Below is the text from a blog that I found very powerful. Reposting instead of linking because I don't trust their servers to keep it intact. Below are my thoughts on why it's so meaningful to me.
(I will insert image of hallway with huge chunks of shattered mirror all over it later)
This was my hallway last Wednesday.
Broken. Sharp. Treacherous.
This was my hallway.
It was my son who did this.
Sometimes, often really, things break — irreparably. And it takes your breath away . . . straight away.
It took my breath away when my son stormed into the bathroom, frustrated, angry, fed-up for his very own, very significant to him, reasons. And when he chose to SLAM the bathroom door, causing the heavy mirror mounted to the front to slip out of the hardware holding it in place and crash onto the floor — a million, BROKEN pieces were left reflecting the afternoon light.
I was quiet. I surveyed the damage and took a deep breath. Put the dog outside so he wouldn't cut his feet, put the cat in the basement for the same reason.
I walked into the backyard and felt the hot tears streaming down my face. It's amazing how alone you can feel as a single parent in moments like these. I realized how scared and disappointed I felt. Did this really just happen? Yes. This was real.
And as I stood and considered whether or not this was an indication of his developing character, I heard his tears through the window above me, coming from inside the bathroom.
His soul hurt. This was not what he expected either. Hello, Anger — I don't remember inviting you into my house.
Scary.
Terrified.
Ashamed.
Worried.
Scared.
Deep breath, #MamaWarrior. Deep breath. That small, fragile soul needs you right now. He needs your very best. Your biggest compassion. Your most gentle and firm mama love and reassurance. More deep breaths. Go Mama.
Go. Go now. Go open the front door, tiptoe through the broken glass, hear him hearing you coming, watch the bathroom door crack open, see the face you love most in the world red with worry and wet with tears, his voice is suddenly so small: "Mama, I'll never do it again, I am SO sorry." More tears. More weeping. Such uncertainty on his sweet face.
Go Mama. Get him. Go now. Scoop him into your lap. Yup, you're crying too. Damn this was big. Hold him tight. Watch how he curls into a ball in your arms so quickly. See how eager he is to be loved by you. To be reassured by you. See how small he still is. See how fragile that spirit is.
I love you.
You are safe.
I am right here.
The worst part is over now.
I've got you.
I'm here.
I love you.
Go Mama. Tell him about Anger. Tell him now. Anger is a really powerful feeling. You have a right to your Anger. Anger burns hot. It can purify. It can also destroy. He nods. He feels it. He's met Anger now.
There's a better way to show your big feelings.
We'll work on it together . . . tomorrow.
I'm here to help you.
You are safe.
You are never alone in your anger.
You are never alone in your fears.
I'm here. We're here together.
Now we will clean together.
And we cleaned up the broken pieces. We swept and we vacuumed. It was quiet work. It was careful work. It was thoughtful work.
Sometimes things break. Sometimes we break them. It's not the breaking that matters, the how or why. What matters is how we choose to respond to the broken-ness. Does it kill us? Does it throw us into a downward spiral of blame and punishment?
OR
Does it help us remember how to love deepest? Does it push us towards compassion and over the hurdle of "rightness" and "wrongness" into LOVENESS?
Yes. LOVENESS.
Go Mama. Go now. Get that baby of yours. Teach that. Show that. Live that. It's called LOVENESS. Go. Now.
(We will pause here while you go collect yourself and possibly cuddle your little ones. It's OK.)
Growing up, Anger was a frequent visitor in my home. In words, in action, in retribution. I had Rage and Anger issues for a long time (giving them a capital letter like a proper noun seems appropriate here). I very recently realized that I come from a long line (well, at least the three generations I've met) of very emotionally guarded women. Women for whom showing affection was seen as a weakness, or at least not especially encouraged. Women who used words as weapons, and sometimes flat backed brushes as well. Men weren't especially touchy-feely either. I made a very conscious decision quite a while ago that I would not continue that. Especially if I had a child of my own. ESPECIALLY.
So far, I feel I'm doing really well in this regard. I spanked Katherine a couple of times early on, before I found my footing and better, more respectful ways. Those were personal failures on my part, not hers though. I can't remember the last time I felt RAGE though, and that's huge. Because rage is scary for everyone, it's like a wild animal held captive against its will. You never know when it might break free and really hurt someone. That can't be taken back. You may cage it again, but the scars from the wounds are still there. And some day, it WILL break free again.
Recently, it was pointed out to me that making a choice to be a different kind of parent goes against my very DNA, that epigenetics shows us how trauma is passed from generation to generation, causing us to repeat patterns of those before us. However, epigenetics also shows us that the effects of a life filled with empathy and a lack of trauma is also passed down. That by us choosing to parent Kat in a respectful, compassionate, and empathetic way, she will be much more likely to choose to love people that will also treat her with respect and kindness, but will also likely raise her children that way, and they will raise their children that way, and so on.
Whoa.
My focus has been entirely on trying to raise Kat to be happy, confident, independent, compassionate, strong and kind. It just hadn't dawned on me that by doing so I was also helping to set the standards for future GENERATIONS of mothers and daughters and sons and so on. That I was defying nature, and saying to a history of angry and emotionally distant women... YOU SHALL NOT PASS or HERE, AND NO FURTHER (depending on if you prefer LOTR or ST:TNG). As someone told me "It's not just a gift you're giving Katherine, but to the world."
Whoa again.
So my natural stubbornness and defiant nature has found a cause, and it's a damn good one. Even bigger than when I told my 1st grade teacher to stuff it when he tried to punish me for "using the devil's hand" and remaining a lefty. I'm not just raising my daughter, I'm raising future GENERATIONS, yo. So stand back, lest you feel the wrath of my... respectful questioning if you need some time to calm down so we can talk about this later.
Along these lines, years ago I read a story about a small child accidentally dropping a carton of milk and it spilled in a huge puddle all over the kitchen floor. The mother said "Well, it was an accident, and you know now that's it too heavy for you to lift, so the lesson has been learned. Let's not let all this milk go to waste though, shall we?" and she proceeded to splash and play in it with her child before they both helped clean it up together.
I've always remembered this and try to internalize it. Accidents happen. Remember the tiny soul of the person who caused it. Once the lesson is learned, find the joy, the humor, the playfulness in that if you can. If you can't, there will always be another spilled carton of milk. Try, try again.
(I will insert image of hallway with huge chunks of shattered mirror all over it later)
This was my hallway last Wednesday.
Broken. Sharp. Treacherous.
This was my hallway.
It was my son who did this.
Sometimes, often really, things break — irreparably. And it takes your breath away . . . straight away.
It took my breath away when my son stormed into the bathroom, frustrated, angry, fed-up for his very own, very significant to him, reasons. And when he chose to SLAM the bathroom door, causing the heavy mirror mounted to the front to slip out of the hardware holding it in place and crash onto the floor — a million, BROKEN pieces were left reflecting the afternoon light.
I was quiet. I surveyed the damage and took a deep breath. Put the dog outside so he wouldn't cut his feet, put the cat in the basement for the same reason.
I walked into the backyard and felt the hot tears streaming down my face. It's amazing how alone you can feel as a single parent in moments like these. I realized how scared and disappointed I felt. Did this really just happen? Yes. This was real.
And as I stood and considered whether or not this was an indication of his developing character, I heard his tears through the window above me, coming from inside the bathroom.
His soul hurt. This was not what he expected either. Hello, Anger — I don't remember inviting you into my house.
Scary.
Terrified.
Ashamed.
Worried.
Scared.
Deep breath, #MamaWarrior. Deep breath. That small, fragile soul needs you right now. He needs your very best. Your biggest compassion. Your most gentle and firm mama love and reassurance. More deep breaths. Go Mama.
Go. Go now. Go open the front door, tiptoe through the broken glass, hear him hearing you coming, watch the bathroom door crack open, see the face you love most in the world red with worry and wet with tears, his voice is suddenly so small: "Mama, I'll never do it again, I am SO sorry." More tears. More weeping. Such uncertainty on his sweet face.
Go Mama. Get him. Go now. Scoop him into your lap. Yup, you're crying too. Damn this was big. Hold him tight. Watch how he curls into a ball in your arms so quickly. See how eager he is to be loved by you. To be reassured by you. See how small he still is. See how fragile that spirit is.
I love you.
You are safe.
I am right here.
The worst part is over now.
I've got you.
I'm here.
I love you.
Go Mama. Tell him about Anger. Tell him now. Anger is a really powerful feeling. You have a right to your Anger. Anger burns hot. It can purify. It can also destroy. He nods. He feels it. He's met Anger now.
There's a better way to show your big feelings.
We'll work on it together . . . tomorrow.
I'm here to help you.
You are safe.
You are never alone in your anger.
You are never alone in your fears.
I'm here. We're here together.
Now we will clean together.
And we cleaned up the broken pieces. We swept and we vacuumed. It was quiet work. It was careful work. It was thoughtful work.
Sometimes things break. Sometimes we break them. It's not the breaking that matters, the how or why. What matters is how we choose to respond to the broken-ness. Does it kill us? Does it throw us into a downward spiral of blame and punishment?
OR
Does it help us remember how to love deepest? Does it push us towards compassion and over the hurdle of "rightness" and "wrongness" into LOVENESS?
Yes. LOVENESS.
Go Mama. Go now. Get that baby of yours. Teach that. Show that. Live that. It's called LOVENESS. Go. Now.
(We will pause here while you go collect yourself and possibly cuddle your little ones. It's OK.)
Growing up, Anger was a frequent visitor in my home. In words, in action, in retribution. I had Rage and Anger issues for a long time (giving them a capital letter like a proper noun seems appropriate here). I very recently realized that I come from a long line (well, at least the three generations I've met) of very emotionally guarded women. Women for whom showing affection was seen as a weakness, or at least not especially encouraged. Women who used words as weapons, and sometimes flat backed brushes as well. Men weren't especially touchy-feely either. I made a very conscious decision quite a while ago that I would not continue that. Especially if I had a child of my own. ESPECIALLY.
So far, I feel I'm doing really well in this regard. I spanked Katherine a couple of times early on, before I found my footing and better, more respectful ways. Those were personal failures on my part, not hers though. I can't remember the last time I felt RAGE though, and that's huge. Because rage is scary for everyone, it's like a wild animal held captive against its will. You never know when it might break free and really hurt someone. That can't be taken back. You may cage it again, but the scars from the wounds are still there. And some day, it WILL break free again.
Recently, it was pointed out to me that making a choice to be a different kind of parent goes against my very DNA, that epigenetics shows us how trauma is passed from generation to generation, causing us to repeat patterns of those before us. However, epigenetics also shows us that the effects of a life filled with empathy and a lack of trauma is also passed down. That by us choosing to parent Kat in a respectful, compassionate, and empathetic way, she will be much more likely to choose to love people that will also treat her with respect and kindness, but will also likely raise her children that way, and they will raise their children that way, and so on.
Whoa.
My focus has been entirely on trying to raise Kat to be happy, confident, independent, compassionate, strong and kind. It just hadn't dawned on me that by doing so I was also helping to set the standards for future GENERATIONS of mothers and daughters and sons and so on. That I was defying nature, and saying to a history of angry and emotionally distant women... YOU SHALL NOT PASS or HERE, AND NO FURTHER (depending on if you prefer LOTR or ST:TNG). As someone told me "It's not just a gift you're giving Katherine, but to the world."
Whoa again.
So my natural stubbornness and defiant nature has found a cause, and it's a damn good one. Even bigger than when I told my 1st grade teacher to stuff it when he tried to punish me for "using the devil's hand" and remaining a lefty. I'm not just raising my daughter, I'm raising future GENERATIONS, yo. So stand back, lest you feel the wrath of my... respectful questioning if you need some time to calm down so we can talk about this later.
Along these lines, years ago I read a story about a small child accidentally dropping a carton of milk and it spilled in a huge puddle all over the kitchen floor. The mother said "Well, it was an accident, and you know now that's it too heavy for you to lift, so the lesson has been learned. Let's not let all this milk go to waste though, shall we?" and she proceeded to splash and play in it with her child before they both helped clean it up together.
I've always remembered this and try to internalize it. Accidents happen. Remember the tiny soul of the person who caused it. Once the lesson is learned, find the joy, the humor, the playfulness in that if you can. If you can't, there will always be another spilled carton of milk. Try, try again.
