The Road

There are times when parenting, to me, feels like a very lonely road. Today is one of those days.

Every once in a while I get rocked to my core and all my fears and insecurities come out and say hello and it's a scary, scary place inside my head. The good news is that reaching out to a few key friends and supporters really helps. The bad news is that I am exhausted in a way that is hard to describe. Emotional exhaustion is a doozy.

Two things happened today which cracked me open and set the floodgates a runnin'. The first, was when another parent let me know that she doesn't agree with my style. Now, admittedly, this is no biggie, right? Strong opinions lend themselves quite easily to criticism and debate. I've known that for a long, long time. Our unschooling life doesn't sit well with all kinds of people. This is not news to me. It's just that in this particular instance, I was being accused of negligence. Some days I can smile and agree to disagree. Today was harder. Some days are like that.

The second thing that happened is that my twelve year old told me she wants to move in with her dad. Ouch. Now, there really is a whole lot more to the story and it's actually not as dramatic as it sounds. Her declaration has inspired some very cool conversations between her dad and I, and we've been able to support her mutually as we navigate this new phase in our co-parenting. But it is a bit of a jolt. Her things are all packed. The boxes are sitting by the door.

I've learned, thankfully, that I have no business taking anything that anyone (irritating criticizers and hormonal pre-teens included) says personally. But I am human, and some days it's harder to remember. As a twelve year old, Janey is simply differentiating. It is her job to push up against me as a mother and find her own way. I'm grateful that she has a dad who loves her and wants to be with her as well. It's nice to have options, I suppose.

The critical parent, let's see. I suppose, I can be grateful for the opportunity to reaffirm my beliefs about parenting. The choices I have made in the way I interact with my children are shockingly intentional. There is very little that I say or do in relation to them that I haven't thought-out, hashed-out, fleshed-out, rationalized, chewed on, and otherwise researched ad naseum. Negligent, I am not. Brave and determined to treat my children with respect? Absolutely.

Raising kids unconventionally rocks the boat. Unschooling makes loads of people uncomfortable. A good friend reminded me that the fact that I treat my children with the very same respect with which I treat any other person, makes some folks uneasy. "Because I said so" doesn't work. "I'm the adult, that's why" means nothing to a child who has been empowered to think and feel and be the person they want to be. Awesome for the kid who gets to experience life on their terms much of the time. Tougher for those of us struggling to navigate the world around us that isn't always able to see the value in our choices.

And so, at the end of the day, I am reminded that it is not my responsibilty to please those around me. It is my responsibilty to be the best parent I can be, and to understand why.

Sore Tongue

Ouch.......I've been biting my tongue a lot this week.


Lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about the parts of my life which feel inconsistant. At park day last week a few of us got to talking about housework and chores and who does what. As the conversation carried on, I felt really clear. I've written here about my struggles with expecting (premeditated resentment, right?) help around the house on my terms. Most days I'm able to keep the nagging at bay, and take responsibility for my own needs for "neat and tidy" without demanding it of others. I ask for help or make my needs known and let others pitch in and help without demands, bribes, nagging, whining....whatever. But a few days passed and the conversation haunted me a bit.

I hadn't actually been walking my talk lately. It's not that I had suddenly assigned chores, or demanded made beds by noon or anything, but something about the whole housework situation wasn't sitting well with me. Mostly, I think it's about expectations. I've been carrying around an expectation that everyone else in the house has the same level of need for "neat and tidy". Not true. I think I've also been carrying around a beilef that if I remind sweetly (rather than nag loudly) that dishes go on the sink or remind someone (who will remain nameless, of course) that shoes go under the bench (for the one millionth time today) that one day I would wake up and these little annoyances will be gone.

The kids and I talked about it yesterday and I explained that I didn't think I was doing such a great job letting go of my need for control in this area and that it didn't feel respectful. I had lots more to say, but their eyes were glazing over and Charley suggested I just pay him for chores like at his dad's house and they'll get done real quick. Whatever. It's not so much a conversation that needed to happen but a shift on my part. More alignment with my beliefs, I suppose.

Therefore......I've been biting my tongue A LOT today. Shoes are not under the bench (ghastly!). Dishes didn't make it into the sink (horrors!). But I think I'll live. And it feels a bit more peaceful inside me.

Acting As If

This whole parenting thing is really tricky. We say we know what we're doing and walk through each day as the adults, the wise ones. But most of the time, I don't know about you, I haven't a clue.

Janey, my oldest, is throughly entrenched in the dreaded pre-teen years. I've been assured by my friends with teenagers that this is the hard part (please, let this be the hard part...because if it gets any trickier than this, I may have to quit). She's hormonal. She's emotional. She's unpredictable. She's grouchy and miserable most of the time. On my good days, I can roll with it. She can be as irritable and agitated as can be, and I'm cool. But on my not-so-good days, look out! She and I can get into it like nobody's business. I try to be patient and kind. I attempt to be the bigger person, and not get rattled. Sometimes it works.

What does seem to be working for me, at this point, however is Acting As If. This is a trick I learned in working my Al-Anon program. The deal is, you act (pretend) like you know what you're doing until you figure it out. By the time you've figured it out, you're a pro and on to the next challenge. When I remember to do this, and keep my freak-outs at bay, we're all happier. I've subscribed recently to Scott Noelle's Daily Groove. He's an alternative-minded parenting guru. I really like what he has to say. When you subscribe, you get a little tid-bit of parenting wisdom delivered straight to your email inbox each morning. Very cool. The other day, he offered this:

"The trick is to practice the paradoxical art of being *confidently uncertain*.

Instead of pretending you know what you're doing (which doesn't work), you enthusiastically *embrace* your cluelessness! Then you focus on your ability to find your way...

"I have NO IDEA how to handle this situation! But I know I can figure it out. I've faced the unknown and found my way before, and I can do it again."

This works for kids because their security is based on feelings rather than logic. They can feel your confident vibe, and that's enough."

I like that. I'm happily embracing my cluelessness today.

What's Mine?

I've been thinking lately about the challenge we have as parents in figuring out where to draw the line in responsibility for our children. I mean, on a basic level, we, as adults, are ultimately responsible for our children. Legally, we are responsible. But as unschoolers, many of us choose to take a very different view. I, as a human being, am not responsible for the actions of another human being. I can no more control another person's actions as hold back the tide. My children are individuals, they are autonomous, they are not me, and yet every single day, I struggle with this very reality.

So much of our society tells us that we are responsible for controlling our children. And in many circumstances, I buy into that: Don't run in the library. Look both ways before crossing the street. Keep your voice down! Don't touch that. Be careful. Whatever. But last night I heard something that really helped. "If it doesn't have my name on it, it's not my responsibility."

This is good for me. Slogans and simple phrases help me figure out in the moment what's right for me. My daughter Janey's bedroom? Not mine, she can keep it as messy as she likes. The carpet in Janey's room? Sorry, it's mine. The title to the house is in my name. If she spills nail polish on the carpet, it's a big hassle for me, that one's mine. My son Charley's tendency to go without socks in the middle of winter? Not mine. As long as I know I can put up with the whining several hours after we leave the house because his feet are cold, he's on his own. If I know I just won't be able to deal with it, I stick a pair of socks in my bag. It becomes mine when I know I won't be able to let it go. His teeth? Well, technically they're his, he should be able to choose whether or not to brush, right? Wrong. The dental bills come to me, in my name. Until he's old enough to pay for that, dental hygiene is mine, too.

I've had an issue in the past with feeling overly responsible. For other people, mostly. Are you okay? Comfortable? Happy? What do you need? It's been hard work to realize that taking care of me is a big enough job. But when it comes to parenting young children, it gets tricky. How much do I let go? How often do I intervene? When is it necessary and appropriate for me to control my children? My head spins just thinking about it. But the big lesson I'm getting these days, is that when I take care of myself first, it's good for all of us. My kids are learning first hand how to do that for themselves. I can already see Janey's tendencies to put others' needs before her own. She's the oldest, and like me, is very good at caring for others. Not a bad quality. As long as she's not sacrificing her own happiness in the meantime. Like Janey, I have to be careful not to stick my nose into places it doesn't belong.

My kids have already learned that they are very capable people. Years of making their own choices and figuring out what works for them on their own has taught them that they do know what's best for them. When I slip up though, and try to control when it's none of my business, they let me know. It's very uncomfortable all the way around. It's humbling, but important. Another opportunity for me to listen; really listen to my children. When I'm tired, or irritated, or frustrated, it's hard to listen. But I try. I try, every single day to give my children the same respect I would like to receive in return. And most days, it works. If it doesn't have my name on it, it's not my responsibility.

Presume Goodwill

It was raining all day today, and I forgot my rain pants. That really, really sucks when you use your bike as your primary form of transportation. The good news is that I didn't forget to make sure the kids had their's. A cold, wet mom is a whole lot easier to deal with than three cold, wet kids. I was able to get warm and sort of dry for a few hours while the kids played at our Unschoolers' Park Day (held at an indoor play-cafe when it's raining). A cup of coffee and great conversation helped me forget about my wet feet and soaked jeans for a while.

When it was time to go, my friend and I did some kid swapping. It was still pouring, so we decided I would take the four kids and two bikes to the bus stop and we would bus home. The bus was late. Did I mention that I was cold and wet? When it finally pulled up, ten minutes late, there was only one spot left in the bike rack on the front of the bus. I shuttled the kids to the door and proceeded to load my larger bike onto the rack. I figured Macy's smaller bike could come on the bus with me. I was wrong.

"That bike's not coming on this bus," growled the driver. I was stunned.
"Excuse me?" I replied. "This has never been a problem before. People bring bikes on the bus all the time."
"Not on my bus." He stared straight ahead.
My mind went blank. What was I supposed to do now? I couldn't even think. The kids looked at me for an answer.

Not long ago I was at a workshop. The speaker was challenging us to assume the best of people in all circumstances. He suggested that we "Presume Goodwill" in all our affairs. I have a tendency to do this anyway in life, but I appreciated the reminder. It is my experience that people rarely intend to cause harm. In this case, however, I was struggling to presume goodwill on the part of the bus driver. How could one little bike really affect him? Come on, help me out. He was just being mean.

"Seriously," I asked again, "you are seriously not going to let me bring this bike on the bus?" Surely he would cave any minute. I was wet, cold, miserable, and had four kids staring at me. He refused to back down.
"You're holding me up."
"You bet I am," I thought to myself. Presume goodwill....yeah right. If I had been alone, it's possible that I would have said rude things I would later regret. With four kids staring at me, I decided to hold it together and take the high road. I took a deep breath and proceeded to swap my bike for Macy's bike in the rack. I told the kids to sit down and to get off at our stop in front of our house. I would ride home and meet them there. I took off in front of the bus, furious.

The first mile of the downtown route is slow for buses and cars, and fast for bikes. We played leap frog, that grouchy bus driver and I, several times. Each time I passed the bus, I felt strong and powerful and elated. Each time the bus passed me I cussed and swore and said things outloud to myself that I will never have to explain to my children. As cold as I was, I was going to beat that bus home if it killed me. As I rode home the second mile and the bus turned off to loop around the other side of town, I composed my letter of complaint to the bus company. How dare he! And so rude on top of it all. I was all fired up. When I got home, I knew I still had five minutes before the bus came. I parked my bike and ran inside to get the phone. As I explained my complaint I was politely told that bikes on the bus are up to the driver's discretion. Well, that just figures. This complaint wasn't going far.

As the kids got off the bus, and I lifted Macy's bike out of the rack, I avoided eye contact with the driver. I was still mad. And cold. The kids shared a few stories about experiences they had had with the grouchy driver. He's always like that, they said. He never smiles. He gets mad if you take too long fishing for quarters. We talked about one of my favorite sayings, "What other people say and do is a reflection of them, not of you." This was one grouchy driver. Could I possibly presume goodwill? Could he have had a reason for not letting me bring that bike on the bus? Maybe he can't help it. Maybe his cat died. Maybe he hates his job.

Later that evening the kids went to their dad's and I took the bus downtown to meet a friend for dinner. As I waited at the bus stop, I thought how ironic it would be if it was the same grouchy driver. It was, but he wasn't grouchy. Several of us filed onto the bus and he greeted each one of us with a smile. He even got chatty with a woman sitting near the front. I was amazed. He was a completely different person. I almost didn't recognize him. He wasn't grouchy. I wasn't cold and wet anymore. People change. Feelings change. Presume goodwill. Maybe he wasn't out to get me after all. My heart warmed. When I told the kids the next morning about my experience with the not-so-grouchy driver, they smiled knowingly. "See, Mom," said Macy, "He just woke up on the wrong side of the bed."

A Good Enough Parent

I've been thinking a lot lately about good parenting. I spend lots of time every day observing the ways in which we treat our children and how we, as parents, move through the world. So much of my daily energy is spent reading, writing, and talking about kids and unschooling and parenting, it's easy for me to place myself upon a pedestal as unschooler/mom/teacher/parent- extraordinaire. But I'm not. Clearly. I have a lot to learn and screw up daily in various ways.

What's really got me thinking this week is how we each, in our own way, judge the parenting of others. Lately I have had several situations come up with other families where conflict needed to be resolved between our children. Naturally, as parents, we each advocated for our own kids and struggled to be respectful of the needs of the other. In both of these situations, my child was the aggressor, the bully, the one who did wrong. No one wants to be the parent of the bad kid, and no one wants their kid to live with the belief that they are bad.

Way back when, when I was still teaching, and before my own kids had come along, I believed strongly that difficult children came from difficult parents. If the kids screwed up at school, it certainly meant that Mom and Dad were not doing their job at home. I remember sitting in parent teacher conferences listening to parents, puzzled about their child's inability to sit still or follow directions, or stay on task, thinking, "If I were the parent, this child would be much different." Not many teachers admit to this kind of arrogance, but I think it's pretty common. Especially for those of us who hadn't yet experienced the shock and awe of watching your sweet, beautiful, perfect child do something completely unmentionable right before your very eyes.

I remember my best friend Jodi, also a teacher with no kids of her own, admitting this very belief to me shortly after Janey, my oldest went through her 18 months of terrorist behavior at the age of 2. Janey was beautiful and sweet and rosey cheeked and lovely. She had these amazing blonde curls and big, bright eyes. She was the picture of innocence. One day, while we were standing in line at the bank, she wandered up to another little girl, several years older than her, and with a big smile and a casual glance over her shoulder in my direction, she yanked on the little girl's pony tail so hard, she brought that sweet, innocent little girl to the ground in one swoop. It was horrifying in every way. And it forever changed my naive belief that good parenting makes for perfectly well behaved children.

I've learned a lot in the 9 years that have followed that fateful day at the bank. I'd like to think that I've moved past the need to prove to the world that I'm a good parent. But it's tough. Especially when your kid does some thing bad. The good news is that I'm learning. I'm learning that there are as many ways to parent a child as there are children in this world. And many of them are good enough. I really do believe that as parents we all do the best we can. And I also believe that in respecting another's way, I am honoring my way. I certainly don't have all the answers, but I do know what works for me. And that's good enough.

Unschooling a Tantrum (otherwise known as, "Hitting the Wall at Mile 19")

I ran my third marathon today. I crossed the finish line exactly 8 hours ago, and I think I may never get off this couch. But laying on this couch, hydrating, and eating and resting my aching muscles has given me lots of time to think. As I've been re-living the entire 5 hours of my race multiple times in my head, I got to thinking about the parallels that exist for me between running 26.2 miles and unschooling.

The first 15 miles of the race are great. I feel full of life and excitement and strength. All those months of training and preparation pay off and I feel like I could run forever. The crowd and the cheering and the people-watching keep my mind occupied and my body goes on auto-pilot. And then, somewhere around mile 19, I hit the wall. My feet ache, my legs feel like concrete, and suddenly the cheering from the enthusiastic spectators is irritating. Those well meaning folks who shout, "You can do it, you're amazing, you're almost there," become my worst enemy. I want to throw them off a bridge. Really. My head becomes filled with negative, irrational thoughts. I can't see outside of the moment I'm in and I certainly can't remember why I put myself through this physical hell in the first place.

The funny thing is, I keep going. Something deep inside knows that if I just hang in there, something will shift and I will eventually feel better. Or maybe it's just that I know the end will come much more quickly if I keep on running. As I approach mile 23, my mood shifts. I begin to realize that the end really is near. Just a 5K, certainly I can do that. My pace quickens, my legs lose their heaviness and a smile returns to my face. I suddenly remember how much I love to run. I begin to plan my next marathon. The cheering fans are suddenly all cheering for me. I might even win this race! Nothing can stop me, and I cross the finish line, a very different person than the one I left behind at mile post 22.

Janey, my eleven year old, has a temper. There are times when she hits her wall in very much the same way. When I got to thinking about it, our experiences are really quite similar. She gets overwhelmed with intense emotion and in that intensity, perceives the world to be all wrong. She gets so caught up inside her own bad mood that she can't see that she has ever or will ever feel any other way. In that moment, life sucks and it always will. She screams, she rants, she throws a fit. Anyone in her path bears the brunt of her intensity.

There have been plenty of times that I have attempted to intervene on the premise of helping her through her tantrums. I calmly try to explain away whatever it is that has upset her. I try to distract her from her feelings. I remind her that she has been here before and it always passes. None of it works. What I have discovered, is that in order to allow her to move through her feelings in her own way, I have to get out of the way and let her unschool her tantrum. There are a few ground rules, of course. No one gets hurt. If she can stay respectful of others, we steer clear, and give her space to choose where she wants to be. If she can't, she needs to be by herself. If she needs help, she asks. And then, like magic, her feelings pass, she moves on, and as quickly as it began, the tantrum fades. Just like my magic mile 23.

I get really triggered by her tantrums. I have to remind myself that it's not about me and that her tantrums are not a reflection of my ability as a parent. The more I am able to get out of her way and allow her to move through her feelings in the way that suits her, the more she will be able to continue do so as she grows into a young woman who knows that feelings are not facts. They come as quickly as they go and they do not define us. I also realize that unlike me, she may not have to struggle with the need to suppress intense feelings out of fear. She is already learning, on her own, that she can have big, huge, intense feelings, and still be okay.

The revelation that hitting my wall mid-marathon relates so closely to my daughter's experience has given me the gift of compassion. So often, in her rage, she throws around insults and nasty comments to her siblings and myself, and it's easy for me to react. How dare she speak to us that way? What I realize now is that she just needs compassion and respect. All I have to do is bring myself back to my 4 mile slump at the end of a race and remember that this too shall pass. She's just in a funk. It won't take long, give her space, and she'll be back shortly.

Getting off the Ladder

I've been thinking a lot lately about the examples we set for our children. Now that we ride our bikes most places, I've become increasingly aware of the number of helmet-less adults riding with their helmet wearing children. I'm particularly aware because I used to be one of them. Oh, I had all kinds of rationalizations: I didn't have the money to buy one, it would mess up my hair; and anyway, I was really, really careful. Yeah, whatever. Then one day, about 6 months ago, as we were getting on our bikes, one of the kids asked me why I didn't have a helmet. We had been riding more and more frequently and talking often about traffic safety and the rules of the road. The girls had recently begun riding places on their own. It was time for me to walk the talk. "You're right, guys," I admitted. "I need to buy a helmet."

At first I only wore my helmet when I was riding with my kids. It was important for me to set a good example, right? Interesting that I was really only going through the motions. A perfect example of "Do as I say, not as I do." It wasn't long before I was caught, helmet-less. The kids drove by in the car with their dad. They never said a word, who knows if they even noticed. But I did. I'm at this place in my life, and in my parenting, where it just doesn't work for me to say one thing and do another. I used to do it all the time. I'd harp on the kids to shut off the faucet while they brushed their teeth, and then completely ignore it for myself. "No dessert tonight guys, we've had enough sweets today," I'd say. And then I'd be scarfing down a bowl of ice cream as soon as they fell asleep. Okay, so I still do that every once in a while, but for the most part, I really try be consistent. And as unschoolers, that has meant letting go of some of the "must dos" that I previously preached about to my children.

I realize that this evolution has been, for me, an exercise in stepping down off of the pedestal I had been standing on. It seems like my tendency to micro-manage my children's lives was a symptom of my own inability to take good care of myself. What I'm aware of now, is that when I am gentle with myself and do the things that I need to do in order to make good choices for myself, I am showing my children how to do the same for themselves. And this is what I believe to be my most important role, anyway. Mentor, resource person, trusted friend. I used to think my role was teacher, wise elder, superior. But that doesn't fit into the family paradigm that suits us right now. I prefer the we're all in this together model.

There is a saying I love about standing on a ladder. When you're standing the rungs of a ladder you are always above or below other people. It isn't possible to stand side by side, unless of course you get off the ladder. I suppose what is happening for me is that I am climbing down off of that ladder in many areas of my life. I spend far less time and energy figuring out who's above and below me that way. It takes great effort for me to do this with my children at times. I was raised to believe that the needs of adults trumped kids' every time. As hard as I try, there is still that part of me that reverts back to that attitude from time to time. A few moments ago I didn't feel like getting up from the computer, so I asked Janey to get something from downstairs for me. As soon as the words were leaving my mouth, I realized what I was doing. I wasn't asking as a favor, with no expectations. I was asking as the adult, fully expecting that as a child, she would do as I asked. And she did. This doesn't sit well with me now. I'd rather live in house where we ask each other to do things without expectation and help one another out because we want to. Expecting my children to jump up and obey, every time I have a need, doesn't help foster that sense of independence and free will. It places the proverbial ladder in the center of our home. I'm on the top rung, and they're not.

It seems to me that our culture is quite adult focused, and everyone is standing on that darn ladder. Kids are usually left standing on those bottom rungs. Children's opinions and needs are dismissed, or at the very least placed behind the needs of the adults around them. They're kids. They're smaller and less significant in the eyes of many. At school, children are expected to obey their teacher, without question. When I taught, even in very alternative, progressive schools, the adults were always at the top of that ladder. Questioning authority and challenging an adult was seen as an act of rebellion, rather than a declaration of independence and healthy self esteem.

My children are excellent mirrors for me. All I have to do is follow their lead when I stray from this more compassionate and respectful way of parenting. This afternoon I was frazzled because I was tripping over three baskets of clean laundry, over and over again. I asked the kids to put away their clothes. I went and did something else, came back, and the laundry was still there. I asked again that the laundry be put away, and yet again I was put off. Janey was cleaning the mice's cage, Macy was working on her book, Charley was playing outside. This happened a few more times. I got irritated as I tripped over the baskets for the bazillionth time, and snapped at Macy to put her laundry away. She was just getting started on a painting project, and she sighed, "Mom, if you need the laundry out of your way, why can't I just put the basket in my room and put the clothes away later?" I smiled. I swallowed my pride and realized that both of our needs could be met without my desires trumping hers. I'm going to try to stay off that ladder.

No More Monkeys Jumpin' on the Bed

It finally happened. The bed broke as they were jumping on it. Janey,11, decided it was time to rearrange the bedroom furniture. She does this every three months or so. She shares a room with her 6 year old brother, Charley, and he usually goes along with whatever redecorating she has in mind. I have to remember that this is also a fantastic way to get her excited about cleaning her room, so I usually help out. Just as the finishing touches were being put on the "new" room, Charley and our neighbor Gus climbed up on the bed and did what 5 and 6 year olds are wired to do: they jumped around and giggled. I resisted the urge to nag and left the room instead. They were having fun, and they weren't even jumping that hard. Not long ago, I might have launched into a monologue about making good choices and respecting furniture or something very I'm the adult and I need you to know that-ish. But I didn't. I left the room and bit my tongue. CRACK. One of the five wooden boards that supports the mattress from underneath snapped in half. The room went silent. I walked back in the room and resisted the urge to say much of anything. They knew. They didn't need me to state the obvious. No one got hurt, the bed is fixable, and Mama didn't even have to call the doctor. I'm pretty sure Charley and Gus won't be jumping on the bed anymore.