Month: February 2013

It’s Saturday, 11am and the sun is shining a bright storm through the windows. We are having pancakes, raspberry ones. I am not sure if it’s the sweetness of the maple syrup, the warmth steamy flavor of the pancakes or the simple joy of any rush-less Saturday (yes, I know rush-less is not a word but it paints one as it is), or all of them combined, but there’s always good conversations sprouting like crazy little plants all around the table.

“Mom, what is art?”

Tony’s face bears a funny smiles. But of course you know what it is. OK, he admits, but what if someone takes a pair of broken earphones and glues them to something else, is that art?

Well, no, I do not think so. Though art is a subjective thing, we all agree.

“What’s subjective, mom?” Sasha is always part of the discussions.

I explain the best I can.

Some art is universally recognized as beautiful art, and there’s no debate, other kinds are fully debatable.

How about candy wrappers stuck to objects, say an old snowshoe, Tony pushes. Oh come on! But no, he insists, someone came to their classroom and demonstrated this kind of art.

Hmmm. I want them to develop critical thinking, to also have respect for what people do, but to be able to speak their mind and not just agree with something or “roll with it” because it’s trendy or because everyone else says so.

“But why headphones mom? They looked like broken headphones and nothing else.”

At this point one could argue that my children or any other children (and adults too for that matter) do not have a well-developed eye for art therefore they cannot see past the obvious; broken headphones in this case. Or that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Fair enough. But incomplete.

I told them what I think, and that is by no means right or wrong; simply my opinion. I believe that when someone is inspired to create something, (whatever the medium is), and that someone creates something not to make money or to appear original, but because there is no other way of exiting that whirlwind of inspiration, that’s when art happens and it speaks to us.

Hence my own little rule: I’ll call it art when one’s goal is not to create an impression for the sake of it, but rather respond to bouts of inspiration.

The boys pointed to the walls.

“Is that art?”

Well, it’s our art.

Our house contains art and mementos. Art created by us: paintings, drawings, photographs; and then, the mementos that I created along the years in what seemed like a futile way of trying to stop time, but has since developed into reminders of times past; reason to be grateful, and incentive to cherish the days to come.

I’m not some conceited wannabe artist who believes that only my art is good enough. But I want our house to be a celebration of my boys’ growing up, a reminder of how they see the world, a tug at my heart to never fully grow up.

In fact, the house is also full of rocks, shells and pressed wild flowers. Reminders of sunny days, of cloudy days; soul hugs to keep us warm.

Back to the candy wrappers and broken headphones: I know that trash art exists and some pieces are striking. Some, if not all, are also trying to raise awareness about how much garbage there is although I am not sure if they succeed or not. That’s beside the point though.

Bottom line: If trash is the medium we choose to deliver an artful message through, it better not be the express way done as a demonstration to school kids, because they miss the point and when they do, we adults miss an opportunity to inspire them. Instead of being surprised, they shrug, laugh and move on.

Pancakes, warm and syrupy, straight talking, rain or shine while joking and talking about all things that made an impression on us, I can only hope that we will keep this perfect Saturday ritual alive for many years to come.

I hope for debates, good solid arguments, critical thinking, silliness and the ever present “Mom, I’m full. Thank you for the pancakes…” And to you, my boys. For Saturdays.

“He’s sitting next to me on the sofa, mom. I don’t want him to. Tell him to get off.”
“I can sit here if I want you.”
“NO!”

What usually happens next is predictable. Some kicks, punches, some name calling to spice it up and it’s all downhill from there.

I used to be naïve enough to look for reasons. I figured the kinder them would be hidden inside there somewhere, and if coaxed properly will come out.

But it’s like this: If the boys sleep well and enough, if there’s no nasty colds to get over and if their moods are sunny, conflicts are rare and easy to manage. But life is not perfect and neither are we.

Every now and then moods are swampy, at least one nose is runny and thus annoying, people at school are mean, and… well, you get the idea. It’s called mayhem. The boys act mean to each other, they push, shove, punish each other, and in the process they punish me.

The reverse is also true: Bad days can make the calmest parent lash out. Zen mothers are a rare breed and I am not one of them. I’m learning though.

Acting mean comes out first, I often tell the boys. Like a bad reflex that should’ve disappeared by now.

I used to reach for excuses rather than solutions. You blame others for the inability to act beyond meanness. So you need a mirror of some sort and I believe children are the best mirror there is.

They see, learn and apply. Nice things and ugly things alike.
Every human being acts mean at some point. Life’s big shoes step on all our ten toes and being gracious about it is not part of the plot.

But here’s the kicker: Every time, without an exception, when I mentioned the murkiness of my day, the boys or others have tried to help.

It was a liberating feeling: I was no longer the upside down bug kicking its legs in the air in a mad attempt to regain its dignity.

It works for the boys too, except that they often don’t know how to explain their troubles. They are still learning the ways of the world. If they have a bad day, they give each other heck.

They know just like most people do, that acting mean hurts people. Occasionally they acknowledge the deed and apologize.

But often they don’t. The way I see it, they have to be helped to reach that point sincerely. The last thing they need is being lectured about right and wrong. They know it’s wrong. They don’t understand why they are suddenly the perpetrators of wrongness.

So nowadays I do my best to skip the lecture. I tell them if an action is mean. They know meanness hurts. Boundaries are to be learned no matter what. But, I tell them again and again, acting mean does not make one mean.

Feeling rotten inside tells us exactly that and keeps up from doing it all the time.

I learned to ask them (and myself too) whether meanness solved the problem or brighten the situation at all. The answer is usually “no” except for the smarty pants answer “He did it to me, I did it to him,” which I am still working on finding an equally smarty-pants retort for.

Playing the voice of reason between the boys has taught me to find my own. Seeing them do the things I do and am not proud of, the things I say that I should not say, the aforementioned mirror that is, has made me aware of one thing: Admitting to a rainy day inspires people to hand you an umbrella or share theirs.

A few years ago I read a book called “Principles of non-violent communication” by Marshall Rosenberg. The boys were young and angelic and fights between them did not exist.

I read the book and smugly thought it was a good one for those who needed it and that was not me.

Fast forward a few years; I have humbly remembered the book and the two things that managed to stick despite my smugness: Using “I” instead of “You” in a conflict always makes room for negotiation instead of resentment, and secondly, using words like “never” and “always” in a conflict creates more conflict.

Simple as they seem, these two things don’t just roll of the tip one one’s tongue. It takes practice. Like learning to ride a bike: You stumble, lose your balance, fall and try again. But once you learn how to do it, it’s there for life.

(Originally published as “How to survive swampy moods” in the Kamloops Daily News on Saturday February 23, 2013)

I think of it as an exaggerated sense of entitlement.

It happens to the best of us. Our kids will simply behave like that occasionally. Like the whole world is there to serve them and cater to their needs. Like they deserve it. All of it and just because.

It’s easy to feel rather incensed and wonder. Why do kids nowadays – many of them anyway, and if not all the time, often enough – why do they have that sense of entitlement that seems to have eluded previous generations?

Is it that life has become so fast paced that we forget to create opportunities for them to appreciate the things and thus they are taken for granted? Or is it that every generation has it and it manifests itself in different ways. Is it fixable in any way?

Whether their sense of entitlement is learned behavior – yes, we adults are often guilty of it too – or simply consequence of our parenting and societal circumstances, common sense whispers that it is a slippery slope.

I believe the more entitled one feels the less empowered they are. There is no room for appreciation and for building a much better quality; resilience.

Everyone needs to learn how to serve, I told the boys once. They laughed and thought I was being funny. As if.

But, I explained to them, when people get things done for them they tend to forget how something gets done to begin with. The effort, time and energy, the thoughtfulness, the hard work, all of these can be – and are – easily overlooked if you don’t get to be on the other side.

When children have a chance to do things, sloppy and slow and awkward perhaps in the beginning, they get to taste being appreciated. That’s empowering. As it is for all of us. Doing it all the time can make one resentful. Never doing it leads to that exaggerated entitlement. When it comes to children, I believe that by offering them too much we’re robbing them of feeling empowered and capable.

Everything is set on fast forward and we would rather have things done quickly so we can move on to the next item on the day’s list. From chores to preparing meals and going places, parents do the work and while children help here and there, they are spared because they take longer to do something we parents can do quickly and efficiently.

It is ironic one could say that, fast paced life or not, children seem to learn at the same speed they always have. Which is perfectly right, if only we could slow down the pace to synchronize with theirs.

Children are given things, they are given convenience, and they are given the idea that things happen just like that. A clean house, food, toys and games, trips to see places, they don’t just happen yet somehow we create that perception.

Setting a table and cleaning it after a meal gives a tiny glimpse into how dinner happens.

I used to do everything just to have them chores out of the way so we can do the fun stuff.  But doing things that way leaves one exhausted and on the other hand, it revealed, in my boys, the ugly side of being served: an increased sense of entitlement.

Asking for small things to be done seemed the logical approach. Challenged at first but slowly mastering skills, the boys gained a new perspective.

It’s a whole dance, I discovered: Them doing things, trying their hardest, me trusting them to do them and showing my appreciation. Them learning to taste it and bask in that warm feeling of “I can do it.”

It works well with our bedtime routine too. Every night after we read and redefine pre-sleep silliness yet again, the boys settle for the ritual of “What are we grateful for.” It’s just like that. We talk about what we’re grateful for.

Grateful for food, for clean water, for all the good people we have in our lives; grateful for being able to walk to school safely, for having a school. The first time I put clean water on my list they opened their eyes wide. “Really, mom?” They added it to theirs after we talked about places where water is more precious than diamonds and after being very thirsty a few times.

They have in time developed their own lists. It’s always interesting to hear what makes them feel grateful. No matter how viciously they jump at each other during the day they are grateful to have each other.

No matter how they whined about that lentil soup at dinner, they thank for food. They thank for being healthy, and they know it is not just happening. So they thank me for taking care of that. Of them.

A reiteration of simple things that make life possible. No sense entitlement whatsoever.

But at the same time, I want them to know they are worth it; part of that worthiness we’re born with, and part will grow along the way as we learn to serve, to do our share, to be grateful.

Originally published as “Bedtime ritual puts focus on being grateful” in The Kamloops Daily News on Saturday, February 16, 2013

I live in gratitude. It’s a conscious choice you see. I want to be aware of all that I have at all times. Irony has it that every now and then that inner drama queen I carry with gets to have it her way and I tend to forget the big and little things that make every day a gift.

The list that follows is what I celebrate on a day like today, when the sun was out for enough time to make my sitting down and writing almost impossible, when the boys laughed enough times to make the day brighter than it already was, and that feeling of inner peace was strong enough to uproot any swirls of worry.

Here it goes:

1. My boys. They are growing, they are learning, they smile every day and they never shy away from hugs.

2. Having learned about boundaries: Knowing how to remind people (including my boys) of mine and helping my boys learn about theirs.

3. I am becoming better at listening. Just listening.

4. My new town. Small enough, big enough, sunny enough, winter-dressed enough and never boring.

5. Skiing across frozen lakes. Can never have enough of this.

6. Have the boys join in skiing across frozen lakes and asking for more once it’s done.

6. Getting our blue beta fish named Bubble to jump out of the water for food. It never gets boring. Tiny detail in the big overwhelming picture of the world but if it makes us smile it counts.

7. The sun.

8. Knowing that I matter.

9. Loving what I do. And hoping that my boys will learn to strive for the same.

10. Sleepy boys’ bedtime hugs and hearing them laugh together about silly jokes after I close the door and tell them they should be quiet. Hoping they’ll never stop sharing silliness like that.

11. Courage.

12. My boys’ trust.

13. Sunny walks with friends.

14. Clouds. Always.

15. The cute broom Sasha made for me out of some sagebrush he found on our way back from school.