Category Archives: acceptance

April 24, 2012 · 9:06 AM

Dreads at 3 Months: Redefining Beauty

My dreads are three months old.  Which means for ninety something days now, I’ve been carrying around these ropy, tangly, matted knots, instead of the long, thick wavy hair that partially defined me for all of my previous 38 years.   And they look, well…  they’re a huge mess.  Their current appearance does not do much to help the opinions of my mom all the people who think that dreadlocks are unkempt or unwashed.  Despite my tender loving care, some days they look a little bit – or a lot – of both.  I feel this overwhelming need to say that out loud, because I can feel the looks.  I can feel the wordless stares.  Not necessarily because I have dreadlocks, but because I have crazy, messy, rebellious teenage dreadlocks.   They’re a mess.  I’m aware.

They are filled with crazy loops and twists and lumps and bumps.  All of which are a normal progression in the journey of dreadlocks (and actually a good sign that they are doing what they are supposed to do), but somehow very different in reality than they were when they were merely hypothetical.   There are things to do to “tame” the loops a little quicker…  there are techniques that involve basically poking and threading with big needles, and/or I could always find a salon that does dread maintenance.

BUT.  And it’s a big but.  I’ve decided to embrace the chaos.

Some of the “maintenance” recommended by certain websites and schools of thought can actually cause a lot of damage.  And the last thing I want is to commit to a long-term hairstyle, only to have them thin and fall out because I didn’t treat them properly!  More than that though, is this linear idea that neat, perfect and uniform = beautiful.   Did I decide to take this drastic and bold step with my hair, only to make it look like everyone else’s?  If I’d wanted that, I could have gotten perfectly round extensions.  No, what I signed up for was a journey.  I’m surely not done with my own journey of growth, so why should my hair be any different?  I have bad days and bumpy days and setbacks… but I am learning to trust that there is beauty, not just in the end, but in the process.

I didn’t like what I’d started to see in myself over the past several weeks as my hair changed.   Me, forever proud not to be overly attached to things like make-up, hairstyles, and fashion…   I was mourning my old hair.   I’d be fine for a few days,  hiding it all under a buff or bandana, and then I’d take a good look in the mirror, wanting to look nice for church or dinner or just a day out.  On one shoulder would be the confidence. “You can own this!  You’re awesome!”  And on the other, would be that insecure teenager again.   “But.  But.  It’s not pretty.”

I am so much more than my hair.

At the same time, my hair’s become an outward symbol of an inward process, more so than I ever could have imagined when I started this journey three months ago.  I look forward to having mature, beautiful dreads in a couple of years.  I do.  But now, I look forward to the journey even more… loops, bumps, and all.

Once a little boy was playing outdoors and found a fascinating caterpillar. He carefully picked it up and took it home to show his mother. He asked his mother if he could keep it, and she said he could if he would take good care of it.

The little boy got a large jar from his mother and put plants to eat, and a stick to climb on, in the jar. Every day he watched the caterpillar and brought it new plants to eat.

One day the caterpillar climbed up the stick and started acting strangely. The boy worriedly called his mother who came and understood that the caterpillar was creating a cocoon. The mother explained to the boy how the caterpillar was going to go through a metamorphosis and become a butterfly.

The little boy was thrilled to hear about the changes his caterpillar would go through. He watched every day, waiting for the butterfly to emerge. One day it happened, a small hole appeared in the cocoon and the butterfly started to struggle to come out.

At first the boy was excited, but soon he became concerned. The butterfly was struggling so hard to get out! It looked like it couldn’t break free! It looked desperate! It looked like it was making no progress!

The boy was so concerned he decided to help. He ran to get scissors, and then walked back (because he had learned not to run with scissors…). He snipped the cocoon to make the hole bigger and the butterfly quickly emerged!

As the butterfly came out the boy was surprised. It had a swollen body and small, shriveled wings. He continued to watch the butterfly expecting that, at any moment, the wings would dry out, enlarge and expand to support the swollen body. He knew that in time the body would shrink and the butterfly’s wings would expand.

But neither happened!

The butterfly spent the rest of its life crawling around with a swollen body and shriveled wings.

It never was able to fly…

As the boy tried to figure out what had gone wrong his mother took him to talk to a scientist from a local college. He learned that the butterfly was SUPPOSED to struggle. In fact, the butterfly’s struggle to push its way through the tiny opening of the cocoon pushes the fluid out of its body and into its wings. Without the struggle, the butterfly would never, ever fly. The boy’s good intentions hurt the butterfly.

Struggling is an important part of any growth experience. In fact, it is the struggle that causes you to develop your ability to fly.

 

18 Comments

Filed under about me, acceptance, being happy with what is, dreadlocks, life, self image

February 21, 2012 · 9:43 AM

Dreadlocks: How, When, and WHY

As most of you know, a few days after my 38th birthday, I decided that I was going to fulfill a very long-held wish and dread my hair.    A faithful friend came over and spent six hours carefully sectioning, backcombing, and keeping me company while we watched three whole chick flicks in a row.

Unfortunately, we weren’t quite as aggressive as we should have been with the backcombing.  Less than a week – and one washing – later, they’d all fallen out.  I was determined though (I am nothing if not determined), so over the course of the next few days, I re-did them, using a method known as the “twist and rip” method.  It simply means taking the section of hair in two pieces, giving it a twist, then pulling it apart again, separating it in a new place each time.  It. took. forever.  especially since I was doing it myself.  But it worked.

That was one month ago today, and I still have dreads!   There’s a way to tuck the ends all in to make them all blunt and neat and tidy, but so far I like them free and wispy.  They’re just babies, so most days they’re a big fuzzy mess, especially when I wash them (yes, people with dreadlocks wash their hair.  I just use an organic, non-residue shampoo)  Some are tight and some are loose.  I have stray hairs and grey hairs everywhere.   They bend all crazy, and they have odd loops and strange turns and random bumps.

I can’t wait to watch them grow and change and mature.

And in the meantime, I’m enjoying experimenting with them.

On the good days, when they’re not looking too ridiculous, I like wearing them with just a headband or a bandana.

So why did I do it?

(From least to most important)

3.  I think they’re cool.   Mature dreadlocks are just a striking, beautiful look to me, and it’s one I’ve been in awe of for years.

2.  I’m lazy.  Or more accurately, I prefer to spend the least amount of time as possible on my physical appearance.  I’ve never been one to want to spend more than 30 seconds hours doing my hair and/or makeup, and the more kids I had, the more true that became.  I barely wear makeup.  I don’t straighten my hair.  I can’t remember the last time I used a hair dryer.   For the last several years, I’ve been a hair-in-a-ponytail 8 days out of 7 kind of girl.  So you can imagine how attractive and freeing I find the idea of a hairstyle that I can literally just wash and wear and be ready to step out the door.

1.  I wanted what I looked like on the outside to match what I felt like on the inside.  My whole life, I’ve felt “different.”  I’ve never been one to fit in with the crowd (any crowd), instead identifying most strongly with those on the outside.  And rather than running from that truth, I want to embrace it.    I want to embrace anything that helps me to feel more comfortable in my own skin, that helps me feel even more free from constraints, more free to relate to others, more free to be me.  A couple of days ago in church, the lesson was in part about judging people by their hearts rather than by their physical appearance.  People – whether they openly admit it or not – often tend to do the latter, while God looks strictly at the heart.  At one point the pastor started listing things off:  “God looks at your heart… not your tattoos, or your piercings, or your mohawk, or your purple hair, or your ‘tramp stamp’…”  Mike and I looked at each other and just laughed, because you can find all of the above in our household.   And while people may judge us for any or all of those things, God does not.  God wants us to be free.

So while in many ways it’s just a small thing (it’s only hair after all), in a symbolic way, it is a huge thing.  An outward reflection of an inner decision to reject being spoon-fed, to challenge the status quo, and to whole-heartedly embrace the search for truth and authenticity.

And over the next several months and years, as my dreads change and grow and mature…. so will I.

32 Comments

Filed under about me, acceptance, dreadlocks, life

January 11, 2012 · 1:04 PM

My birthday, and people who let me be me

I turned 38 yesterday.  I am enjoying getting older, but I especially love the realization every year that I am just a little bit (or a lot) more authentically ME than I was the year before.  For someone who floated through her teens and much of her twenties with nary an opinion in her head, that’s something to be celebrated for sure.

I like to make a big deal about my birthday, but the day itself was remarkable in its unremarkableness this year.  I actually stayed home most of the day.  We did our nails, we painted (at first on paper, but as is usually the case, eventually on bodies), we played outside, and we did all those things that people with kids do when they’re at home.   Mike was going to be late coming home from work – clearly his employer didn’t get the memo that it was my birthday, because why else would payroll fall on the most important day of the year – so we filled the late afternoon with a last-minute trip to the store.   By the time we got home it was 5:30, and I was ready to sit down for the first time all day and break into my new bottle of wine.  But.

Then the girl put what I can only assume was half a roll of toilet paper in the toilet, sufficiently clogging it ….. and I then spent another half an hour plunging, flushing, and mopping up the resulting overflow.  Glamorous finale to my day (bonus: my bathroom is extra clean now.  Happy birthday to me.)

And then it was evening.  Mike made it home, and I finally got to pour my wine.   Despite the fact that he was feeling lousy from the cold he’d caught from the kids, he still made me the beautiful salad I’d been craving for days, while I worked on getting the cupcakes in the oven.

We don’t always, or usually, do birthday presents for each other, but this year he’d come home with a little gift for me.  I’m not kidding when I say it was the best thing he’s ever gotten me.

Now, the visual of him going into an incense-burning, bong-selling, hippie store in his serious-button-down-office-man attire just for me was almost present enough in and of itself.  But that’s not why I loved it.  It smells and feels really good, and is supposed to be great for keeping dreads soft and moisturized and non-frizzy… but that’s not why I loved it either.   I loved it because it said something.  It said:

I support you.

I have wanted to dread my hair for probably two years now, and recently decided that this would be the year I did it.  Like my nose ring, my husband wasn’t super enamored with the idea in the beginning.  And also like my nose ring, I would have done it regardless.  But to have him fully on my side – not in a “It’s your body, do what you want” kind of way, but in a “I went out of my way to get you a present.  I love you.  I support you.  Go, be you” kind of way – honestly means more to me than I think even he knows.

I don’t have a whole lot of people like that in my life.  One of the reasons why I so love my online community is that it is truly one of a very few places where I feel that acceptance…. where I feel like I can really be me.  In my online community, there are so many people who not only “get” me, but who also wouldn’t want me to be any other way.    In my actual day to day life, not as many.  But they’re there, and last night reminded me that I’m married to one of them.

And so, this year as my present to myself, I’m not just going to dread my hair.   I’m also going to allow myself to stop wanting that support or acceptance from the people who are just honestly never going to give it…… and celebrating the heck out of the people who do.

27 Comments

Filed under about me, acceptance, birthdays, dreadlocks, life

January 6, 2012 · 12:26 PM

You’re not good enough

I have been sitting on this post for two days now, and while I’ve certainly held onto posts for longer than that, this time I just can’t stay silent any longer.   I feel sick to my stomach about this.

‘Human Barbie’ Sarah Burge Gives 7-Year-Old Daughter Breast Implant Voucher

Now, setting aside any moral or parenting issues for a moment, I have to start off by admitting a bias.   Cosmetic plastic surgery in general sort of…. well, it confuses me.  It seems to me that successful plastic surgery should be no different than properly applied makeup, ie:  you shouldn’t be able to tell you even had it.  You should look like the best version of YOU, not like a plastic caricature of Barbie someone else.   So when it’s taken to the extreme and you’re walking around with a frozen, expressionless face that screams, “I had plastic surgery!” doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose?

I don’t want to judge this mother though, I really don’t.   I feel sad for her.  I can only imagine what kind of issues lead a woman to spend $800,000 in a quest to look like a Barbie doll.    Those are not the actions of a healthy, self-accepting, well-adjusted person to be sure.  But the fact is, this really isn’t about her.  This is about an innocent and beautiful and perfect-the-way-she-is child who is being robbed of the most important thing a parent can give:  unconditional love.  This is about a child who is being told,  “You’re not good enough.”

“Happy Birthday sweetheart!  When you’re sixteen, you can get big boobs like Mommy.”  You’re not good enough

“Come watch me get my next dozen procedures, and see what you have to look forward to.”  You’re not good enough

“I’m going to help you become beautiful.”  You’re not good enough

Mom is quoted in the article as saying, “Poppy begged me for a boob job, so I gave her the voucher so she can have it after she’s 16, when it’s legal” If that is in fact true, am I alone in thinking that it’s heartbreaking that a 7-year-old would be begging for a boob job?   I have a 7-year-old.  He thinks about video games, playing with his friends, getting ice cream from the ice cream truck, and what sport he’s going to try next.  He does not think about body-altering elective surgeries.

And my little girl….

Tegan is not quite four at the time of this writing.  She is strong, and funny, and intelligent, and beautiful.   I love her, and more importantly she loves herself, exactly the way she is.   The only thing that disturbs me more than the thought of her looking forward to a hypothetical breast-enlargement surgery a decade in the future, is the thought of knowing that it was something *I* made her think was necessary.   Something that I in fact gave to her as a gift!

God knows I have my own insecurities.  But I will be damned if I pass them on to my children.  Having children, and especially having a girl, has pushed me to examine my own sense of self-worth and my own acceptance of my body, flaws and all.   And,

(I’m going to talk about boobs for a minute, so you might want to turn away if that’s too much for you.  Or if you’re my dad)

I have small boobs.  Small, as in bra shopping inevitably turns into a humiliating exercise in “Yeah… you may be more comfortable in a double A”, at which point I’m directed to a tiny rack with exactly 4 styles of bras, of either the plain training bra variety, or with padding from here to Pittsburgh.   But you know what?   I’m perfectly okay with it.   Not only am I perfectly okay with it, I’m happy.   This is what I’ve been given.  They suit me.   They’ve nursed 4 babies.   Now, I truly hope that my girl continues to accept her body, and eventually her breasts, in the same way… whether they’re big, small, or somewhere in between.   And if she ever decides to change them, or enhance or nip or tuck any other aspect of her body, it will be her choice, and not a desire born out of a mother teaching her that she won’t be beautiful until she’s spent nearly a million dollars on cosmetic procedures.  It won’t be because she’s learned at SEVEN that beauty is something that you buy.

This little seven-year-old girl has had the choice taken from her.  She’s never had the chance to know what it’s like to accept and love her body just as it is.   She’s never had the chance to know what it’s like to have her own mother accept and love her just as she is.  And that’s inexcusable.  She should be told, and shown, that she is perfect just the way she is.  She should be told, and shown, the truth in the old adage about “beauty coming from the inside.”  She should be told, and shown, that your value and worth as a human are not dependent on your outward appearance.  A seven-year-old should be innocent, soaking up the world, goofing off with her friends, running around the playground, dreaming of becoming a doctor or an astronaut or a world class equestrian.  She should not be dreaming of getting a big set of silicone boobs.

To this mom, I want to say that I feel for you.  I do.  You’re chasing after something that you’ll never grasp.  You’re telling yourself day after day that you’re not good enough either, and that is undeniably sad.   But it’s not about you anymore.  Once you become a parent, it’s never just about you again.

Yes, you’re an adult, and you make your own decisions.  Make yourself look like Barbie.  Hell, make yourself look like a Squinkie.  But telling your 7 year old she should aspire to do the same thing is not okay.

22 Comments

Filed under acceptance, being happy with what is, hot topics, mindful parenting, parenting

December 19, 2011 · 9:15 AM

Unconditional Love

 

Christmas is less than a week away.

I’m not dreaming of sugar plums, but I am dreaming of Oreo balls, black and white cookies, and seeing the magic in my kids’ eyes.   I’m thinking of family, and friends, and all the mushy love stuff I tend to avoid the rest of the 364 days of the year.  Christmas is about love, whether you celebrate the birth of Christ, or simply observe it as a day of fun, food and fellowship with those you hold near and dear.

I’ve been thinking about the concept of love ever since I read this article about a week ago.  These are parents that not only truly unconditionally love their children, but also support them and fight for them.   Parents who will do whatever they can to ensure that their children are happy, fully living the lives they were individually created to live.

That’s the way I want to love.

I think a lot of (most?) parents will tell you that they believe in unconditional love, but in practice it’s often easier said than done.  I’ve never liked those sayings that advocate things like telling your child you love him, but dislike his behavior.  Or that say we should “hate the sin but love the sinner.”  Why?  For one thing, that line of thinking makes it far too easy to slide into the conditionality we wanted to avoid in the first place.  Perhaps more important is the fact that our actions speak the truth of our love far more loudly than our words.  Our words may be saying, “I love you unconditionally,” but our actions may be saying, “I love you when you behave the way I want you to behave.  I love you when you make the decisions I want you to make.  I love you when you’re the person I want you to be.”  It can be very difficult for a child to differentiate.

And you know what, it can be hard for an adult too.

Five months ago I pierced my nose.  It was something I’d been wanting to do for a long time, so I was very excited to have finally gone through with it.  I was not, however, excited to tell my parents.  I knew how they felt about facial piercings and I knew what their reaction would be.  (Yes, I’m about to be 38 years old, and I still think about and want that acceptance from my parents)  The moment was brief, but negative as expected.  Now, did I know intellectually that they still loved me?  Of course.   But did I feel unconditionally loved by their response?  Not at all.  And if it felt that way over something as silly and inconsequential as a little piece of jewelry in my nose, how much more devastating it would be to a child dealing with something as huge and life changing as the girl in the article?  To someone dealing with an issue of gender?  Or sexuality?  Or any number of the other “big stuff” that we wrestle with in life, the things that make us want to find just one person to understand.

One person to accept us.

One person to support us.

One person to hold us and tell us sincerely not that they “love us even though…” but that they just. plain. love. us.

I want to be that person for my kids.

10 Comments

Filed under acceptance, mindful parenting, parenting

December 7, 2011 · 8:01 AM

To the old man at the store

Note:  This letter is hypothetical.  The incident it describes is not.  This happened two days ago. 

Dear Sad Old Man at the Grocery Store,

You don’t know me, but we both shopped at the same grocery store the other night.   I’m sure you didn’t notice me, as your attention was clearly elsewhere, but I couldn’t help but notice you.  It’s difficult not to notice someone who’s so being so unhappy and hateful… but I guess I should go back to the beginning.

I was sort of unhappy myself that night, grumbling to myself about rising prices and lack of selection.  It wasn’t my normal grocery store,  the trip was taking twice as long as it should have, and I was tired and just wanted to go home.  I was searching for the organic half and half when I first noticed the young couple next to me.  They were holding hands and laughing over what I can only assume was the kind of inside joke that only couples share.   They were sweet and affectionate with each other, and very clearly in love.  They reminded me of my husband and I’s early days together, the days we like to joke that were “back when we loved each other.”   They made me smile.

The fact that they were a gay couple was irrelevant.

I was right behind them, pushing my overfilled cart with the wobbly wheel as we left the dairy section.  We rounded the corner of the aisle to head to the registers, and that’s when I saw you coming towards us.   You didn’t look at me, didn’t even glance my way, so fixated you were on the couple in front of me.   You had a look of disgust on your face, and at first I told myself that it wasn’t what it appeared.   But then, as you passed, you looked them up and down, shook your head, and made an audible sound of revulsion.

I was mortified, heartbroken for these two strangers who’d done nothing but come to the store to pick up a few things for dinner.   I don’t care if you disagree with their lifestyle.  I don’t care if you think it’s wrong.  I don’t care if you don’t like it.  There’s a certain way of treating people, and That’s. Not. It.

I immediately felt sad for them, this young couple that I didn’t even know.  What had they ever done to you to earn such a reaction?  But the more I thought about it, the more sadness I felt for you.  I wondered what had happened in your life for you to carry so much hatred and prejudice.  I wondered if your reaction would have been the same if your son or your brother or your best friend announced he were gay.  I wondered if you’d ever had anyone in your life who’d loved you unconditionally…. someone who stood beside you, and held your hand, and told you they would always, always have your back.

I felt sorry for the small way you were living your life, and I felt sad for your lost possibilities, your missed friendships, and your true potential for a full and rich and joyful existence.

You are hurting yourself, in ways I can’t even describe, and it doesn’t have to happen.  I wish love for you, and healing… from whatever it is that is making you be so hurtful to others.

And finally, I’d like to thank you.  In many ways it’s people like you who make me want to try harder.  To be better.  To be kinder.  To be more accepting.  To not give up.  It’s people like you who remind me why I’m raising my kids the way that I am.  Kids that know how to treat people.  Kids that know how to love.  Kids that know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that people – gay, straight, black, white – are all deserving of compassion and kindness.

And you know what?  That couple?  They were still happy when they walked out of that store.   You didn’t break them.   And you … you were still an angry, sad old man, whose actions only made you even sadder.

18 Comments

Filed under acceptance, bullying, life

November 11, 2011 · 6:28 PM

Just So You Know

Just so you know, I’m not ignoring you when I don’t answer your comment (or your email or your text) right away.  I have four kids and a Mike and a house that need me.  I’m not good at juggling, and sometimes the more I have to do, the more I start to slow down.

Just so you know, if you visit my house, it will be messy.   I start to clean, only to hear a giant sploosh, followed by an “uh oh”, and the discovery that the 3 year old just spilled her paint rinse cup.  Again.  Or dumped out all 8836256 of her brother’s legoes, or smashed a cracker all over the couch, or shed her muddy clothes all over the kitchen.  And that’s okay.

Just so you know, as far as I’m concerned, people trump “things” every time.  Which means that if I’m faced with mopping the dirty floor and playing ring-around-the-rosy with the girl, or reading with the 7 year old, or talking “Minecraft” with the 11 year old, or watching a Nerf video with the 14 year old… the kids will win.  Every time.

Just so you know, my backyard is messy too.   Partly because my 6 chickens are like children to me too, and their ability to be able to roam happy and free is more important to me than tidiness…. and partly because right now, my kids need my attention more than my yard.

Just so you know, I don’t believe in putting people in boxes:

When you see my three year old screaming crying in the grocery store, please don’t assume that she is “defiant” or “manipulative” or a “drama queen.”   She is passionate and enthusiastic and full of energy, and I love that about her.  She is sweet and funny and loves to entertain.  She is awesome.

When you realize that my seven year old is not yet reading, please don’t assume he is a “slower” learner.   I can barely keep up with what he is learning on a daily basis, and he is continually amazing me with both his knowledge and his spirit.  He has a huge heart and gives great hugs.  He’s awesome too.

When you hear that my 11 year old is passionate about video games, please don’t assume he in any way resembles your misinformed image of a “lazy gamer.”  He is intelligent and active and well-rounded, and overall one of the coolest people you’ll ever get to be around.  He is awesome.

When you introduce yourself to my 14 year old, and notice that he sounds “different”, please don’t make assumptions about his intelligence or his abilities.  He is smart and skillful and creative, and he has a better sense of humor than just about anyone I know.  He’s the most loyal friend you could ever hope to make, and he is also one of my top 5 favorite people on the planet.  And oh yes, he’s awesome.

And while I’m on the subject of assumptions:

Just so you know, I don’t fit neatly into one of those boxes either.  I am a Christian who finds much of what’s cloaked in “Christian” labels abhorrent (especially when it comes to parenting).  I believe in kindness to all creatures.  I believe in freedom and acceptance and tolerance.  I don’t raise an eyebrow at obscenities, but you’ll see me react in a big hurry if you say something disrespectful about a child, or make a racial stereotype, or a homophobic slur, or use the word “retarded” (or any of its variants) other than in the way it was intended.

Just so you know, the fact that we homeschool does not mean we’re exactly like your neighbor or your friend or your cousin who homeschools.  We have our own reasons, and our own beliefs, and our own way of life.

Just so you know, you can change my mind about a whole lot of things, but not when it comes to God.  Not when it comes to my kids.  Not when it comes to parenting.  And not when it comes to school.

Just so you know.

12 Comments

Filed under about me, acceptance, homeschooling, kids, parenting

November 7, 2011 · 9:51 AM

Rejecting Labels, and Loving What Is

A big thanks to Lisa DeBusk for today’s guest post!

Bad sleeper. Shy. Clingy. A follower. Smart. Imaginative. These are just a few of the labels I’ve used on my child. I’m starting to realize they’re just words and have nothing to do with who he is.

Every new parent has sleepless nights. Some of us have sleepless years. My son woke every twenty minutes or so in the beginning months, then he woke every hour for a while, and now that he’s three he occasionally sleeps through the night. Occasionally. He hasn’t taken a regular nap since he was two and a half, though as I type this he’s snoozing on the couch beside me at 6:00pm. He won’t be sleepy at bedtime tonight, and I’m ok with that.

Since Henry was born, I’ve fought off and on to get him on some kind of regular routine of sleeping and waking, and nothing I’ve tried has come remotely close to working. All the advice, all the parenting books, all the efforts have changed nothing about his sleep patterns, probably because he really doesn’t have a pattern. He resists routine and structure, despite what everyone says about all kids needing structure. I’ve accepted this about him and stopped fighting it.

Accepting that Henry doesn’t respond well to forced bedtimes and naps is just part of being this particular child’s mother. I know plenty of other children are put to bed wide awake and drift off to sleep on their own after a story and a lullaby, and some nights I would love for it to be that easy. But I’m ok with reading three or four books, improvising several stories on the spot (my son is only happy if I make up a new story every time, about characters with goofy names he creates), and singing three songs over and over while he lies on top of me, rubbing and sometimes scratching my arms. There have been several nights when this was absolutely not ok, and I even lost my temper a little while waiting for him to go to sleep. When I finally accepted that this was not going to change, that Henry was not suddenly going to make things easier for me just because I wanted him to, I made peace with it. He’s not a “bad sleeper.” He sleeps just fine. Not falling asleep exactly when and how I want him to doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with the way he sleeps.

I try not to call Henry “shy” or “clingy” in front of him, but I’m guilty of telling other people that he is. When I think of him as shy, it’s only because I’m comparing him to other children who are comfortable with running up to strangers and having a conversation. I was never that kind of kid, and Henry doesn’t need to be either. If he’s “clingy,” it’s because he’s three years old, and three-year-olds happen to love their mommies quite a bit. I love that he clings to me. When I find myself thinking of him as “clingy,” it’s a sign that I need a little break, some time to myself. I don’t always get a break, but that’s not my son’s fault.

Henry tends to choose one kid on a playground and follow that kid around, doing everything he does. Usually the kid is a bit older, but not always. He’s followed toddlers around, even pretending to cry when they do. I don’t know why he enjoys doing this, and perhaps I’ll never know, but I’ve stopped viewing it as a bad thing. Following other kids around is just what he enjoys, as simple as that.

The last two adjectives at the beginning of my post don’t seem like bad labels, but they can cause as much damage as the others. I know overpraising can lead to some less than desirable results, such as having a child who doesn’t try new or challenging things because he wants to maintain the “smart” label. I try to resist calling him smart for every little thing he does. Remaining neutral is usually the best option, but it’s also natural for a parent to praise her kid. Children probably have the best chance for a good life if they have parents who accept them as they are without labeling any of their actions as either “good” or “bad.” No, that’s not good enough. I don’t think it’s enough to merely accept the way our children are. Instead, everyone is better off if we allow ourselves to love the way our children are, even when it causes us inconvenience, disappointment, or concern. It all comes back, as always, to unconditional love.

Lisa DeBusk is a mom, piano teacher, and writer. She writes about parenting, religion, health, culture, and politics. You can find her writing about gentle parenting at Soulful Parenting.   

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October 25, 2011 · 7:48 AM

Marilyn Monroe, ultra-thin models, and my hopes for my daughter…

A few weeks ago, there was a picture going around Facebook, with a caption that read,

 “F**k Society. This (with an arrow pointing to Marilyn Monroe) is more attractive than this (with an arrow pointing to an underweight girl in a bikini)”

This was this picture of Marilyn Monroe:

 

I was going to include a picture for the skinny girl too, but I ultimately decided against it.  We all know what she looked like.  She was runway-model slim.  You could see her ribs, and instead of curves she was all lines and angles and elbows.

I understand that the message is supposed to be a positive one.  It’s supposed to encourage us to accept our bodies, not to bow to societal pressures to chase some mythical or unhealthy ideal.  It’s supposed to remind us to appreciate the beauty of what is by some considered a “larger” woman.

And absolutely, Marilyn Monroe was beautiful.  Beautiful face, beautiful figure, beautiful smile.   That’s not in question.

But the element of comparison leaves me a little cold, as did the many comments of agreement, and those who took it a step further by calling the thin girl “disgusting,” “hideous,” and “ugly.”  Suddenly, a message of acceptance and love was turned on its head … and instead of embracing beauty in all shapes and sizes (which I’d truly like to believe was the original intent), people were banding together to bash those who are smaller.  And call me crazy, but isn’t it the height of hypocrisy to champion for the acceptance of one body type, while simultaneously lambasting another?

Now, I didn’t know the other girl in the picture any more than I knew Marilyn Monroe, but I can tell you this:

She could have been that thin simply because of genetics, in which case holding her up to Marilyn Monroe and saying she was the lesser of the two is just mean.  Or she could have been precluded from gaining weight due to some kind of illness, whether physical or otherwise, which would make the comparison not just mean but heartless too.  She could be a victim of her own self-hatred.  She could be breaking under the pressure that comes from so many people making judgments on outward appearances,  and she could be disappearing under an illusion of self-control.

Either way, I’m sad for that girl.  I’m sad about the state of our country’s body image in general.  And I’m sad that as a society our solution to the problem is just as bad as the problem itself.  Instead of declaring Marilyn attractive, and the thin girl unattractive, can we accept the inherent beauty in both?  Can we just aspire to be healthy?

Right now, my daughter is only three.  She still (rightly so) thinks her body is perfect and beautiful exactly the way it is.  I pray that that continues.

I hope that when she looks at herself and others, she doesn’t see skinny or large, curvy or athletic.  I hope that she never compares… not to each other, and not to herself.  I hope that when she looks in a mirror, she feels acceptance.  I hope that she still realizes that she was purposely and deliberately and uniquely created, and that she isn’t meant to look like Marilyn Monroe or the runway model or anyone but HER.

I hope that she is kind to herself, and kind to her body.  I hope that she eats good foods, and finds an exercise that she loves and does regularly….  not to look a certain way, or to fit into a certain size,  but to stay healthy and strong.

I hope that she respects and accepts others, no matter their size, shape, or age.   I hope that she loves them even when they can’t love themselves.

I hope that she embraces differences.

I hope that she realizes that our outer appearances are just that:  Just a shell.  And that beneath the curvy hips or the jutting hip bones, we’re all just … people.  And not all that different after all.

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