Amber
When Our Way Isn’t The Better Way
Aside Posted on
Expectations. Pressures. Fears. Paradigms. Histories. Traditions. Issues.
When I step back for a minute and take a good soul-searching look at myself I realize all the above labels have made a very comfortable home within my heart. As ominous as that may sound, it’s not all for the bad. I just think that we parents may flatter ourselves into thinking, I know what’s best. I am the dad here and I know a thing or two. Really? Do I really, or am I just the product of these labels and don’t know the difference?
This type of thinking and unfettered evaluation is so important when it comes to raising our kids. Is it fun? No! Often times it’s the exact opposite. Maybe that’s why we avoid doing it. Being real and honest takes courage. It takes guts. I lack both more often than not.
Have you ever found your parents raising your children through you? Without meaning to, you are doing exactly what your parents did and you don’t even know why. That’s what I’m talking about. That’s a paradigm at work.
At times we are afraid of other’s opinions and then alter how we parent our kids because of it. That is fear taking the lead. We actually change how we treat our children because of someone else’s opinion/judgement, or the fear of it. Don’t believe me? Just think back to the time your toddler threw a royal hissy-fit in a store aisle. There was screaming, yelling, the throwing of himself or herself on the ground. The “works” was being flagrantly displayed. Everyone was watching and could hear it all, or so it seemed.
For so many of us the first thing we thought about was: What are all the other people thinking about my child and their behavior, and my parenting abilities? Maybe we became embarrassed and felt like a terrible parent because our child has completely freaked out in public. We became concerned about whether people thought we spoiled our child, or weren’t strict enough with them.
Your next decision with your child in that moment reflected either some of the labels above, or your very own heartfelt parenting style. It is no sin to admit it was the labels that caused me to hush my child up and threaten them into being quiet. Do I like admitting that? No! What I dislike more is that if I don’t admit it I will become a repeat offender who insists I am right in what I am doing.
How do I know this is a problem? Simple. Never once in that entire scenario did I think of my child and what they were going through. The whole thing had its focus on me, and how it was messing up my plans. How it was making me look badly in front other people. How it was making my already hectic day worse. I wasn’t there for my child. I was acting like they were in the way, like they should shape up or else. What was really happening here was me not listening to my child. They needed something and I was too occupied with my plan to see it. There was no room in my agenda for my toddler. Dang!
This hurts, but somebody has to say it. We all do it, or have done it. We excuse our own errant behaviour by hiding behind the fact that we are the parent. It’s like a magic fix-all phrase, “I’m the parent.” In reality it only deceives us, and never makes things right for the kids.
I have failed at this far too many times. My issues, paradigms, fears and the like raised their ugly heads and beat out what my heart told me was the right course. It’s disheartening to me.
Let me share a situation with you that I never tell to anyone outside the family or a few close friends. Why haven’t I told it before? Simple. I was afraid of what other people would think because what I did was not the norm. The fear and judgement label.
See, every night when my daughter Amber was in her preschool and early elementary school years I would lie on the floor next to her bed. She would drape her arm down to me and I would hold her index finger within my hand until she fell asleep. She had to be fully asleep in order for me to gently slip her finger out from my hand. If she wasn’t completely asleep and I tried to remove it, she would groan and the process would start over.
This was what my daughter needed. It made her feel loved and secure. I won’t pretend that it didn’t take up gobs of time each night because it did. It took a lot of time, but I was so overly concerned that other people would think I was spoiling her rotten I never mentioned it at all. I never mentioned how much I enjoyed it. What else was so important that giving the time wasn’t the right thing to do? It was the right thing whether anyone else thought so or not, and in the end I am so glad I spent that time with her. I will have that memory forever.
It could have ended so differently if I had given into the fear of what others may have thought or said. So what? She is my daughter and she had told me what she needed. What could be more important than that? Fear? Paradigm? Issues? Traditions? No. None of the above.
The biggest lesson I have learned wais that my children told me what they needed. I just had to put them first and listen. Everything else fell into place after that.
Marm has always said that training up a child in the way they should go is much less about making them conform to a prescribed pattern, and more about knowing who they are and what they need. Once we know those things then we can train them in the way God made for them. We can lead them toward Him in the way they can best follow.
It would have been easy to tell my daughter to,”Get over it. Don’t be a baby. This takes too much time every night” and the like. That wasn’t what she needed. She needed me and I decided that this wasn’t spoiling her, or catering to her, or just giving her everything she wanted. We all know too well how hard sorting those differences out can be. It’s one of the things that makes parenting hard work and challenging at times.
No. This was about applying my heartfelt parenting style regardless of my own issues. Those issues would have stopped me if I had let them. That would have been when our way isn’t the better way.
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Distraction Was The Best Medicine
“Help!! What do I do now?”
Toddlers were so intimidating at times. It wasn’t everyone else’s toddlers that intimidated me, it was mine. Why was that so true?
They aren’t extraordinarily large as people go per se. They are rather small creatures to be honest. Yet, they can command and demand like no others. They can stand there in their defiant postures with their “Superman hands on their hips” pose radiating their fire-breathing dragon look that would instantly fry me to a crisp if it were possible.
I remember staring at them at times while being so upset and impatient with them. How did they get the best of me and cause me to give my temper away so easily, and more often than I want to admit here?
I love my children dearly and would do anything for them, but when they were in that toddler mode it seemed like it was “them or me”. Sometimes it was hard to know who was the adult in the room. I remember being reduced down to their level more than once. It was humiliating and I felt badly once all the fuss was over and I came back to my senses. How can they be so powerful in these moments. And what’s worse, was that I told myself I would never allow myself to get into that type of power struggle with them again, but I did, and more than once or twice. At times I felt like I was losing my mind.
You would think that by the time our fifth child had entered into her toddler years I would have had the wisdom-of-the-ages coupled with the experience of a battle hardened veteran making me impervious to attack. Don’t kid yourself. I still got pulled into it at times. Grrr.
However, there were those other times when I didn’t get sucked into their emotional vortex of death and actually did it right. All the raging seemed to have bounced off me like I was bulletproof and, I was in my right mind. Those were the moments of brilliance that I clung to. I wish I knew how I did it so I could have replicated it on command, but alas, I have no idea how I pulled it off.
Bedtime should be easy because it was so normal. It was routine. It was usual, and not unexpected. But this particular night was different. It was none of those things. Amy was in a mood. Not a pleasant mood, but a simmering dark mood. She was angry at the world and wasn’t about to keep it to herself. She was on a mission of chaos which did not include going to bed.
I don’t remember any of the pre-bedtime particulars. All I remember was that the three of us, Amber, Amy, and myself were all lying in amy’s bottom bunk together. It was time for a story and Amy wasn’t having any part of it. She was screaming and crying and wouldn’t stop for anything. Well, as it turns out, there was one thing.
I was on my back between them trying to get Amy to stop her fit. She had a masterpiece going at the moment. I listed all the usual storylines for potential ideas, and was met with defiant resistance. I looked over at Amber and she didn’t know what to do either. Suddenly inspiration hit and it changed everything.
“Amy,” I said calmly. “I would like to introduce you to my new friend. His name is Dumb Thumb,” and I held up my right thumb for her to see. “He has a friend with him. His name is Stinky Pinky,” and I poked my left pinky straight up in the air. Immediately the crying subsided and a broad grin with a chuckle spread across her face. I knew I was on to something now. I continued to make these two ridiculous characters act stupidly and now she was belly laughing. For the next ten minutes or so the story rolled absurdly along. Both girls were having a great time and it seemed the tantrum was a thing of the past.
Once the story was over and I had prayed for them all was well. I gave them each a good-night kiss and that was it. Disaster averted. I have no idea why that crazy story worked. Maybe it was because it was so crazy and unexpected. Whatever the reason, it worked. It actually worked several more times afterwards.
This goes down as one of those learning moments for Daddy. I could have pulled out the heavy guns of intimidation and threats, but this weapon was better. This was a diversion. I flanked the little fit-thrower and she didn’t see it coming at all. Admittedly, neither did Amber or I.
It was really never about who had the most power. It wasn’t about who was the most stubborn or determined. In this case I simply had a different prescription and found that diversion was the best medicine.
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Fun Stories for Children at Bedtime
I know I have mentioned it before in at least one previous post, that bedtime with the kids when they were little was my gig. I was the one to steer them through the pre-bedtime checklist. Jammies on, teeth brushed and flossed, drinks, fluoride rinse, potty, the story, kisses and hugs, and ended with the good night prayer.
Once Amber and Amy were grade school age a new tradition was born. We still continued with the standard pre-bedtime checklist, but the story time change dramatically. I began to make up a new story each night for them.
The setting for the story remained the same, and so did the main characters. Night after night I would take them on a new adventure with these cute bedtime friends.
“Daddy tell us a new story tonight”, they would plead.
“Okay, but you have to get ready before we start, so hurry”, was my usual reply. This of course sent them scurrying to get the checklist finished asap. I loved the leverage the story time had on their motivation. Admittedly, I took extreme advantage of it. For sure I used it as a bribe more times than I can remember.
After they had finished the checklist the three of us would plop down on their bed together and they would eagerly wait for me to start. Sometimes the wait was too much for them because I was too slow.
“Start the story Daddy! You’re taking too long,” they would moan.
“I’m trying girls, but I have to think of a new story and I haven’t thought about this at all today.”
“Hurry please. Start the story, we’re getting bored.”
Oh, the pressure.
Once I started they snuggled in closer to me and were all ears. I would take them to their favorite and familiar spots. They would find their best story buddies up to their necks in trouble, or in some adventure too big for them to handle. Sometimes it became unbearably dangerous and they thought something scary was going to happen.
“Maybe I should stop since you’re so worried?” I would ask.
“Nooooo! Don’t stop now,” was their big eyed answer each time.
Over the three years I told these stories they began to change, to morph into something different. Even though the main characters and setting stayed the same, I would introduce a mystery character. I would use vague descriptions about this mystery character throughout the story. Small clues that would reveal their identity. The girls had to pay close attention if they were to guess who it was once the story was finished. These mystery characters could be anyone. They could be a real person, a movie character, a book character, a cartoon character, a Bible character, a family member, a pet or animal, literally anyone.
The stories had become interactive now. After the story ended they could ask me all the questions they wanted to. Only questions with yes & no answers were allowed. Each of the girls was granted only one guess at the mystery character’s identity. If they both were wrong, I would win the game and tell them the answer. If one of them figured it out and named the character correctly, they won the game.
Sometimes they asked a gazillion questions and still never figured it out. Other times they asked one, two, maybe three questions tops and nailed it right off the bat. I remember times that I thought I had the perfect character that neither of them would ever figure out, only to have them guess correctly after one solitary question. How rude!
Other nights when I was especially tired I would pick the easiest character possible only to have them trip over it forever, or never figure it out at all. Maybe they knew my game and played me instead. They are very bright girls after all.
No matter who may have been working whom, these are moments I will never forget. They will always be a part of our bedtime memories together when they were little. It was just last year when Amy came up to me and asked me to tell her another story. She’s a high-schooler, and still wanted to hear another one.
I would love to tell you all about them, really I would, but I won’t. I’m writing them down for my grandkids, and maybe for others too if you will. After all, everyone can always use fun stories for children at bedtime.
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A Klingon Christmas
It’s true. I’m a recovered TOS Trekkie. The proverbial “old school” Star Trek fan.
My ridiculous love affair with this pop-culture phenomenon finds it roots back in the late 70’s of the previous century. That being said… I shall say no more about it. This is about a little girl. A baby girl. A girl who loves to be close to the ones she loves.
Amber is our fourth child and third daughter. She is the evidence of God’s grace to us. After rocketing into our world at birth, she settled into a nice nuzzling routine of being physically close to us. She loved to be held. She never wanted to be far from either of us. It was obvious from the beginning that her love language was touch. She was always comforted the most when held.
Bedtime was no exception. Actually, bedtime was my domain. Marm had the kids all day long while I was gone. The night belonged to me, and I loved it, for the most part.
I don’t remember how it all started and that’s frustrating to me. Looking back I wish I had paid closer attention, but when you’re in the moment you just don’t think like that. What I do recall is the long-standing memory it created. When it was time to put Amber to bed I would take her to our room and walk her. Her crib was beside our bed. I would gently pace with her and then lay her down. She would promptly cry wanting to be held again. I would pick her up and walk her some more. She would fuss a little and I would start to sing to her. She would fuss and I would change the song. She would fuss again and I would change the song again, and you get the point.
It must have been around the beginning of the Christmas season when I stumbled onto the winning combination that would become the tradition. One night I started to sing White Christmas to her. She loved it! No, seriously, she L-O-V-E-D it! Who knew that a “wee babe in arms” would know the difference between song melodies, but she did. I would walk back and forth singing this song over and over and over again to her. If I changed the song, she fussed and refused to fall asleep. It was White Christmas and only White Christmas.
This was our ritual for the next year or so. Every night I would walk her and sing White Christmas. I would spend upwards of an hour each night holding her, singing to her, at times being frustrated with her because I was tired and she wouldn’t fall asleep as fast as I wanted her to. If she wasn’t fully asleep in my arms, I couldn’t lay her down. It was exhausting at times, and it was hard to do every day. It was also one of those magically special times that only comes around once. I would never have an opportunity like this with her again. I was able to hold, cuddle, talk, pray, and sing to my daughter every night for an hour. She was the proverbial captive audience. I don’t regret any of it, except my moments of impatience, and would jump at the opportunity to do it again.
It comes as no shock that to this day White Christmas is Amber’s favorite Christmas song. I don’t know when it was first stated , but its fair to say I was the one to appropriately coin the phrase, “She’s a Klingon.This was a term of endearment of course tossed her way because of the obvious. It was a long time before I would sing White Christmas again. I pretty much had my fill for a while. Now years later when I do hear it I smile and remember our Klingon Christmas bedtime. It was totally worth it!
Curls & Capes 