Kimchi Mamas

Jelly Beans

I’m about to confess something that isn’t easy to confess.  I have no trouble writing about personal things. In fact, writing is my way of sorting through my thoughts.  But this…this is admitting to a flaw that is intensely painful and shameful to me.  This past year I’ve seriously lost touch with the mom I want to be and that my daughter deserves.  I certainly didn’t intend it to go this way.  I knew from the start that I wanted to practice gentle parenting, that I leaned more towards attachment parenting philosophies, and that I wanted to teach my daughter to respect others by respecting her first. 

But something has gone awry.  This past year, I have found myself gruff, grumpy, too tough, snappish, and well to be frank…a rather crappy parent.  This is not who I want to be and it’s definitely not what Aria deserves. 

I cannot pinpoint when things started to shift for the worse, but I can point to exactly why things have gone this way.  I’m too busy, I have absolutely no time to myself, I’m spread too thin and I get way too little sleep, I don’t eat well, I live off of coffee and energy drinks, we’re not financially secure, we’re spending too much money but aren’t entirely sure where to cut back, I’m stressed out and worried about Aria’s sensory issues and I don’t know how to help her…in a word my life is pretty unpredictable and chaotic and I’m feeling extremely insecure about it. 

None of this is Aria’s fault.  Instead she is the unfortunate victim of my impatience, insecurity, and even anger.  And that is simply not okay.  Rather than have a mom who is an amazing support system as she struggles with her sensory problems and general anxiety and to be honest with the trials and tribulations of simply being a little kid, she has a mom who swings from one extreme to the other, from being understanding to impatient to angry to remorseful.  I’m on a roller coaster of emotions and I’ve dragged my sweet daughter along for the ride.  Is it any wonder then that she feels insecure and anxious and has trouble managing her sensory issues? 

About a month ago, after months and months of knowing that this was not okay but not knowing how to get off the damn roller coaster, I asked Aria to help me.  It’s not her responsibility, she shouldn’t have to help me…she’s only five for goodness sakes, but I was desperate.  We came up with a word.  A silly word.  It was her code to let me know that she was feeling vulnerable and that I was being too tough on her.  Jelly Beans.  We figured a silly word would help snap me out of whatever irrational emotion I was let guiding and influencing my behavior towards her. 

It has been working for the most part.  When she looks up at me with her sweet face and trusting little eyes and whispers, “Jelly Beans, Mommy, Jelly Beans,” my heart sinks and I stop.  I smile at her.  I contemplate whether my request is reasonable and if it is, whether there is a better and gentler way to request it.  And I remember to hug her and let her know I love her.

But I don’t want my daughter to feel that she is responsible for reining in my frustration and anger.  It’s a temporary solution to a problem that has been festering for the past year. 

Last week, we had a particularly bad morning.  I don’t know what it was that set me off and it doesn’t really matter.  But I was feeling frustrated and Aria was back talking me as 5 year olds sometimes do, I found myself using threats that I didn’t really mean in an attempt to show her who the bigger boss was in this household. Instead, I showed her who the bigger ass in this household was and I left the house angry.  Aria was angry too and very hurt; she didn’t even attempt to use Jelly Beans.  Maybe because she forgot or maybe she didn’t think it would work.  She refused to say goodbye to me.  By the time I got to the bus stop, I was crying and feeling like the world’s crappiest mom. 

At my desk, I googled random things, hoping to find a solution to our MY problem.  I found a site for gentle parenting.  They pointed to a Facebook group called The Yell-Free Year Challenge.  I joined, because sometimes what we need is to read about other people’s struggles and triumphs to not only learn to forgive ourselves but to learn what hope really means. 

I came home reinvigorated and determined that this time the change I was seeking would come from within rather than be placed upon the strong but wee little shoulders of my five year old daughter.  When I entered our apartment, Aria dashed from the kitchen into the bathroom and I felt my heart break just a little.  I figured she was still hurt and hiding from me and I didn’t blame her.  I steeled myself for the long, hard road of earning her trust back.

My daughter is already far advanced in the art of forgiveness and understanding.  She dashed from the bathroom into the living room, stopping in front of me, shouting, “Boo,” and squealing with delight, “Did I startle you, Mommy?!”  I assured her that she had and I hugged her.  I hugged her a lot and told her how much I loved her.

Four days.  It’s been four days.  I haven’t raised my voice in these last four days.  I can’t say I’ve been the parent I hope to be.  I still need to learn how to parent without resorting to threats I don’t want to and mostly don’t intend to keep.  I still need to learn to distinguish between what’s the small stuff and what really matters.  And most importantly I still need to figure out how to disentangle my ego and how I view myself from the way my daughter behaves.  But it’s a step. 

I’ve learned to be silent for a moment when I feel the anger, long enough to gather my thoughts and respond more rationally.  And I’ve learned to whisper when I feel the need to say something immediately but am afraid I will yell.  I have no idea if I will make it for a year, but that’s okay because I’m shooting for a lifetime of one day at a time changes.  Aria is worth it.  I’m worth it.  Because life is entirely too short to feel like the world’s crappiest parent.

Mental Health Awareness Week

Its amost the tail end of Mental Health Awareness Week and I feel compelled to post about something that happened a few days ago.  I'm not sure this is exactly a Kimchi post or even a Mama post except in the general way that mental health impacts everyone including Kimchi Mamas.  

Anyhow, if you've read my bio here on KimchiMamas you know that I'm a full time doctoral student who focuses on mental heatlh policy.  What you probably don't know is that my choice to enter a doctoral program was purely survival.  After finishing up my masters I was left with an advanced degree in a job market that was flooded with people with their own advanced degrees; I got second interviews but never any real job leads.  We had bills to pay so while loans is not my prefered way to get by, its better than not getting by at all. While I may have been pushed into a PhD program out of necessity; I want to make it clear that I fully embraced the more specific field of mental health. 

Letting Go

Control.  Stability. 

Those two words take up so much of my head space.  I’ve been seeking and chasing them for as long as I can remember.  Even when I drank too much and was the epitome of loss of control.  Even when I packed up my stuff and headed more than 2000 miles away leaving behind some semblance of stability for the uncertainty of the Wild West. 

I had an interesting conversation with a friend the other day.  My life has been filled with so much instability and lack of control that I almost feel compelled to secure it, cage it, keep it with me so I know what is around the corner, so I can stop guessing, so I can breathe.  As a mother I’ve found that my desperate attempt to capture control and stability has only increased.  I want the sort of childhood for my daughter that I didn’t have.  

Teaching me to live

My mum and me before my parents' divorce.

Today’s post is about mothers.   Well…my mother to be exact.  We’ve had a rocky relationship.  You see, she didn’t raise me and when I say she didn’t raise me I mean that I can count on my hand (just one hand, not both) how many times I saw her as a child after my parents divorced.  When I was 13, I boarded a plane to visit her in New York City.  I remember the excitement and fear that I felt; excitement at seeing her again and in a new big city that I had never visited before but also fear.  Would she know me?  Would I know her?  Would we get along?  Would she like me? 

That last one was so important to me.  Already I was the butt of many jokes at school.  I was bullied by the other children to the point that every night I’d cry myself to sleep and wish that I was somebody, anybody but me.  I was convinced that I was unlikeable.  I mean what else could possibly cause the other children to torment me relentlessly.  It mattered to me that my own mother might see something in me that she liked.  As I stepped off the plane, it was with a big sigh of relief that I instantly spotted her, recognized her despite the 6 years that had passed since I last saw her.  I approached her with trepidation but hope and then she said it.  The first words out of her mouth after not seeing her daughter for 6 years.  “You’re fat.” 

You’re fat.  Fat.  Fat.  Fat.  I couldn’t tell you much about my trip, because I don’t really remember that much.  But her first words I remember vividly because they cut me to my core.  The idea that the first thing my mother would see about me was the fat on my body was the confirmation I needed that I was indeed unlikeable.  Nothing else mattered because I was fat. 

Over the years, I’ve pushed those feelings deep down inside me.  They are still there but I’ve learned that it’s not socially acceptable to express true self-hatred; that nobody really wants to hear about how broken you really are.   In this society we seem to encourage self-degradation, fat talk is pretty prevalent, but nobody really wants to listen to the pain, the gut-wrenching sadness that comes from not loving ourselves. 

There were more trips and visits with mom and before each one I would steel myself for her insults and the criticism, the incessant criticisms.  It didn’t seem that I could do anything right.  It didn’t matter how hard I worked in school; it didn’t matter that I was compassionate and kind; it didn’t matter that I tried hard to be a good person and mother.  Nothing was good enough.

Between visits, I found myself avoiding her phone calls, waiting months to call her back.  It wasn’t that I was trying to punish her for her cruelty; it was just that I didn’t have the energy to pursue a relationship with someone who clearly didn’t seem to think there was anything redeemable about me.

The last time she came for a visit was in 2010, when my daughter was 2.

Last month she visited.  My sister had just delivered her baby and mom flew out to stay with her for three weeks.  Three weeks is a long time to visit.  If things had gone smoothly, mother would have stayed at my sister’s the entire time.  But things didn’t go smoothly and she ended up at my apartment.  And there we were again.  Mother and daughter.  We sat around and watched my daughter play.  At first, I thought I could escape her critical eye; she was so focused on other matters.  I was deluding myself.  Within two days, the criticisms started. 

I didn’t pick after myself or my family quickly enough.  I had too much garbage and junk in my home.  I didn’t wipe down counters or bathtubs after use.  I didn’t use a liner in the bathroom trashcan.  I let my daughter leave out her dinosaur toys for one too many nights in a row.  I wasn’t thin enough.   None of these were unforgiveable or huge crimes but the constant nit-picking was exhausting.  I nodded my head not even attempting to defend myself.  Yes, Momma.  Yes, Momma.   I know, Momma.  I’ll try harder, Momma. 

Every once in a while she would stop and just look at me.  I have no idea what she was thinking.  Perhaps she was annoyed that I was so agreeable.  Perhaps she thought I was ignoring her.  Perhaps she was in a fighting mood and wanted me to argue with her.  Perhaps she was wondering how her own daughter could be so unlike her.  It is pointless though to try to delve into somebody else’s mind; it’s hard enough to get in our own heads. 

And then one day she said something that shifted something for me.  She was in the middle of criticizing me for some infraction.  I can’t remember what it was.  I was nodding my head; I was tired.   I almost missed that her tone had changed. 

“Robin, I didn’t go to school; I don’t know about school, books, learning.  I know how to live, that is all I know.  I know how to live.  I didn’t raise you.  This is all I can do.  I can teach you how to live.  Teach you how to make life easier.”

I won’t pretend that our relationship dramatically changed over these few words, but I will say that suddenly I understood something that I had never understood before.  As much as her criticisms hurt, they have never been about me.  They are words from a mother who never raised her daughters, who doesn’t know how to relate to them beyond “helping” them.  In her mind, she is not criticizing as much as she is trying to impart wisdom.   It’s the only way she knows how to be a mother.

From her most recent visit, my daughter misses her already and wants her to come back.  This means so much to me.  I want them to have the relationship my mother and I never had.

I tried to remember her words for the rest of the visit.  I held onto them when she would nit-pick about my weight, my parenting, and my housekeeping skills.  I listened intently.  I asked her to come back to teach me to make Kimchi.  She smiled and agreed that the next time she visited we would get a jar and she would show me.  And then she left.  My house was quiet again or as quiet as it can be with a 5 year old child living in it.  The next day when she called, I felt the familiar urge to ignore her phone call, but I made an effort to pick up the phone.  And when she called again the next day, I picked up the phone again.  My mom is never going to change.  I cannot undue the past or the fact that her criticisms still sting.  All I can do is remember her words.  She wants to teach me to live so my life is easier.  I may not like the way the message is delivered but the message is still one of love, the only love my mother knows how to give.  She just wants my life to be easier.  I can live with that.  

Robin

Presenting...our newest Kimchi Mama, Robin!

We are so excited to announce that we have found some amazing new contributors.  We will introduce one a week, starting with Robin of Tansy Dolls.  Her introduction post is after the page break!

Love, your ever-faithful Kimchi Mamas

I'm so excited for this opportunity to write for Kimchi Mamas.  As a full time doctoral student I rarely have time to write anything that isn't academic, but more importantly Kimchi Mamas represents two very important identities to me.  I was asked to answer two questions for my first post: 1) How am I Kimchi and 2) how am I Mama.  My answer is that my understanding of how I am both is always evolving and changing.