A Promising Bestseller in Anger Management

A review from the Editor at Literacy Farm:

When You are Mad by budding new author Leo Carter is a succinct, to-the-point book of instructions with carefully crafted illustrations that make clear the author's intent.  Although publishing is new for this author, his depth of knowledge in feelings of anger runs deep, resulting in this valuable, powerful, and authentic book. The author seems to have intentionally left out methods he himself has used during fits of rage, including door slamming, throwing items down sets of stairs, and flailing about the room while screaming incessantly - perhaps in the hopes of sparing readers from these largely ineffective and counterproductive methods of dealing with anger. Told through a set of clear imperatives, this book is a no-nonsense set of reminders of what to do when you are mad.  It is a must-read, and is currently being offered exclusively at Literacy Farm.

When You are Mad by Leo Carter

"Take a Deep Breath"

"Punch a pillow"

"Scream into a pillow"

"Count to Ten"

**Final note from the Editor:  this is also a book about hope.  It gives me great hope that one day, Leo will actually be able to employ these methods of calming himself down and regaining control.  This book is funny and sweet.  But our evenings have been anything but funny and sweet... and so the discovery of this little book, and knowing that the idea for it was completely his own, gives me such hope... 

When We Were Awesome

The phone rang; my girlfriend asked, "Hey!  Whatcha doing?"  I laughed and said, "Oh, Pax and I were just talking about when you should call 911 and when you shouldn't."  Knowing Pax like she does, she laughed at my emphasis on shouldn't.  "Remember when our kids were really little, and we did that activity playgroup thing?" she asked.  "Remember how somebody had that touch-tone phone that all the kids could use to practice calling 911, and it had that recording of what a dispatcher would sound like on the other end?" she continued.  "And then that safety video they all watched?  My kids still talk about that video, to this day."

"I know! I was just thinking about that the other day!" I said.  We laughed again at this unexpected little rehashing of a shared memory.  My friend said, "We were so awesome then!  We were such good moms!"  I laughed and said "Yeah!  What happened to us?!"  We laughed some more.

And in that moment, it felt really good to remember being an awesome mom.  We were awesome.  We had this one phase of a super-organized playgroup with structured themes and activities - the safety theme was one of many creative mornings. We had a food pyramid/nutrition lesson, a music lesson, an art lesson, a movement/exercise lesson.  Looking through old photos recently, I was amazed at how much time I seemed to have, and I puzzled over why, as my children grow more independent and self-sufficient, I feel like my time is an ever-increasing precious commodity...

Those early days, those were physically hard days.  They were completely exhausting.  At times they were mind-numbing in the repetition of mundane tasks necessary for sustaining and growing life.  They were lonely days, filled with one-sided conversations and children who could only babble or giggle - albeit adorably - in response.  They were frustrating days, but what strikes me, in retrospect, is that there were so many answers.  Baby is crying? Put him in water.  Too many tantrums?  Time for a nap.  Hit his brother?  Put him in time out.  Crabby at 3:00?  Give him a snack.  Need an activity?  Turn on the faucet; open a kitchen drawer; pull out a carton of blocks.  Want instant giggles? Hide behind your hands; chase him around the house.  Feeling sad?  Snuggles are always waiting.

But these days, nebulously defined as raising children aged preschool-to-tween, while less physically demanding than before, are emotionally hard.  Few answers are easy; there are no fast solutions like sleep or food or time outs, nothing that creates definitive and certain knowledge of a job well done.  Parenting now is nuanced; our actions and our words are matched and mirrored, sometimes in ways that are breathtaking and beautiful, other times in ways that are horrifying and alarming... 

On Saturday, I enjoyed an afternoon celebrating a birthday and visiting vineyards with some wonderful mama friends.  Most of these women, I've known for years; a few of them stretch back to the days of when we were Awesome Moms.  What struck me this time was that as we shared stories of parenting our somewhat older children, there was a whole lot of head-scratching, a whole lot of thoughtful silence, a noticeable lack of "well, have you tried...?" or "Did you read that book on...?" or "What always works for me is..."

And yet, what I also heard was the same refrain I've heard scads of times in my 9 1/2 years of parenting.  I heard mothers wrestling with how to help, in the face of so much resistance - how to shape and guide, how to make life less painful for their children, how to show their love, how to see these beautiful children through this messy and sometimes ugly world in which we live.  I heard the love and the pride and the anguish in their voices as they described their sons and daughters and the struggles endured in navigating this road of raising children - sometimes pulling them along; sometimes pushing them from behind; often walking alongside them, hoping to catch them before they fall, leading them back on the path - with hope-filled desperation to raise up these human beings into becoming the very best of our dreams for them, the absolute resolution that we will never, ever give up.

And that's when I realized: we still are awesome moms.

Nonconformist

Conformity verses Individuality: this is, in my mind, one of the most crucial and important struggles of developing one's sense of Self.

The night before Halloween, I painted my fingernails orange with a black crackle finish.  They looked awesome, and spooky.  Earlier at the dinner table, I told the kids about seeing the equally cool nail polish on the younger brother of the boy I tutor - his mom had painted his nails black with orange dots on one hand, orange with black dots on the other.  It seemed that everyone was getting into the holiday spirit.

On Saturday, Aidan asked me to paint his nails the same as mine, and I did.  They looked awesome, because you can't put black crackle on something and have it look not awesome.

But then on Monday evening, Aidan was angry and lashing out at us.  He listed minor complaints and aggravations about his day, but it wasn't until I fussed at him about something that he broke down in tears and finally got out what was really bothering him - kids at school had made fun of him for his painted nails.  Not just kids, but friends - and that's what made it hurt more.  As I held him close to me, as I hugged away the hurt and the anger, I puzzled over my reaction to his tears: I felt an odd mix of sadness and satisfaction.  His pain immediately becomes my own, and yet I felt pleased and proud with his decision; he doesn't realize it yet, but he laid the groundwork among his friends for acceptance in his decision to be different.

Wiping away his tears, we talked through what they had said, how he felt.  "It's like the time I got made fun of for wearing a pink shirt," he said.
"But different this time, right? Because you still wear that pink shirt all the time, but you don't usually have your nails painted."
"Yeah.  Because I love that pink shirt,  No one teases me anymore.  But this just made me so MAD!" he said.
"Well, how did you respond?" I asked.
"The same way as with the pink shirt.  I ignored them."
"Aidan, if you like the nail polish just the way it is, keep it on. Wear it, and enjoy it.  But if you're tired of looking at it, I can easily remove it.  The thing that is so important, though, is that only YOU get to decide what to do.  Your friends do not get to make that decision for you.  And remember what this feels like.  Decide now how you will respond when you notice something that is different about another person."

I gently retold stories he's already heard.  When I was in middle school, I had this (ridiculous) outfit from Barnum & Bailey Circus that I adored.  It was a white, one piece painter's outfit with splatters of paint all over it.  I paired it with my Converse All Stars, and thought I looked awesome.  My peers disagreed.  I came home sobbing one day from the teasing I'd endured.  But then I set my jaw and decided, you know what?  I get to decide whether or not to wear this.  Not them.  In high school, the scene repeated itself with a retro, pink plaid dress that looked straight out of Jan Brady's closet - which is exactly why I adored it.  One girl in particular loved to tell me how much she hated the dress, and how stupid I looked in it.... which I took as an invitation to wear it more often than ever before.

Tucking Aidan into bed that night, I revisited the topic, helping him to identify with an extraordinary literary character named Auggie (from the book Wonder).  Aidan's whole face lit up with the comparison, instantly connecting to Auggie. We talked about Aidan and Auggie are alike in how they were teased, and the hurt that they both felt.  We talked about how they were different, in that Aidan can easily change out of a pink shirt or remove his nail polish, but Auggie cannot alter his facial deformity. Aidan's own face softened in understanding and in compassion, connecting Auggie to many other real-life kids who have endured relentless teasing for being different.  In the end, he asked me to remove the nail polish on his fingers.... except for one thumb.  He wanted to keep the thumb painted exactly as it was.

How easily we can remove the polish, change the shirt - yet how imperative it is that we make these choices for ourselves.

How important it is that we continue to find ways in which to be different, to stick out, to challenge the norms and beliefs and biases of those we encounter.

How essential it is that we continue to see past these differences to discover how much the same we really are.  Aidan? Auggie?  My 12-year old self, dressed in a painter's suit?  We share the same hurt of being made fun of.

And we share the same desire to be loved and accepted, exactly as we are made to be, exactly as we've chosen to be.  In our diversity, let us seek, let us find, let us celebrate that which is common....

...beginning with younger brothers who insist on "the same kind of nails as Aidan has on."

Albert E. Lukey, and the Minion

Halloween 2013:  Possibly the best one yet?

Despite preparations that lasted well past bedtime (mine and Jeff's, that is) last night, this year was possibly our best one yet.  Costumes, once assembled, were low-maintenance and easy to wear.  As usual, each boy's choice reflected his personality and interests to a T.  Aidan actually wore two costumes this year:  during the day, he dressed as Tom Sawyer for a book report project, and at night, he was Albert Einstein.  Leo made an especially good Luke Skywalker, given his Luke-like hair.  And Pax has been practicing to be a minion ever since we saw Despicable Me 2 way back in July, causing mischief and resulting laughter every chance he gets.  The afternoon was calm and relaxing (the best part of picking the kids up from school); dinner was easy peazy (thank you, Papa J.); and the trick-or-treating was... a treat.

An added bonus to this year's tradition of pizza before setting out for the night was that Great Aunt Babe is visiting, and she joined in on our fun.  Sitting down to dinner:

 I like to call this "controlled chaos:"

 The smartest of the bunch.  (Maybe Aidan should have dressed up as Paul instead of Albert?)

 Away we go!

 It's all relative...

 May the Force be with you!

 Bee-doh, bee-doh, bee-doh!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!  TRICK OR TREAT!!

Round Up

My mind composes dozens of posts that never quite make it to this space, and the neglect of this space makes me feel off balance.  Dozens and dozens of tiny moments I hope never to forget; phrases I wish to record; snippets of conversations I know I'll laugh about again and again -- I am forever composing. 

Alas, here is one small attempt in recording such moments, taken from a small handful of hastily jotted down notes I write to myself on the backs of receipts and to-do lists, the margins of my calendar, tiny post it notes I keep in my purse....

Two weeks ago, after we'd eaten a quick picnic lunch on the floor of my office after preschool, I was rushing Pax to get out to the car. We had so many errands to run, none of which I was particularly looking forward to; I felt impatient with Pax for being slow, guilty for feeling so, and determined to hide my obvious annoyance.  Balancing an armload of bags, books, and water bottles, and in a tone of voice that surprised me in its calm and patience, I asked him to hold my hand in the parking lot.  He easily agreed, and I breathed a small sigh of relief that it was one battle I'd managed to dodge that afternoon.  Seven steps into the walk to the car, I felt Pax suddenly slow to a stop.  I stopped too, bit my tongue from urging him onward, and paused just long enough without saying anything for him to change the grip of our hands:  he tucked his index finger between my ring and pinky fingers, squeezed my hand gently, then started walking again.  Surprised by this tender, perfect moment, I stopped us a second time, shifted all the weight of what I was carrying, and bent down to kiss his tiny hand, overcome by the moment.  "Mommy, I WOVE [love] you," he exclaimed.   

I slowed our pace; I savored the feel of his tiny hand in mine; I suddenly realized that Jeff had taken the time to teach each boy the special way in which we hold hands.  Pax knew I wanted to get to the car; he felt my hurry and my impatience.  But it was too important not to hold hands in the way where our fingers fit just right.
**********
Another day, during more errands (albeit far more enjoyable ones), Pax fell asleep during the ride to town.  Our first stop was to the strip mall for one quick trip into the book store. I parked the car, unloaded the sleeping boy onto my shoulder, shopped for my purchase, paid, left the store, and was oh-so-carefully easing the still-slumbering Pax back into his seat when he woke up, looked around, and asked, "What are we doing, Mommy?"  I answered, "We're going to head up to the fabric store."  "Then why did you accidentally park here?" 
**********
Later in our errands as we unloaded from the car, I said playfully, "Come on, Stink bug!"  He looked at me quizzically and said, "But I thought I was your baby!  I cannot be your stink bug AND your baby."  I replied, "Okay, then.  You're my baby.  You will always be my baby..."  and for the first time, he didn't correct me to tell me he was not a baby, he was a big boy.  (I suppose he was simply relieved not to be called a stink bug anymore).
 **********
Pax has incidentally learned lots of letters and numbers.  That is to say, he lives in a print-rich environment, but we've taken no steps to formally teach him anything.  So we're all pretty amazed and impressed with how much he knows, considering a) there's no teaching from us; b) he's newly 4; and c) he's a third child, notoriously neglected.  At bedtime recently, the two of us shared this really beautiful little exchange, and I felt deeply connected, all over again, to Big Nutbrown Hare.  Our conversation:
Pax:  I really love you.
Me:  I really love you... more.
Pax:  I love you super duper.
Me:  I love you super duper and oodles and poodles.
Pax:  I love you A HUNDRED.
Me:  I love you a million.
Pax:  A million?
Me:  A million times a million.
Pax:  wow.
**********
Aidan competed last weekend in a karate tournament, and did very well.  I am so proud of him for doing something that I know made him feel nervous.  I'm proud of him for showing up; for doing his best; for working hard.  I'm immensely proud of him for his sportsmanship.  He competed against a friend/teammate/classmate of his who didn't do quite as well as Aidan did in the competition.  When Aidan asked if he could bring his medals in to show his teacher, I reminded him gently that I didn't think it was the best idea, that he needed to be careful to protect his friend's feelings, knowing it might be hard to rehash the whole thing again in the classroom. "Oh, I know!"  Aidan said.  "I already thought about it.  I wasn't sure it was a good idea, either, but it was Timothy's idea to bring in the medals.  He was really excited for us both to show her."

I love to watch you do karate, Aidan.  Be proud of what you have achieved.... and be proud of the kind of athlete and friend you are to your teammates and fellow competitors. 
**********
Leo is the perfect.... middle child.  Truly.  He is gifted in his ability to be younger brother one minute, older brother the next.  He is a mediator, a peacemaker, and the kindest, most sensitive young person I know.  At church this morning, Pax had been in a little scuffle with another four year old in the narthex.  I was coaxing Pax through his apology to Christophe, and Pax was pushing back, doggedly determined to admit to no wrongdoing.  Finally, Pax managed a half-hearted, eyes cast down, mumbling apology - "I'm sorry, Christophe."  There was a slight pause in which we all hoped Christophe would accept the meager apology.  In the silence, Leo piped up, "It may not sound like it, Christophe, but Pax means it from deep inside his heart." 

**********
In our roller-coaster weekend filled with very high highs and plummeting lows, a ride notable for its seemingly endless bickering, it is these moments, these memories, that remind me to see the forest through the trees, see the child through the chaos of child-rearing.  From deep inside my heart.   

Farewell, Old Friend

In college, I had a quirky creative writing professor who gave us an assignment at the start of the semester that I've never forgotten.  She had us write an entire paper devoted to the bumper stickers on our cars, perhaps thinking these stickers would provide windows into our creative minds or souls.  I think she was greatly disappointed with my paper, because at the time, the only sticker on my little, hunter green Dodge Shadow was an uninspired Pedro's South of the Border decal.

I've driven just two other cars as my own since that freshman year of college.  The second car, a beautiful blue 1995 Mustang, was a generous gift I probably didn't deserve but one I loved with all my heart.  After totaling the Shadow, my father went on the hunt for a car to replace the Shadow.  It had to be safe - airbags were a must - with low miles and at a good price.  The Mustang proved to be all of those things, and I became the somewhat incredulous owner of a pretty nice ride.  I kept minimal decals on it - only a college sticker, plus an Indy Racing League sticker, providing predictable insight into my psyche:  I loved our college, where I'd spend such happy years of my life; occasionally, I felt like a badass racecar driver in my sporty coupe.  (Thankfully, the accident with the Shadow made me a much more cautious driver, so I didn't actually drive much like a racer those days).

I drove the Mustang for the rest of my college years and into my life as a married adult until finally, in the last months of my pregnancy with Aidan, I could barely squeeze behind the wheel with my big belly.  After Aidan was born, Jeff and I swapped cars, but I never stopped thinking of the Mustang as mine.  Apparently, Jeff hadn't either.  As much as he enjoyed my car, he wanted his own car back - after all, he'd bought it brand new, custom to his specifications.  Alas, the day had arrived.  With a one-year-old in tow on a blisteringly hot August day in 2005, we bought a minivan to replace a Mustang. As minivans go, I thought we'd scored on a good one.  It came equipped with a VHS player, (!!) and power sliding doors; it was quiet, with low mileage.  Much as I'd viewed the Mustang as a 19 year old, as a mid-20s new Mom, I saw the minivan as somewhat of a status symbol.  I felt I had arrived.  

(That doesn't mean I didn't cry copious amounts of tears, though, after the selling of the 'Stang.  I kissed it, loved it, posed with it on our last day together:)

And so, as I watched my beautiful blue baby drive off into the fading sunshine, I turned toward my really beautiful baby, loaded him into our new van, and began a new journey.  In its 8 years with us, our van has carried us safely to many destinations and on many adventures.  We've visited parks and playgroups, pediatricians and preschools. We've traveled to beaches and campsites, airports and museums.  We've schlepped thousands of pounds of groceries in it, and as our family continued to grow in size, we've ferried tiny pounds of newborn babies in it.  We've swept it clean of pine needles from Christmas trees, billions of bits of ground up Cheerios, and once, a fermented apple that had been so completely reduced, it was but a putrid, reeking mess.  Our van has been inhabited by many a friend and family member, as well as some famously uninvited guests:  this summer, the wolf spider.

But all good things must come to an end.  My criteria for cars has always been that it must provide a method of transportation that gets us from point A to point B.... safely.  And our poor old van just wasn't living up to that standard anymore.  With a big road trip looming next month and the increasing number of clinks, groans, and shudders emanating from beneath the hood, we knew the final hour was approaching.

But still.... as my quirky college professor must have known, it's not easy to say goodbye to this:

The happy people who adorn the left side of the window (painstakingly designed for a whopping sum, an embarrassing amount to admit to spending on stickers).  Oddly, I grew more attached, more protective of these little people after the random act of vandalism was committed against Jeff's likeness. (His was cruelly and maniacally ripped off in one stealth swoop.  Still baffled by that one.)

And then there's the rest of them to part with.  If my college professor were to find me now, and give me that same assignment?  I'm not sure where I'd even begin.  For each sticker holds a story, a memory, an important milestone in the life of this family.  The space on the back of the van was precious real estate; a sticker had to earn its right to be there.

The college decal collection has grown to include

• the polarizing political stickers that invoke many glares in this overly-red little pocket of the purple state of Virginia; (one such sticker even provoking a heated exchange in the Target parking lot, resulting in promises from each of us to pray for the other)
• the requisite SMCM and UVA stickers;
• the resume of races completed;
• the vague references to beautiful births and the importance of breastfeeding, the latter of which was obtained by Jeff from the lactation consultant he met in nursing school, whom he affectionately dubbed "The Milk Nazi;" 
• the local bar we love best for draft beers; 
• the family's beloved local radio station;
• the shelter for homeless residents we support in the coldest months;  
• the reminder to be brave, assertive, and strong; 
• and the newest and perhaps my very favorite sticker of all, loved both for its subtle nuance and direct imperative: "Make Dinner Not War."

That is to say, our stickers represent some of the very best of our lives these past 8 years.

So when we welcomed the new arrival today, Aidan closely inspected the interior and exterior of the car, tried out the power windows and doors, fiddled with the radio and air controls, adjusted the seat, then asked with sudden urgency, "But Mom, how are you going to get all of the stickers transferred onto this car?"

Answering softly, I said, "We're not, buddy..." realizing, at that very moment, that if this same van that seems so shiny and new and young sees us through another 8 or so years, the sticker I'll be adding then? in 2022? is the collegiate sticker of where my firstborn chooses to earn his degree.  The realization that just as our old van safely carried home our tiny newborn babes, this new van might very well be the one that gets packed to its silver gills with dorm life necessities.  

With that sobering thought, I think we'll keep her just like this for now....

What a view this backseat offers.

I remember you

Today is Pregnancy and Infant Loss Remembrance Day.  Today, I remember our Lost Baby, whom we call Apple Baby.

I remember the myriad mothers and fathers who have suffered, grieved, and been forever changed because of the death of their dream.

I remember the friends and family who provided comfort in our darkest hours, loving us and mourning with us.

I remember, because it is important to remember, to acknowledge, to de-stigmatize, to mark the very real death of a tiny person who was already loved beyond measure.

I remember you.