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Learning All the Time


I heard someone say once that the reason we get defensive when someone insults us is because there is a part of us that believes in the veracity of the insult. Think about it. Don’t we usually come back with, “No, I’m not!” or some such defense or proof that we are not, indeed, guilty of whatever our accuser has said we are guilty of? I know I do that. Once someone says something about me (unless it’s my kids – I long ago figured out how to let go the slings and arrows of being told I’m the meanest mother there is), I am immediately driven to prove them wrong. I see my girls doing it with each other, too.

“She called me a butthead!” Lola shrieks.

“Well, are you one?” I ask.

She is offended. Until she realizes that her bottom is most definitely not on her head and giggles. I remind her that just because Eve is older than her and flung the insult with a great deal of passion, does not mean that Lola is, indeed, a butthead. And if she were one, is that something under her control or not? If not, then it isn’t much of an insult, is it? That’s like calling the dog a dog. No matter how loudly or indignantly you say it, it’s just the truth and not derogatory. It isn’t his fault he’s a dog. He just is.

Like most of my parenting tactics, however, it seems that I must repeat this speech for both girls somewhere between half a million and two billion times before they actually either recall it on their own or think long enough to apply its actual meaning to this particular situation.

Why is name-calling so effective? Who first discovered that it had the power to stop another human in their tracks? Name-calling is like the sound bite of relationships – rarely accurate but effective at grabbing attention. I know that when my girls descend into “jerk” and “idiot” they have simply stopped attempting to solve whatever misunderstanding they are having and are simply trying to get the point across that they are MAD. I’m pretty sure the names are designed to hurt feelings, too, although neither of my girls would admit that they purposely wanted to hurt her sister. When we all sit down later to discuss the issue, sometimes I ask them for a character sketch of a jerk or an idiot or a butthead and, once we have all of the traits down on paper, it turns out that neither of them fits the description. So why is it so much easier to label other people with mean names than it is to say we are simply angry or frustrated or hurt?

I wonder if it is because calling someone else a name puts all of the blame outside ourselves. If we admit that we are upset, not only does that make us seem vulnerable, it somehow invites personal responsibility into the mix. If you are a jerk, however, it must be all your fault and I am teflon-girl. Certainly when I am accused of being a jerk or an idiot I have a moment, however fleeting, of panic. Is it all my fault? Did I make a huge mistake? What have I done?

I suppose that if I remember to think about the fact that I am probably not really an idiot (or the worst mother who ever walked the face of the planet), I might see that I have hurt or confused this other person inadvertently and, by not becoming defensive, maybe I can find a way to solve the problem without hurling some insult back first.
Easier said than done, but this is one of the opportunities having Eve and Lola has afforded me to look at my own behavior. Hopefully, it won’t take me more than half a million reminders to do things a little differently.
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Perception is Reality

That’s what Bubba always says, and to some extent I believe it, although I’ve always been more comfortable with the notion that there is some concrete Reality/Truth out there somewhere that is discoverable. It gives me hope. It helps me to trust that I just have to buckle down, put in some elbow grease and keep looking until I can finally shout, “Eureka!”

Some days, this is why parenting sucks. Because while we can look at ‘norms’ and ‘averages,’ each of our kids is an individual and they have their own quirks and lovable qualities and refusals to FIT IN THAT DAMN PIGEONHOLE ALREADY.

So Lola has some quirks. Okay, a lot of quirks. But that is what makes Lola, Lola. (I know that comma doesn’t belong there, but I needed the pause in between the two Lolas, so I had to leave it there). About six months ago, she began complaining of “habits” that bug her. I noticed them a long time ago, but figured that as long as they didn’t cause her any problems and she was otherwise healthy, I was going to leave them alone. Time’s up, Mom. She had gradually become aware of a tendency to raise her eyebrows and then scrunch them down as far as they could go. She did this about forty times a day, generally when she was physically still, like playing a card game or listening to a story or working out a problem at school. She was afraid that the other kids would notice and begin to make fun of her and, frankly, it freaked her out that it didn’t seem to be something she could stop doing.

She progressed from this to what we call the ‘bunny face’ where the skin on the bridge of her nose gathers up and she puckers up like she wants a kiss. Finally, about a month ago, she began noticing a severe eye roll to the top left that, by the end of the day, left her with awful headaches. Add to this a tendency to “claw” her hands when she needs to use them for something that requires concentration (piano practice, card games, math problems), and she is frustrated.

Those of you with kids who don’t fit the ‘norms’ will understand what ensued next. As many disparate ideas as there are specialists. My therapist offered to score a test for ADHD (seems Lola scores in the 90th percentile for hyperactivity – duh). The naturopath suggested we test for more food allergies, B vitamin deficiency, and anything that can cause hypersensitivity. Bubba doesn’t see it. Or maybe he doesn’t want to because perception is reality. Or maybe it’s just that he rarely spends quiet time with Lola – they are usually wrestling or shooting hoops or chasing each other around the yard. Lola’s teachers haven’t expressed concern, but she’s in a nontraditional school setting – she’s allowed to pace while she reads to herself, work cross-legged on the floor, dissect lamb hearts and brains, and help design her own curriculum. What teacher would notice hyperactivity or tics in that setting?

The therapist and the doctor see it. Lola feels it. She admits not telling her father about it because she’s embarrassed. In the meantime, I’m loathe to medicate her for ADHD since those symptoms don’t seem to be causing her problems and, what if they take away the essential Lola-ness that she has to be funny and crazy and impulsive (well, I could lose some of the impulsivity…). Are the tics Tourette’s? I long suspected that Dad had some form of Tourette’s, but he’s gone now and there’s nobody to corroborate that.

I’m at a crossroads and wondering whether there is some concrete Reality/Truth out there that is discoverable. If so, should I kill myself to find it? If not, what’s the best course of action? And whose perceptions trump whose? Is Bubba’s reality more real than mine? What about Lola’s?

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Reminiscing in Food


Slicing some cantaloupe for the girls this morning, it occurred to me how often I think in food. I spend a lot of time in the kitchen. Not only is it the natural hub of our house – open to the family room, laundry area, main hallway, and directly leading to the backyard – but with growing kids who are gluten-intolerant and mom-cooking-experiment-tolerant, this is my laboratory. The pantry is a walk-in, always overstuffed, and the refrigerator would be a great place for a photo shoot for one of those ISpy books.

So most of my time is spent in the kitchen. I’m usually on my feet, slicing, mixing, cleaning up, grabbing a quick snack, making a smoothie or espresso, little snatches of time here and there, and either the kids are out playing or waiting for sustenance, so I get to grab quick snatches of thought here and there, too.

Every time I slice cantaloupe or honeydew melon, I think of Susan who used to cut melon for us kids and who taught me how to slice it easily.

When I am topping my own pizza, I remember Carlos and Laura filling up the kitchen with their laughter and 13 homemade pizza crusts, Carlos wearing most of the homemade pizza sauce and Laura and I trying not to explode in giggles.

Throwing ingredients in to the crock pot for chili, I conjure up visions of me on the kitchen phone with Mom guiding me through the steps – her at work and me a latchkey kid. The long phone cord stretched between the wall and the counter, receiver tucked between my shoulder and ear.

Walking through the produce section at the grocery store, I look at the kiwi and recall a girl I used to work with who ate them whole – like a big, fuzzy strawberry. I think of Dad when I see vine-ripened tomatoes. He used to sit on the back porch, slice them open, salt them liberally, and devour them.

It only takes a split second for these images to float through my mind, but I am rarely without some association of a special or unique person in my life when I prepare food. Maybe that is why I enjoy cooking so much. It is certainly not a solitary activity, although I am often performing the activities on my own. I am often cooking for friends or family, and as I go through the motions I am surrounded by others who help me to feel good about the history of the recipes or my own history with food. This groundedness in nourishment is settling for me and nourishes so much more than my belly.

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