Holding Still

don't worry!

I think I'd better write an upbeat post and tout suite!  I most certainly have been in a contemplative mood of late.  The third anniversary of the boys coming into our family has recently passed, and then I read about the dissolved Russian adoption case and some people's reactions to it.  The whole thing was so very sad, and I found myself feeling sorry for everyone involved, imagining going through with such a thing, how confused the boy must have been, how dissociated the adults must have been.  

We are actually quite, quite good here, with the usual and more than occasional challenge popping up.  In the Franken-mom post I was primarily talking about our first year together, and we are miles from that now, in a lot of ways.  Some of the same bad habits (for all of us) still exist from that time, but awareness of them make them less harmful to our family unit.

Awareness is what I was discussing towards the end of that last post.  My own awareness of my reactions, my thought processes, and real awareness of the other members of the family has caused a shift to occur in me.  Part of that awareness has come naturally, and part of it has come through work I've done with meditation and study of Buddhism.  I am slogging through, for sure, but I'm happier for it.  Recognition of my perceived failings as a parent are something I need to look at, learn from, and then move on.  I'm trying not to beat myself up, but at the same time look at things as objectively as I can.  I tend to write when I'm most inward, and when I have time.  So please don't worry!  I haven't considered jumping into the ocean in at least 6 months!

Here are the photos I promised two posts ago.  Mercury is still retrograde, but hopefully they'll load up.

It feels good to write again!  I'll try and keep up.
Lire and wee Nolan's tootsies.

new sandals on a 70 degree morning.

I tried to upload more, but my computer has had enough.  It's complaining rather loudly, alas.

  

Franken-mom

I've been cogitating a great deal on mom-dom of late.  I've mentioned on more than one occasion that I am honestly disappointed with my mothering skills.  Not always, but enough to make me constantly re-hone my approaches to the boys.  Which, I think, makes me a better mother than I may be giving myself credit for.  

I've also been thinking about "bad" moms, the ones who make us gasp when we read about their awful deeds.  When I was a first year teacher, back in Baltimore in the Head Start Program, I witnessed a mom who violently shook her baby.  A grandmother who spent her grandchild's Social Security Check on a new fur coat for herself and gambling, while the three year old granddaughter came to school in midwinter wearing torn ladies' panty hose for socks.  I remember telling someone that I could not have compassion for these mothers.  I felt too strongly about the wrongs that were being visited on their children.  

I couldn't wait to become a mom.  I imagined all the possibilities of children I might have -- a girl, a boy, one of each, someone who had Alex's eyes and lovely voice or who liked to explore the woods like I did.  We talked about adoption even before my illness made it clear that having kids the "natural" way was not in  the cards.  When I was stronger and on the road to being as normal as I could hope to be, we began exploring adoption for real.  And then we actually did.  We adopted two brothers, H and L.  They were, and still are, breathtakingly beautiful.  We would have a family after all.  

I've already written a lot about the challenges of that first year as a family.  I still think about it with sadness.  I wish I didn't.  I wish I could look back and say it was perfect, everything I expected, I rose to the challenge, etc.  But it wasn't, and I didn't.  I was just barely keeping it together, and I was severely depressed.  I sought help for myself, which was a major financial drain, but it was either that or I would indulge my fantasies of diving into the ocean one night and not coming back.  I contacted our agency more than once, desperate for help with behaviors I found alarming.  I was told that this was what happened sometimes, and that in a few months things would be better.  I was told to look online for resources to help me.  Another mom in the same boat as me was told by her agency to go and buy her child an ice cream cone when this daughter screamed for three hours straight.  I think the same social worker told her to go and take a yoga class herself.

My social worker contacted me once to ask how things were after one of my more desperate emails.  She told me about a place about 2 hours from us who dealt with behavior problems with kids.  I called them.  They used a behavior chart system not unlike the one we already used.  The woman there laughed and said to give it time.  They didn't know what attachment was, or that a child might not attach.  They supposedly specialized with adopted kids.

I felt alone and unsupported, though I wasn't actually alone, I had Alex and my family.  Going to therapy cost a lot at a time when I wasn't working, but we could scrape it together.  And our moms both came to help out with the boys.  And still it was overwhelming to me.  So now I look at the two moms I mentioned from my Baltimore days, and all the moms who've made us gasp in horror over the years, including most recently the mom from Tennessee who sent her newly adopted son back to Russia alone on an airplane.  I know a bit about the Baltimore moms from having worked with the social workers on the case.  They were victims of abuse, themselves.  They were very poor, disenfranchised people put into circumstances for which they were totally unequipped.  I don't know anything about the Tennessee mom, except that she was a single mother.  And she probably had hopes of being a happy family.  I don't know.  I know that I had more support than they, but still I felt totally at sea.

None of these cogitations about myself or these moms is meant to take away from the fear, trauma and pain of the kids involved.  I have witnessed it first hand as a teacher and as my sons' mother.  That is one of the reasons why my memories of the first year are so sad.  There was undeniable pain underneath the smiles and playfulness in our photographs.  I feel regret and shame about the way I performed as "mother" in those early days.  I am pretty sure that those other mothers did, and do, too.  Part of a meditation method I am currently learning advises you to "taste" your extreme feelings.  Think back about a particularly painful episode in your life and feel the emotions and physical sensations that accompany it.  Don't name them, don't repress them, don't judge them,  just feel them.  And then acknowledge that countless other people have experienced the same feelings and sensations as you.  This is the beginning of compassion.  

The refrain, "It's not that far..." from Walking Down Madison by Kirsty MacColl keeps chiming into my head:  

It's a shame to be human it's a human shame
It seems we've forgotten we're one and the same
One and the same
One and the same
No it's not too far
No it's not too far
We're one and the same

Parenting is a humbling experience.  I'd like to think that in similar circumstances I wouldn't make the same choices as these moms.  Their actions were exceedingly hurtful and cannot be undone nor excused.  They will leave indelible scars.  But if we are to move on and heal these terrible hurts, I think we must start with feeling compassion for them as well as for their children.  And for ourselves.  Compassion is the beginning of healing.  Then we can all move on and be the mothers we've always meant to be.

nerves

Is riotous laughing at one's own jokes a developmental stage?  Not really jokes.  Nonsensical, annoying, absolutely irritating utterances followed by forced, extended laughing.  When will it end?  Will it?  

Because despite my attempts at calmness, at holding back, at NOT SAYING ANYTHING, my nerves are beginning to fray.  Like ye old shoelaces children used to have in their sneakers from excessive tying.  I even had 48 hours off to stare into space and hang with Chauncey and Al like in the old days.  My parents took the guys for the weekend to give us a little break.  

You'd think I'd be all chill and "hey guys, what's up?"  But I am not.  Maybe it began with the initial arguing and "Mommy!  My brother ____... '' fill in the blank with your favorite Cain and Abel transgression.  

Or maybe it's just because I am an old woman.  That is a huge possibility.  

All I know is that I don't drink, I don't smoke, I need an outlet.  Cherry Garcia, anyone?

Out of the Mouths of Babes

I was recently given the opportunity to review Out of the Mouths of Babes:  Parenting from a Child's Perspective by Dyan Eybergen, RN for Mothertalk.  

Eybergen is a pediatric psychiatric nurse who, along with her husband, is raising three sons.  The book was advertised as being child-centered, specifically acknowledging the fact that each child's temperament is different, thus they will respond differently to situations and to parenting techniques.  

As my boys couldn't be more different, I was interested to hear anything enlightening on how to fairly treat children differently.  It's quite an issue for us.  Especially since our older boy is very concerned with fairness.  If he sees us treating his brother differently discipline-wise, for example, he feels very hurt.  Yet they are so different and require such different strategies and even language, sometimes.  I think I need to find some different words to describe different!

Enough about me!  On with the book!

I enjoyed the book for the most part.  However, I found it to sort of glance over issues and not give specific enough instruction on how to actually speak to your different children, or how to talk to yourself when your child does something that pushes your buttons.  She does give personal anecdotes that help illustrate a point she is making -- for example, in the toilet-training chapter, she divulges the very personal story of peeing her own knickers while a young woman, laughing with a friend, of course.  I appreciated that one, because I've been there, myself.  Her point being that no one humiliated her for wetting her pants, so that a parent shouldn't make his/her child feel badly for having an accident, either.

She emphasizes respecting your children and their differences, being patient with their different temperaments and allowing them the time they need to decide that they are ready to sleep alone in their beds, try a new food, or use the potty.  She is very child-centered in her presentation, which is good, of course, and the way it should be.  And she does discuss her own frailties as a parent, which I appreciated.  However, she does tend to be a bit judgemental, especially when it comes to rewards and behavior systems.  Each chapter traces a child's journey from infant to preschool/early elementary age, with the parent's role at each stage discussed in relation to the subject at hand -- sexuality, discipline, sleep-training, etc.  

Having not been there for my sons' babyhood, I found the chapter discussing discipline and sibling rivalry the most interesting, but again, her lack of flexibility regarding reward systems felt judgemental to me.  Probably because we use them with our older son, I may be a bit defensive.  Her discussions seemed to be suited to children whose behavior falls between "normal" ranges, and does not take into account children with histories of trauma, children who have been adopted, etc.  Not that some of the information wasn't helpful.  I just think that children with the histories I've described are so very individual, that a parent can use much more specific strategies and words to help find his/her way with that child.  Books that have served that purpose for me have been Beyond Consequences, Logic and Control (also against using behavior systems); Nurturing Adoptions (which utilizes behavior systems for extreme behaviors); and  Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves .

The title is meant to illustrate that we are to look to the child, to her words, to help us figure out how to treat and talk to her.  She also wishes to have us, the parents, put ourselves back into our children's places and try to imagine how they are feeling.  She includes actual quotes from children in her life -- her own, I believe, as well as the children of family and friends.  They are very cute quotes, as you can imagine, and give the book a more poetic feel, rather than a parenting-y feel, which is a nice change.

I guess I was expecting something with more concrete examples of how to treat different children differently while still being loving and fair.  I don't think it's necessarily as helpful for parents whose children who have experienced trauma, as I mentioned above, but there are other books out there like that, which I also mentioned previously.  An easy read, short and pleasant, but not necessarily memorable.

sorry for the lack of posts

As for most, the summer has kept us occupied.  Between camp, visitors, eating, sleeping and my brother's wedding this coming weekend, we've been busy.  

We've made some changes to our days which seem to have helped the boys have fewer conflicts.  Basically, every morning before Al and I totally awoke, H and L would play together in their room with Legos, drawing supplies, etc.  Every morning we would be forced out of bed by L crying "Habtam no!  Stop it!  I no like that!"  Um, probably these phrases would be repeated 15-20 times a minute.  We would enter their room to find H stony-faced while L sobbed in frustration over a taken toy, a push off the bed, or 3 Legos to H's 103.  

Every day H's chart would be all happy faces -- except for the early morning section.  I began to separate them as soon as I heard the first cries of injustice.  No punishment, no chidings, just asked them to play in separate rooms.  Quiet.  After 2 days of this, we decided to ask H (who wakes up a full 45 minutes before L most days) to go into the extra room we have as soon as he awoke.  There are toys in there, books, drawing supplies, and writing supplies.  We've been doing this for almost a week now, and the mornings are quiet, the boys are happy to see one another after their early morning apart (what you do, Habtam?  Cool!  See what I make?  Good job, Lire!"), and Al and I can sleep an extra 45 minutes or so!  

Another change is that we give H simple writing exercises in the mornings.  He practices writing his letters and copying new words.  He really likes it and it seems to focus him like nothing else.  Even more than drawing, which he has been off of for a few months.  H is a basically practical person who likes for the things that he does to be for a purpose.  He knows that letters make words, and that words create the books that we read.  Writing is more grown-up, as well, in his eyes.

I'm not sure how long it will last, but for now the peace is very encouraging.  Both boys can have time to play/create without competition, to have a successful and quiet morning before breakfast and the rest of their day.  And we get to sleep more. 

Phew!

And now for their latest album cover:  

And the liner image (for those of you who actually remember albums...

up in the air

It's been a little more interesting around here than I'd care for it to be.  I LOVE summer -- beaching, wearing very little clothing, barefoot walking, corn on the cob, etc.  However, working at the camp definitely puts a bit of a damper on the usual slothfulness I'm used to.  Oh, and having two kids.  

I'm actually enjoying myself at camp these days.  I'm at the point I remember many moons ago when I worked with wee ones in nyc:  Falling for the little people who independently motor around the early childhood room, yogurt smeared on their faces, toys employed for a totally different purpose than intended.  The way they move into magical thinking like that -- poof!  "We are all baby turtles hiding in our shells!"

What I didn't anticipate was how bittersweet it would feel.  The joy of getting to know someone so little, so interesting was one of my favorite perks of the job.  Feeling one way about a child the first few weeks, and then slowly watching as he/she opened up to you, their teacher.  Realizing how special that little person is!

I'm discovering all of the campers' quirky personality traits and enjoying it immensely.  The hard part is that I don't think I ever got to feel that with my older son.  There has been so much struggle all along, that the intimate surprises were overshadowed by doubt and concern.  What makes it that much more difficult is that with our younger guy, it did happen, and still happens daily.

I realize that this is all me.  He doesn't know, or even care, what my expectations of our relationship are.  He's trying to make it one day at a time, trying to find his place in our family, in the world.  I try to remember the students I had who didn't make it easy for me.  I learned a lot from them, of course.  I know that H will help me to learn new ways to communicate, new ways to respond.  

I missed a great deal of H's early childhood, which becomes more apparent as we discover that he is indeed significantly older than we were told.  He was never my baby, my toddler, or my three-year old.  His 6 year molars came in over the winter and he lost his first tooth this week, with two more loose ones ready to fall. I think he is still confused about all of our roles in the family.  We are having a tough time helping him relax into being a kid.  I think he thinks of himself as an adult, one of us.

Summer camp is fun for him, but he's having problems relating which he didn't have so much in school.  Probably because it is much less structured and there is little quiet time.  Fortunately it only goes to one, and then we have enforced quiet time at our house.  Then all four of us do something together, and we ease into the evening and bedtime.

Not sure how to end this one.  Everything is still up in the air, so I guess I'll end it that way.  Wish us luck on fitting our puzzle family together.      

 

hello darkness my old friend...

Lack of school is proving to be difficult for a certain someone in our household.  Actually for both boys, just one's behavior is easier to manage than the other.

Being a preschool veteran, I played around with behavior charts a couple of months after the boys arrived home with us.  It worked really well helping them to learn our routines:  waking up, having breakfast, clearing our plates, playing and cleaning up, brushing teeth, getting ready for bed, etc.  They liked the charts a lot, and when they were able, began to talk about it and helped us make the smiley/sad faces on it.  Once things started going smoother, routine-wise, I focused on different behaviors (Lire not waking Habtamu up at 5 am, Habtam using gentle hands).

Anyway.  The chart, which is a large dry-erase board, had been disbanded and used as a fun drawing surface for the guys.  No longer.  Unfortunately, we've had to reinstate a chart for Habtam.  Oddly enough, he seemed relieved by the whole thing.  He is someone who requires structure, likes concrete and consistent rules (though he bucks against them like a goat), and is visual.  I think the very visualness of the chart, with the ability to concretely see his behavior throughout the day, helps him consider his choices.  Maybe I'm giving the chart too much credit, but he responds to it. 

The day is divided into three sections --- morning, afternoon and evening.  Each section has three time periods within, and we check back with one another throughout the day to see how he's been doing.  We use simple sad and happy faces to illustrate it, and at the end of the day, if he's got enough smiles, he gets a sticker.  If there are enough stickers at the end of the week, we'll talk about a privilege, a toy returned, etc.  Are you tired reading about it?  I'm tired just thinking about it.

The difference this year to last is that H and his Dad and I can talk about his behavior, his choices, and his feelings SO much better.  Of course, it also means that H can tell me and Lire how much he hates us, that Lire is stupid, and he never wants to talk to us again!  More sophisticated expressions of anger.  Sigh.

I'm not sure if Lire is responding to H's renewed misbehavior or the loss of the school structure, but he is regressing a bit.  It takes the form of him making baby cooing sounds, attempting to suck on our fingers, and needing to be held more.  Fortunately, he bounces back quickly, and if we allow him to act out being a baby, he reverts back to his old self within minutes.

Very much looking forward to camp starting next week for H, that's all I can say.  I'm going to be working half-days at the same camp, but with the 3 year olds, so H will have his own space, his own experiences and I'll just happen to be nearby.

wish us luck!

 

tiger suits and dinosaur eggs

Today was a de-gorgeous day here -- sunny, 50ish degrees, lots of yellow flowers popping up all over. Lire was still napping and Al had gone to pick H up at school. Chauncey and I were cleaning up the yard. At least I was cleaning the yard. Chauncey imagines he is my Centurion, guarding the perimeters of our property against speeding tractors and noisy pick-ups.

The boys have managed to make our yard look pretty trashy, I must say. Broken plastic frisbees and sand buckets, bubble wands aplenty, sodden tennis balls and random pieces of wood decorate our lawn. So I decided to pick up a bit while the wee lad slept. I kept the front door open, so when he awoke, he would see me.

I traversed the lawn about a million times, picking up random bits and throwing them in a bucket. I kept looking at the door for Lire's little face, listening for his usual post-nap "Mommy?... Mommy?" I found one of Al's garden spades amongst a pile of broken bricks (yikes! what do these boys do when I'm not around?). I decided to put it in his work room, to keep it from rusting when I heard the saddest sound.

Heart-wrenching sobs! I rushed to the inner door and opened it to find my sad little Lire on the other side! He was beside himself with sadness and fear that no one was home for him! Writing about it hurts my heart yet again. I've been so strict about one of us being around for the boys when they awaken, and all last summer he would come outside to look for us after a nap. I guess with the cold weather he hadn't remembered that I may be outside.

I held him and rocked him and told him I would never leave him alone, not ever. That he must have been so scared to wake up and not find anyone in the house. To add comic relief to the situation, Chauncey decided this was the perfect time to rip the hat off my head. For those of you who don't know, it's C-dog's favorite trick, next to catching the boys' tee-ball hits. He did it not once, but twice as Lire bawled and I tried to comfort him. You have to give the dog some credit, he was trying to lighten the situation.

Dad and Habtam arrived home and I carried him over to them. Fortunately, Al had a plastic dinosaur egg that hatches when immersed in water in his hand, which put a smile on his face.

It brought home (again) to me how fresh the boys' relinquishment is in their subconscious. Just below the surface of Lire's joyful exterior. I find myself thinking how terrified he must have been, and it twists my insides into a knot. You will be glad to know that he had a wonderful rest of his day. He is anxiously awaiting the hatching of the dinosaur egg, and wore his tiger suit for the bedtime story. Little man.

time was...

A year since the boys' arrival is soon approaching. We've come a long way in a lot of respects, and are still struggling in others. I've been reading a couple blogs in which the families have just recently returned, and it is bringing back LOTS of memories. Some great, some very painful.

H had another spitting/screaming episode the other day. He hadn't had one in a really long time. I feel responsible for it in some ways, I should have eased off of him. I was PMSy, and was triggered by his disrespect -- he resembles a teenager in a lot of ways. Anyway, he ended up spitting at Lire, so I carried him to his room so he could spit on his bed as I held him, and not at his brother or anywhere else in the house.

Sigh.

I held him while he screamed about how much he hated me, how he wanted to go to the store with Daddy, a few odd threats thrown in. I started to watch my breath go in and out, trying to become an observer as well as a participant to the situation. I realized I should have stayed downstairs and ignored a few of his earlier activities and words. None of this would have happened, and who cares if he trashed the piano?

I think my conscious breathing calmed him. He stopped fighting me and his shrill scream turned into a little boy's crying. I said a few things that validated how he might feel -- angry at me, afraid, not liking when people didn't like the things he did and being told to stop doing those things. He nodded at most of them, especially the last one. He said he didn't like it when people told him to stop or to change. I acknowledged that it is hard to hear people tell you that they don't like what you're doing. And I told him I didn't like it much, either, but sometimes it was to help us. I admitted that Daddy and I often told one another we didn't like what the other was doing or saying, and although it made us angry, we knew it was usually to help us make better decisions. He actually seemed quite interested in this.

Hugging ended our session, and he went outside and did yard work with Dad.

None of this really had to have happened, if I had just minded my business and let the kid be a kid. At the same time, I'm glad we ended up having the discussion we had at the end. I always feel spent and a bit of a failure after one of these blow-ups. However, I do feel I'm learning how to get through them better, H and L seem to be weathering their tantrums better and we're avoiding them more.

BONK!

Ouch. Lire just butted his head into the wall as he was falling asleep. It doesn't wake him, believe it or not. The noise is loud enough to get me running downstairs to make sure there are no hi-jinks, or worse, head injuries. There never are. Just Lire under his pillow, legs up the wall, or head against it. Bonk.

The book I alluded to last post is Raising Our Children, Raising Ourselves by Naomi Aldort. I don't have it in front of me, and I don't want to write an exhaustive review of it. Frankly, I'm a bit tired (it's the last day of an eleven day vacation, people), so I'll let you know why I think it's helpful and all that good stuff.

First off, it shares a lot in common with this book, which I've discussed briefly in the past, and which mimiboo writes really eloquently about in regards to her children. The biggest thing that they share, for me, is that they address the parents' reactions, behaviors, what-have-you in relation to their child's behaviors. Beyond Consequences discusses the triggers that set the parent off into his/her own maelstrom of fear and reaction, generally originating way back when. Identifying the triggers and one's reactions help one to slow down, analyze what's really going on, and hopefully allowing the parent to identify for the child the possible reasons for his/her behavior. Mimiboo gives a great example in the post I linked to above.

Aldort's book also helps the parent to look at his/her own reactions by slowing down and surveying a situation before reacting. She uses an acronym, SALVE: Stand back and survey the situation. Pay Attention to your child. Listen. Validate and Empower. The key letter for me was the V -- validate. Not only do I find that I often do not validate my children's reasons for outbursts and questionable behaviors, I'm repeating the actions of my parents. Who are WONDERFUL, don't get me wrong. I cried a lot as a kid. Some do, some do other things. This was a Big Deal in the family. It was discussed, teased, jeered, and yes, scorned. I understand. I find L's frequent crying a bit hard to deal with. But I'm treating him the way I really, really hated being treated. I'm not validating his sadness.

For me, validation equals compassion. Breaking down the word compassion, it means "suffering with." It doesn't mean spoiling. It just acknowledges that something -- something that to us doesn't mean so much, or something we can't even know -- has made the child cry, or hit, or scream, or throw toys down the stairs. When I turn down my roiling Italian/Irish blood, I can more easily see what may be the trigger. And I try to calmly identify this thing in an objective way. "you might feel hurt that Habtamu said Grace by himself (real example). That might be why you hit him." In this instance I waited a bit, and the Pucker fish (see previous entry) stopped pursing his lips, reversed the Ethiopian head-fake and looked at me with the biggest, saddest eyes. The screaming lasted a little less long than usual. We were able to go back to dinner and finish our pasta. Previously I might be so ticked at the hitting that I might berate him for it, saying that H saying Grace alone wasn't a good enough reason for hitting, yadda, yadda. To me it isn't a good enough reason, but to Lire, apparently it is.

Anyway, this may be elementary to you seasoned parents, and others may be saying, yeah, and?

For me, validating my own sadness and crying from Way-Back-When helps me to slow down. I have a harder time with disrespect, sadly. It really pushes my buttons! I'm trying to go back and think about when I've been disrespected and how it made me feel, how maybe I felt powerless at the time. This allows me to better see that our guys may feel powerless a good bit of the time and find my sometimes bossy ways a bit much.

The two books also share concepts I've been exploring in Buddhism and Siddha yoga. Bear with me! Nothing too esoteric. Just the idea that anger is mostly one's own thoughts wheeling about one's mind, not the actual event that precipitated the initial feeling. We've all been there: Someone says or does something which p's us off. A lot. Our mind starts cycling -- "she always does that! I bet she's going to go home and tell so-and-so. She probably thinks she's smarter than I am..." blah, blah, blah.

Those swirling thoughts make us angrier and angrier until we have a whole movie in our heads of our being wronged. Whatever precipitated our response, it's over. Buddhism advises us to acknowledge that thing, look at it as an observer, watch our feelings surrounding it, our thoughts, and then... let them loosen. Let them go. Practicing this a lot makes it easier as time goes on.

Aldort's book discusses how important it is for us to do this for our kids, to teach them not to wallow, not to attach to negative feelings. Something happened which made us sad, angry, whatever. Name this thing. Allow yourself to feel it, experience it, and then let it go. Easier said than done, but I'm working on it.

Today Al was wrestling with the boys on the rug. He had pinned H's arms with his legs, which H usually (why?) enjoys. All of a sudden he started to wail, to cry, to panic. Of course, Al let him go. He was bemused and went into the kitchen to check on dinner. Here goes mom, "It must be scary to be pinned like that." H shakes his head no. "Maybe you weren't sure he was going to let you go." H nods his head, we hug. H enters the kitchen, tears still glistening on his cheeks: "Daddy, you no catch me!" and runs into the living room, apparently ready for more.

Doesn't sound earth-shattering, I know. However, a few months ago that crying would have turned into a high-pitched scream, following us around the house, knocking over random objects, not looking me in the eye (whenever H was upset, he would transfer his negative feelings to me. Yay!). I know a lot has to do with increased language acquisition, but the fact that he came to me for comfort, and I could give it and not feel worn out and empty. Well, that is good.

Of course, most people probably don't need parenting books to help them be effective parents. I am a reader, however. And when I find parallels between books and an established spiritual tradition, I listen.

An added caveat: I am not doing either book or Buddhism enough justice. I wanted to show you the gleanings I found helpful and that resonated with me.

Below: Lire in mid-sleep. Note the foot poking out from under the pillow.