever she is verbalizing is just the tip of a very deep iceberg.

Her questions eventually grew to "Are you my real Mama?"  and "Why are we giving her (the foster baby) away?" and "Are you gonna give me away?"

So we've had lots and lots of dialogue about birth moms and real moms and fostering and homelessness and so on.  It's definitely unfamiliar territory to me, and I am constantly praying and looking for books and words about how to talk to my daughters about their story because their story is not an easy one.

This morning, I was up early and working when Shannay got up, came downstairs and snuggled up under my arm while I typed.  In the sidebar of the particular client's blog I was working on was a picture of a Compassion International Child.

Our dialogue went like this:

S:   "Mama, why is that girl so sad?"
M:  "Well, she's probably hungry and dirty and maybe she needs a drink."
S:   "Where is her mama?"
M:  "Well, baby, I don't know.  Maybe she doesn't have a home."
S:   "Why she not have a home?"
M:  "Shannay, some people, even little children, are homeless.  They don't have a place to live or sleep. Isn't that sad?" (I figure, it can't be too early to teach about these things.)
S:   "Mama, we have to help her.  Like we do.  Til her mama can help her or she gets a new mama."

WHAT?!!!  I was stunned at the depth of her understanding.

Now, she wasn't too thrilled that I didn't know who this little girl was or how to get to her to help her.  But I assured her that someone was going to help her, and then we talked a little about Compassion and groups like them.

All that to say, I'm still struggling with the right words to talk to my daughter about her adoption and her very difficult story.  I know at the right time, God will give me just the right words to speak over her and into her heart.  In the meantime, I love that God is already giving her a heart of adoption.

I plan to write about what I am learning and post it to my blog,  "What Color is Family."   You'll find it at ThatCarolJones.com coming March 25th.  (Yes, it's a shameless plug.  Deal with it.) :)

Why Pinterest Makes Me a Bad Mom

I don't know about you, but sometimes I worry I don't measure up as a mom.  ESPECIALLY because I'm an old mom.  I'm 51 (and a half), and I am the parent of twin 4 year olds.  My "peers" in the parenting world are half my age with beautiful skin, great bodies, and the energy of . . . well . . . a 20 something!

While they are worrying about getting Bobby into a great college (even though he's only 3),  I'm working on being healthy and alive when my kids get to college!

On the flip side, I've parented kids through every stage of life, from infancy to adulthood.  I've survived the terrible twos and potty training, bad grades and bullies, teenage attitudes, driving, dating, drinking, and broken hearts (and not necessarily in that order).

I'm pretty chill about the fact that one of my four year olds still wets the bed.  I'm okay that they don't know how to read, or add 2+2.  I'm fine with the notion that they might not read until kindergarten or dare I say it . . . first grade.  And it's okay that they may or may not be in the "gifted" class at school.  When it comes to rearing children, I've learned to take life at the pace it comes.

I'm Chill.

That is.

Until.

I get on Pinterest.

And then I am overcome with the need to create, recycle, upcycle, do, glue, paint, design, decorate, make and bake all for the sake of "making memories" with my children. And when I'm done with all of that, I need to dream, surprise, inspire, delight, protect, teach, date, nurture, discipline, and feed them!

I tell you, I thought I had it all together, until I got on Pinterest.  As it turns out, I am a slug for a mom.  I don't know how to cook.  I'll never have buns of steel.  I can't convince my husband to date his daughters (heck, I can't convince him to date his WIFE!) and I don't know how to make a damn darn thing from an old pallet.

All that to say, I guess I'll just have to stick with what I know; teach them what they need to know, when they need to know it, fill our home with laughter (mostly), and love them unconditionally for their lifetime.

Your Actions Are Speaking Louder Than Your Parenting Skills

As the parent of two grown children, and two toddlers, I have become incredibly aware of the things I have passed down to my kids ( I mean BEYOND the love of cheese and bacon!)

I used to like to blame their father for things I saw in them that I didn't like and to take all the credit for the good things I saw.

These are a few things I have observed:

As it relates to my older kids, they are know-it-alls.  I say that with love, as I, too am a know-it-all.  I am keenly aware of the fact that I do not, in fact, know it all, or close to "it all", but nonetheless, I have accumulated a vast amount of useless knowledge which serves me well, but annoys LOTS of people.  I worked with a woman once who called my inane facts "Carol Fun Facts."  She DID NOT say this with love.

Funny thing is that in my family, I am the lesser know-it-all.  My husband is the Supreme know-it-all.  He enters most conversations with these two words, "Well actually . . ."  My sons follow a very close second to his know-it-all-ness (yes, that's a made up word.  We know-it-alls take license with language rules.)

Secondly, they are almost never wrong.  And if by some chance they think they are wrong, they will spend a good amount of time researching how right they are so that they can inform others of how "right" they are.  They most assuredly got this one from me.

Thirdly, they are collectors.  They collect information.  They collect shoes (yes, they are boys, but they collect SHOES!)  Jacob came to visit for one week and he brought 10 TEN pairs of shoes!  Yep.  They also got this one from me.

Fourth, they have VAST vocabularies.  When they were little, I didn't dumb down my vocabulary for them.  I talked like I talk and they developed very large vocabularies.

Lastly, (though I could go on FOREVER) they are incredibly real people who deeply love others, who sometimes get hurt because they love so deeply, and who genuinely care for those who are needy, broken, or hurting.

Even with the girls, who are only 4 year olds, I see so much of my personality coming out in them.

We often blame our parenting skills (both good and bad) on the things our children do. But more often than not, it is our personality that is their instructor.

I don't know if that makes sense to you or not, but the point I am trying to make is this.  YES, your parenting makes a difference.  Failing to teach your kids right from wrong, failing to hold them accountable for their mistakes, failing to expect them to do their best, is poor parenting, and it will effect who they become.

But a lot of who YOU ARE is who they will become.  So think long and hard about the things you see in yourself that you do not want to pass on to your kids, and work on changing those things.

All that to say, teach your children well. Your actions are speaking louder than your words.

Can You Be Your Child's Friend?

My mom and I were sitting and looking through some old pictures the other day and she commented, "Every time I see a picture of you and your boys, you just look like you are really enjoying being together."

I said, "We are. We're good friends."

And she said, "That's saying something."

It is saying something.  

Parenting is a very hard job. Kids don't come with a book, so a lot of what you learn about parenting comes from how you were parented, or from what well-meaning friends tell you, or from big fat mistakes you make along the way. (And please do not write me and tell me that they do come with a book . . . the Bible . . . because I have read the Bible cover to cover and no where in there does it tell me how to potty train without damaging their psyche!)

I often hear parents say that their goal is not to be their child's friend. I understand what they are saying, but honestly, my goal has always been to someday be my child's friend.  

I knew that someday, way down the road, my sons would cease to be children, crossing the threshold into adulthood, where they would no longer need to be parented, but where they would hopefully still look to me for advice, counsel, wisdom, in the manner they would look to a trusted friend.

Oh trust me, as they grew up, they NEVER doubted who was boss.  Cultivating a lifelong friendship never got in the way of being their parent. I never let good parenting be thwarted by the fear of losing their friendship. 

I was always mom first.

And today, I can honestly say that I genuinely enjoy the company of my sons. (Mostly. Except when they are together and gang up on me and make fun of dumb things I say or culturally relevant things I don't know.)

We are friends.  And for that I am grateful.

All that to say, though it may go against the grain, I posit that you can, indeed, be your child's friend.

A note to my readers:  In 2013, one of the big changes in my life is my new website, www.thatcaroljones.com (don't bother going there, it's not live yet!)  It will be a conglomeration of several new projects I have in the works, and one of them is my new parenting blog and resourcing site!  

Sometimes, a Girl Just Needs Her Mommy

Mike started his new job this week.  For those of you not in the loop, Mike sold his company, and went to work for a very large corporation.  I can never remember his title, and every time I say it, I get it wrong, but as best as I understand it, he oversees crews of people who run pest control routes.

Some of his crews work days, some nights, and some weekends.  And for now, as he is getting to know his crews, their routes, see what they do and where they do it; he works some days, some nights, and some weekends.

THAT means a significant amount of transition in our household.  But change is good, right?

You have to keep in mind that for over 2.5 years, we have had a pretty consistent routine in our lives with the girls.  We have nicely divided certain duties as it relates to their care.

For example, in the mornings I get the girls lotioned, dressed and do their hair.  Then Mike feeds them breakfast and brushes their teeth.  At bedtime, Mike bathes them then I rock them to sleep.  If the girls wake up at night, Mike gets up with them.  Once they wake up for good in the morning, I get up with them, and he sleeps in.  Like I said, we have duties.


But for the time being, as Mike is trying to figure out his new schedule, many of these duties will fall to me.  I don't mind doing them, of course!  It's just that it's different.  But change is good, right?

As I was rocking the girls to sleep tonight, I had a couple of thoughts.  One was how grateful I am that my mom is here right now because she is so much help.  She's learned the lotioning and hair routine.  She cleans the kitchen (I HATE to clean the kitchen).  And she is here in the middle of the night.  When Mike isn't home, I don't sleep well, but knowing someone else is in the house with me helps me sleep at night.

And I also thought, what is this going to be like when I'm all by myself?  It's not that Mike is never going to be home, it's just that his "at home" time isn't going to coordinate very well with mornings, bedtimes, bath times, etc.  And there's TWO of them.

But I'm a grown woman.  I can handle this!  I've already raised two kids! Right!  Right? right?

All that to say, change is good.  It's just very unnerving sometimes.  I'm sure glad I've got my mommy. :) At least for a couple more weeks.

Day 70: What Really Matters

It's quiet in this little space I have carved out to be my home office.  Quiet is a rare commodity in our home these days.

I have one little twin off at Preschool, and her sister is in her room, finally sleeping after an excruciating 5 days of mouth pain.           


Babies should not have to endure that kind of pain, especially babies who have already endured so much.  (I guess technically  she's not a baby; she's a great big 4 year old, but she's our baby.)

Funny, just writing that out.  She's our baby.  Ours.

Some days, when I'm bogged down in the tornado of chaos that threatens to overtake my mind, I am reminded of the storm we lived in for over two years, and the beauty on the other side of that storm.

The adoption process is incredibly, incredibly hard.  And while our process was probably atypical in its origins, I doubt that the overall process was that different from most.

There were days when we lived with the threat that at any day their birth mom could come and take them away from us.  There were days when we were overwhelmed with paperwork and legal ease and court proceedings gone wrong. 

There were days when we wondered if we were doing the right thing, were the right parents, were too old, too set in our ways.  Would we have enough energy, enough time, enough love?

There were many long days and nights and weeks and months of trying to solve the psychological distress of our girls.

So many unanswered questions.  Truth is, there are still so many unanswered questions.

But the one thing that mattered all along . . . the one thing that matters today . . .

We were called to be their parents.  God created us for them.  Our hearts and lives are so deeply knit together that you would never know they were not born into our family. They are indeed, ours, in every conceivable way. 

It's easy to think these things when it's quiet.  And easy to forget them when life gets crazy. 

All that to say, a little quiet is good for the soul.  It helps you remember what's important.  It helps you remember what matters.  And what doesn't.

Photograph Courtesy of Chip Gillespie Photography
www.chipgillespie.com

Day 19: Watching Miracles Unfold

Sometimes it is incredibly difficult to know just exactly how the messages I am sending are being received in our daughters' brains.  I'm sure the parent of any toddler would probably say the same thing!  I often have to remind myself that EVERYTHING my girls say and do cannot and should not be connected to their abuse prior to coming to our home.  Some of the things they say and do are perfectly normal in the realm of toddlerdom.

That said, I also know that their little brains got miswired along the way and now they don't always process the things we say in the right way.  And sometimes, when they cannot act, think, say, or do what they want to, they meltdown.  And once they are melting down, they cannot self-regulate.  They cannot get themselves back to a normal state without a lot of help.

This process of self-regulation is a big goal for them. It involves both their ability to NOT meltdown in the first place, as well as their ability to get back to neutral once they have melted down. Anyway, one of the things we do to teach them this process is something that is known quite simply as a "redo." 

Once they are calm, we re-enact the crime (if you will) and this time they act appropriately, speak politely, don't freak out, don't melt down, don't punch anyone.  You know.  They self-regulate.  Supposedly, this helps their brain remember how to act in the future.

We are always, and I mean ALWAYS the initiators of the "redo."  But tonight, a miracle happened.  Shortstack was having a meltdown because she wanted to go bye-bye with her daddy, but she wouldn't get off the bike and go in the house, so we told her she couldn't go with him.  MELTDOWN.  But then, without warning, she stood up, walked over to me, calmed herself and said, "Can I have a redo?"

WHAT?!! YES!!!  Omgosh!!! 

I know this doesn't seem really monumental to most people, but to us, this was a MAJOR step toward her own self-regulation.  She stopped her own meltdown.  Suggested her own redo.  She regulated!  And that helps us see that her brain is healing.  Her brain is FREAKING HEALING!!!!

I'm seriously beside myself and just couldn't wait to share it with you all.

All that to say, the beautiful little girl she was created to be is slowly finding its way out.  I love watching miracles unfold.

Day 18: He Who Yells First, Loses

I heard a guy at Target the other day YELLING his fool head off at someone (a very small person, presumably a child) in the backseat of his car.  Outside of the fact that it really hurt my heart,  I thought to myself, "Buddy, you aren't doing a bit of good right now.  You've lost control.  You lose."

I have a rule I live by when it comes to yelling in anger; "He who yells first, loses."

I'm not opposed to yelling, don't get me wrong.  There are clearly appropriate times to raise your voice.  For example, let's say you are, oh, I don't know . . . at the park with your 3 year olds and they want to pet the nice pit bull that some crazy person is walking around with at a PLAYGROUND!  Yelling is okay then (at the kids, not the crazy person . . .)  Or let's say that said 3 year olds want to climb on the outside of the 10 FOOT HIGH SLIDE!  Yelling might be okay then.  In fact, I find that stressful, panic-driven situations often elicit a raised voice in me.

But raising your voice in anger typically means that you have lost control.  And if YOU aren't in control, then most likely the other person is.  And if the other person is your child, you are in trouble.
If you lose control, you lose the battle.  Lose enough battles, you lose the war.

So, when you are mad as all get out at your kids (or your spouse, or your boss) trying having an incredibly calm voice.  I find that it is very disarming to folks, folks of any age.  They really don't know how to handle an angry person who is calm.  I think maybe they fear you might erupt into a rage or something, so they tend to retreat or acquiesce.

All that to say, when you find that you are getting angry, try to talk softer and see what happens. Because remember, he who yells first, loses.

Are There Rules?

I went out to eat tonight with a friend when a family of like 12 was seated. I actually think it was two or three families, celebrating a birthday, but there were a lot of kids. At the end of this long table, the end closest to where I was sitting, were two tiny, and very unhappy and loud kids. No, you don't get it. I mean LOUD kids. And their parents just kept on talking like their kids weren't screaming. I literally could not hear the sound of my own voice over the kids screaming. One of the little kids screamed and cried for so long, she threw up. Finally, the dad (I'm assuming) stood up and I thought "oh, great, he's going to take them outside." But instead he went outside and left the screaming, SCREAMING kids inside with their mom and the other people at the table.

Are there rules for screaming kids in restaurants? Should the restaurant management say or do something, or are those of us listening to the melee just forced to sit there, eat our food, or get up and leave?

Am I just getting old and have no patience for this kind of thing anymore? I love kids. I really do. Ask anyone. They'll tell you it's true. But SERIOUSLY, I was so annoyed at those parents.

All that to say, I have a headache and I guess I should have left way sooner than I did. What do you think?