Today, I am saturated. I am running low on energy, patience, perspective, and sanity.

I have a good kid. Q is amazingly well-behaved and doesn’t really live up to the terrible of two. He rarely to never throws tantrums and he is an absolute dream in public. He doesn’t act out or yell or even outright refuse to do things we ask of him. He is remarkably accommodating and says okay more often than no.

But, he’s not perfect and the last two days have made that abundantly clear. He throws. Everything. He throws food. He throws toys. He will throw anything he can get his hands on. He doesn’t seem to think about what or who he might hit. He just throws. He always has.

The other day, someone said “if throwing is all you have to worry about, then you have it made!” Not really. Not when he throws a truck at a 2 month old. Not when he throws his food all over the floor and across the room during every single meal. Not when he throws a metal car in my face, or a shoe at my head when I am driving. No, I don’t have it made because this throwing has the potential to cause serious damage.

He has been throwing indiscriminately since he figured out how. It’s been an on-going problem that I was hoping he would have grown out of by now – at almost 2 and a half.

I am really at a loss as to how to stop it. Nothing has worked. If he throws a toy, he automatically loses it. He doesn’t care. He just goes and finds something else. Once, we took all his hard toys away so he couldn’t break anything or hurt anybody. He didn’t care; he happily played with stuffed animals. We have taken away TV privileges, but he doesn’t associate it to his behaviour. We give him time-outs, and he just sits there quietly, unfazed.

Nothing seems to have an impact. We have made preventative efforts, too. We don’t allow balls in the house because we don’t want to encourage him to throw anything inside. He is also not allowed metal cars until he can learn not to throw them because they can cause real damage. And, toys are banned in the car.

So, what else can we do?

Does anyone else have a thrower?
Has anyone found anything that has worked to stop it?
What suggestions do you have for me? Help?

I’ve always had a bittersweet relationship with food.  Heavy on the bitter, which is really too bad because I love sweet.  Generally, I am not one to savour food or enjoy the process of eating.  Eating is a means to an end.  If I could get everything I needed in a little pill, I would.

I am particular about what I will eat, especially when it comes to meat.  Anyone who has had the misfortune of accompanying me to a restaurant I’ve never been to can attest to that.  I am not adventurous and if there is not something I’ve eaten before, I struggle and usually just order a salad.

My eating habits have been unhealthy throughout my adolescent and adult life.  Eating has been a chore.  After a meal, I would feel relieved because I knew I had a few hours before I had to worry about choking something down again.  At one point in my life, I bought things close to the expiry date and let them go bad so I didn’t have to eat them.  I would let produce rot in my fridge so I could throw it away.  I relied on baby food, meal supplements, and crackers to get me through the day.

That all changed when I got pregnant.  I was referred to a dietitian who monitored what I ate to make sure I was feeding Q.  I took it seriously and ate enough for both of us.  I even made up for lost time, gaining 55 pounds.  Since then, I’ve been good about feeding myself.  I ate well because I was nursing and then it became habit when Q started eating solids.  I kept regular eating patterns, but I didn’t enjoy it; it was still a chore.

A few months ago I decided to take more control over what I was eating and what I was feeding my family.  I researched local farms and markets in search of fresh meat and produce.  They were easy to find once I opened my eyes to them.

The other day I finally went to the farmers’ market in my town.  Q and I walked from one stall to another picking up cucumbers, peppers, peaches, lettuce, and grass-fed beef.  He chatted with the vendors who gave him free cherries and convinced me to buy him a sugar cookie on a stick.

Last night as I scrubbed the dirt off my fresh potatoes, I felt connected to my food for the first time.  I imagined it in the ground, growing imperfectly.  As I cut those potatoes, I thought of the person who had tended them, anticipating their growth.  Suddenly, I appreciated food in a way that I never had before, recognizing its worth and inherent value.  I actually enjoyed the process of preparing a meal for my family.

I am not sure if I will ever surrender myself to the pleasure of food, but at least I can now understand why people do.  The prospect of welcoming food into my life and my routine is exciting. Today is market day and I can’t wait!

I am a sneaker kind of girl, but I have my fair share of high heels. Recently, they have been getting more use from Q than from me. He digs them out of the closet, puts them on and taps around the house in them. He has them mastered. It is quite impressive, actually. I don’t know why he likes my heels – maybe it’s the height, or the sound, or the fact that they are mine. I don’t know and I don’t ask him; it doesn’t matter.

Six weeks ago, while Q was tapping around the house, I tweeted this:

The one response I got was “Oh, I’m sure his high school mates will just love that!” I was put off for a number of reasons, but it stuck with me and got me thinking.

Between then and now, I have read this post by Loukia at Loulou’s Views, this post by Carrie Anne at Another Day, Another Thought or Two, this post by Jana at An Attitude Adjustment, and this post by Jen at Everything Mom. I decided that it is time for me to weigh in and share my perspective more cohesively than I can in a blog comment or in 140 characters on Twitter.

My son plays with dolls. He wears pink shirts. One of his favourite things to do is push his baby around in a doll stroller or rock him in mini swing. He wears my heels. And, the other day he picked out pink shoes at the store (which I did not buy because there were none in his size, but his request made me pause).

I consider myself a conscious parent. I am mindful of the choices and decisions I make on Q’s behalf. I constantly evaluate and manage my expectations of him and of myself. I deliberately check my ego and make a concerted effort to not engage in power struggles for the sake of maintaining or asserting power over him. I do my best to acknowledge his individuality and honour his agency.

It is work. It is constant. But I believe that it is important.

When it comes to gender identity, I have no expectations of Q. No gender identity is better than another. For all I know, he will identify as a trans woman. Fine with me. Whoever he is, he is. What matters to me is that he feel free to express that identity without fear of rejection and judgment from me and Mr. T. If there is anywhere he needs to feel free to express himself, it’s in his home.

That said, society will judge him. He will be judged regardless, but especially harshly if he defies societal expectations and norms. In this world, binary gender designations are met with little question. Boy or girl. Man or woman. The reality, though, is that it is not that simple. Gender identity is complex and runs deeper than gendered toys and clothes. Intersex and transgender [pdf] identities exist and are more common than many are willing to accept.

In all honestly, I was relieved when there were no pink shoes in Q’s size because I probably would have bought them for him and I knew that he and I would be judged.

Am I willing to appease people I don’t know or don’t like at the expense of my son’s free will and desire to express himself? As Dr. Seuss said: those who mind don’t matter and those that matter don’t mind. However, at what point do I intervene in an effort to protect him? And, will I really be protecting him in the long run?

Is there a point at which we defer and encourage our children to conform? My heart says no, but I am torn. I want Q to feel free to express his true self, but I don’t want him to suffer at the hands of those high school mates.

What do you think?
How do you foster a sense of identity in your children?
Do you allow your children to express themselves freely through their clothing and toys?
Are we protecting our children by encouraging them to conform to gender stereotypes and social expectations?

For the record, I don’t believe that toys and clothing determine sexual orientation, nor do I have any preference for Q’s sexual orientation.

Phone calls, texts, Facebook and Skype
Feeling like I’m always on call
The expectation of an immediate response
The problem of always being connected

We humans have come so far
From telegraph, pony express, snail mail
Is it too much? Binding us.
The problem of always being connected

Can’t leave the house without cell
Same message on cell and home
Why didn’t you answer your phone?
The problem of always being connected.

No moments I can’t be reached
Feeling attached, connected, bound, on call
Should leave my cell at home
The problem of always being connected

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This is a Six Word Friday post. The topic this week is feeling.

After reading Hand Wash Cold by Karen Maezen Miller, quite a few passages stuck with me. I have written about one of them before in Even monkeys can raise their young! In that post, I promised that I would dedicate more than one post to the book – posts by topic instead of one post about the book as a whole. This is the second installment.

The Kitchen: To Study Oneself Is to Forget Oneself, without a doubt, was the section of the book that inspired me the most. It gave me much needed perspective of my life and how I assign worth.

I literally stopped reading and just sat thinking for a long time after I came across this in chapter 14:

Each day I do the dirty work, the effort that attracts no notice but my own, and in this very place I find ordinary ingredients for genuine fulfillment.

It starts the moment my eyes open, as I rise with the sun to sort and stack the dishes, appreciating this simple task as the essential start to a healthy day. Chopping the blemished fruit for breakfast, savouring the taste of my own usefulness. Emptying full hampers without resentment or commentary.

I needed to find my way to that perspective. Domestic tasks have always been chores to me. I have always avoided doing dishes, doing laundry, vacuuming, dusting… cooking! I have dreaded doing all those things and haven’t found joy or fulfillment in any of them. Although I valued having a healthy home for myself and my family, I did not assign worth to the process. Quite the opposite. I resented it.

I have always been a fiercely independent woman. To a fault. I think a lot of women of my generation make that claim. We feel the need to assert our independence and prove our worth in this world. We have been taught that we don’t need someone else, especially a man, to take care of us. With that, I think that we have been conditioned to resent being expected to take care of a partner.

I had been clinging to my resentment believing that it empowered me – believing that it protected me from falling into antiquated gender roles and surrendering to social expectations. It did none of those things. The truth is that it owned me. It rendered me powerless and governed not only the state of my house, but the dynamics of my household. It was powerful.

By releasing my resentment, I allow myself the freedom to find pleasure in nourishing my family and providing a healthy environment for us. With the resentment gone, I can assign worth to the process and I can acknowledge the value and the power of my self.

I can now focus on savoring the taste of my usefulness and enjoying doing for those in my family – not only for their sakes, but for mine.

The other day, I gave Q a huge hug and said “Are you my boy?”  His response was “No, Mommy. I’m Q!”  I paused in that moment and let it sink in. The simplicity of his assertion of self struck me. I’m not yours, mommy. I’m mine. Of course he was right. Actually, I couldn’t have said it better myself.

It’s hard to let go of the notion that he’s mine.  That he is as much his own person as I am mine. Until he was six months old, I thought of him as an extension of me. Everything that sustained him came from me. It was strange and wonderful that his little body was of my making. It awed me that all of him could have come from a part of me.

But he was never really mine. He was always his.

I am his mother, but can’t claim him. I can teach him, protect him, guide him, and love him. With that, I must respect his needs, his desires and his preferences as much I expect him to respect mine.

The dynamic between adults and children is unique because every adult was once a child. There are expectations placed on children and young people to respect their elders. But, do we respect them? Are they free to expect from us what we expect of them?

In relatively recent former life, I worked with youth. As part of that, I facilitated trainings for adults on how to work with youth within a youth empowerment model: how to guide instead of direct and how to support instead of dictate.

When we did these trainings, my colleagues and I found that those who had the most difficulty with that approach to working with youth were parents. They resisted. Now, I understand why.

The idea that was most difficult to come to terms with was called adultism.

The essence of adultism is disrespect of the young. Our society, for the most part, considers young people to be less important than and inferior to adults. It does not take young people seriously and does not include them as decision makers in the broader life of their communities.

I think that as much as we don’t want it admit it exists, it does. We treat children differently and we perceive their value differently. Being childish or juvenile is considered bad and it is not something that adults want emulate. Why is that? What is so wrong with being like a child?

It is difficult to parent within a youth empowerment model. To guide without directing and dictating is near impossible. In fact, I tell Q on an on-going basis what to do and what not to do – for his safety, for his growth, and for my sanity. He needs to learn to pick up after himself, that he can’t watch TV all day, and that it’s nice to say please and thank you. I am responsible for raising him and encouraging him to be a well-rounded person. As a result, I make a lot of decisions for him. Most.

As he gets older and develops, he will make more decisions for himself. For now he decides, to a large extent, what he wears, what he eats, and how he spends his free time.

His simple claim to himself was a stark reminder that I have to be present in my parenting.

In that moment, the mirror that Bell describes in Understanding Adultism was held in front of my face, posing the questions:

“Would I treat an adult this way?”
“Would I talk to an adult in this tone of voice?”
“Would I grab this out of an adult’s hand?”
“Would I make this decision for an adult?”
“Would I have this expectation for an adult?”
“Would I limit an adult’s behavior this way?”
“Would I listen to an adult friend’s problem in this same way?”

Anytime I answer no to these questions, I need to pause and ask myself why. Parenting is a conscious effort. It is an active endeavour and no easy task. My son needs to be empowered to assert himself and make decisions – and he deserves to have his preferences respected. If I don’t allow him to do that, who will?
My son teaches me more than I realize and in that moment, he helped me tune into the bigger picture.

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This post is part of Bigger Picture Moments where we step back and take in life.

Dear Q,

Give freely and without the expectation of something in return.

Be generous of spirit. Let others in and don’t let your ego control your relationships and interactions.

Be generous with your time. Pay attention to those around you – people you know and people you don’t. This world emphasizes the importance of time – even at the expense of compassion. Take the time to stop and talk to people who seem in distress. Pay attention to those who are often ignored and avoided. Acknowledge them and validate their existence. Smile. Wait for the next bus, train, or taxi and take the time to engage in conversation.

Be generous with your space; is not a possession. Share it. Let people in and give them room. Allow people to merge and get in front of you when driving; you will still get where you are going. Leave a close parking space or bus seat for the next person; it is okay to walk a little farther.

Be generous with your possessions. Give clothes. Give things. Give money. Give what you can to make someone else’s day a little brighter.

Reflect what you value most in you. This world will encourage you to put yourself first and to think of your own needs before those of others. Be true to your self. Be true to the essence of who you are and what feeds your spirit. Be generous. Just be.

Love always,
Mom

This is a tale about a little bead and an ear…

8:00 a.m.: I am lying on the floor in Q’s room and he is reading books to me.

“Mommy, you tired?”

“Yes, honey”

He goes to his bed, grabs his blanket and drapes it over me

“Here, mommy”

Then, he proceeds to surround me with stuffed animals and his pillow. Aw, I think, he is so sweet!.

“Go to sleep, mommy” I will have to remember to tweet this so everyone knows how sweet and awesome my kid is.

A minute or so later, he touches my ear (which is totally normal for him because he plays with ears as he falls asleep). Score! Back to bed!

“It’s fits” What?!

“What fits?”

“Bean in ear”

Slowly… “what do you mean? What bean?”

I tip my head a little yellow bead falls out of my ear. It is a bead from one of the maracas I had bought for him from the dollar store. It had smashed when he decided to use it as a drumstick – little beads flew everywhere. I thought I’d gotten them all. Evidently, not.

“Honey, it is not safe to put things in ears! That’s dangerous!”

“Other bead in ear”

“Is there another bead in mommy’s ear?”

“Yes”

*insert assorted expletives that may or may not have been said out loud.

I feel in my ear and sure enough, there is something hard and small. Knowing I could never get it out myself, I get us dressed and to the walk-in clinic.

9:00 a.m.: I see the doctor.

“It looks like you have a small, white, bead-like thing in your ear” Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed. Thanks.

“I am not sure I can get it out, but I’ll try” Awesome.

After inserting some kind of instrument into my ear he says “Nope, can’t get it. Actually, I think I might have pushed it in farther. You’ll have to go to the ER.” Perfect. Thanks, doc. Way to help a girl out.

Thankfully, my friend, Lisa, offers to watch Q while I go to the ER to get a bead extracted from my ear. For a second, I considered bringing him because I couldn’t think of better punishment for getting me in this mess. But, then I decided that it would be worse for me. So, as punishment for putting a bead in my ear, Q got to go play with his best bud.

10:03 a.m.: I tell the triage nurse in the ER what is wrong.

“Are you serious? How?”

“My 2yo put it in there”

“Oh! I have a 2yo. They are something else!” Don’t I know it.

Looking at the form she says “Hmm… foreign body in an adult’s ear. How am I going to explain this? They better not laugh at you!” At this point, I’m laughing, so they might as well be.

I get outfitted with a nifty wristband with my name on it and a GPS tracking device that I have to clip to my shirt so they can find me if I wander away (which was actually tempting).

12:00 p.m.: the doctor comes in the room trying to hide a smirk.

“So, you have a bead in your ear?”

“Yup”

“I can get it out”

He attaches a little suction thing in my ear, tells me to hold it there, and leaves the room. I suction my ear thinking that it can’t possibly be good for it, but what do I know? It’s better than the bead. He comes back with scissor-looking-like-things, inserts them into my ear and pulls out the bead. Finally!

“Here you go” he says as he drops it into my hand.

“Oh, and take these as a souvenir” he says, handing me the scissor-looking-like-things. He must have known I’m a blogger because what other use could I possibly have for these bad boys?

What’s the moral of the story?

Don’t trust a 2 year old who tells you to go to sleep

or

Don’t buy toys at the dollar store because they are crap and they break.

Take your pick.

Recently, I read Hand Wash Cold by Karen Maezen Miller.  I think it will become one of those books that affects my life in a profound way and influences how I see the world – one of those books that continues to help me grow and one to which I refer back often to find perspective.

There are a few things that jumped out at me while reading Hand Wash Cold.  There are so many things that I’d like to write about and share, but I am not going to try to fit it all into one post.  I will focus on one thing at a time.

In chapter 10, Karen tells a story about a talk she was giving at her Zen centre “about the extraordinary challenges of parenting.”   As the discussion about how it’s the most difficult job in the world “wound on and on,” her teacher said,

“Even monkeys can raise their young!”

Wow, isn’t that the brutal truth?  Monkeys raise their young.  Many animals do and have been for millions of years, and humans for roughly 200 000 of those years.  We have been raising our young for hundreds of thousands of years.

So, why is it so hard?

It seems to me that we complicate it and make it harder than it needs to be – as individual parents and as a society.  We place so much emphasis on the expectations we have of our children, especially of their behaviour and their development.  We have theories and strategies for discipline, potty learning, sleeping, routine.  We have attachment parenting.  We have free range parenting.  We have lactivism and intactivism.  We have flash cards and sign language.  We have educational programs for infants and wait lists for high priced preschools.

I can’t help but feel that much of it places undo stress on parents and children.

Have we, as a species, so far removed ourselves from our environment and the world that we don’t sense our instincts, much less trust them?  It seems that we have forgotten how to breastfeed, how to listen to our babies and read their sleep patterns, evacuation patterns, and needs.  We think a lot, read a lot, and ask a lot of questions when I think that many of our answers lie within us and our relationships with our children.

Maybe I am romanticizing the past and the way humans used to live and operate – the simplicity of being governed by our instincts and tuned into each other and ourselves – like monkeys.  But, it seems like such a simpler way to live.  Easier in the ways ours is difficult and difficult in the ways ours is easier.  So much emphasis is placed on the physical in this world and I can’t imagine it’s always been that way. I can’t imagine that we have always been so detached from our collective spiritual, emotional, and mental states of being.

Not long ago, I was at the Toronto Zoo with Q.  In September 2009, a baby gorilla was born and this was the first time we’d actually gotten a chance to see baby Nassir.  As I watched the mother, I marvelled at how easy she made it all look.  She carried Nassir on her back, her front, in her arms… shifting his position as she moved around.  She nursed him and protected him from the male gorillas who got too close.  The fluidity of it amazed me.  She knew what to do and she just did it.  The baby gorilla was an extension of her – far from the centre of attention, yet influencing her actions.

To me, it seemed that this gorilla had it down pat.  I envied her as I preoccupied my mind with where Q was, what he was touching and how dirty it was, when he’d last eaten and if he’d had enough veggies, how tired he was, whether I should give him a soother in public when he is only supposed to get it in his bed… countless considerations and concerns.

I don’t want to live Q’s life thinking that parenting him is the most difficult job in the world.  If I approach it that way, it surely will be.  I want parenting him to be the most rewarding job in the world.  The most important job in the world.  Sure there will be challenges, but I wonder how many are of my own making.

Since he was an infant, I believed that I needed to trust my instincts in caring for him.  It shouldn’t be so hard to do, though.  It seems to me that it should almost be automatic.  If it feels right, chances are it is. But, my instincts conflicted with the advice I was getting, what the experts were saying, and what other parents were doing. So, I struggled.

Maybe, just maybe, we can learn a thing or two from gorilla mamas.

This is not baby Nassir, but a baby gorilla and mama from Woodland Park Zoo in Seattle. I chose this video because it best illustrates the interaction I saw that day between Nassir and his mama, Ngozi.

What do you think? Is parenting the most difficult job in the world? If so, is it because we make it so?

Dear Q,

If there is anything I learned during my years of training advocacy strategies, it’s this: don’t fight against what you don’t want.  Focus your time, money, and energy on what you want to achieve, not on what you want to eradicate.  Give your attention to your desired outcome, whatever that is.  What do you want?

- Equitable access and opportunities?
- Health for all?
- Corporate integrity?
- Peace?
- Equal rights under the law?
- Social inclusion?
- Justice?

Whatever you focus on, you feed.  Be aware of where you direct your energy.

Love always,
Mom