mornings

I Hate This Morning

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

Remember that roller coaster ride I described in great detail last week? Well, I’m back on it. Big time. And not the fun part.

Last night as I was getting all philosophical about Maddie and parenting and life in general, I felt a great sense of peace. And a tiny sense of accomplishment. That feeling is hard to come by as a parent. How did I do today? Am I doing a decent job of raising a human? Beats me! I guess I’ll find out eventually.

Still, last night I felt so good about what I would oddly call a successful day. Normally I would say a successful day involves everybody going to school. At 7:45 in the morning, when both kids have departed, I feel both triumphant and completely relieved. It’s time for a huge exhale.

Yesterday, though, I redefined success, I suppose. I remained calm. I kept my cool. I retained my perspective. Yes, yesterday was all about perspective.

And then there was the clock thing. Even though Maddie didn’t finish most of what I’d asked her to do, I delighted in her sudden awareness of the clock. Small victories.

Today? Forget it. Maddie said no again. For no reason. I’m not going to school, she decided. And there you have it.

I could feel the tension rising in my chest. Both tears of frustration and a sense of rage started boiling up inside me. Deep breaths have been required this morning. Lots of them. It is so hard not to feel defeated in the most literal sense of the word. Defeated and deflated: those are the words that come to mind in moments like this.

I brought up the boarding school thing again. It’s definitely not on Maddie’s mind on a morning like this. She hugged her cat and pretended not to hear me. But I know she did. Her message was basically “talk to the hand.” I guess her idea is that if she doesn’t make eye contact, I must assume the message isn’t getting through. But I know she heard me.

It was all I could do to refrain from yelling. I’m that mad. Again with the deep breaths.

But then I had a little epiphany. I keep bringing up boarding school as if I’ll be making the choice for her. I will be making that choice in a way. But really it’s her choices that are leading the way.

“Maddie, every time you cut school, you are getting one step closer to boarding school,” I said. “If you can’t get up and go to school, you will have to live at school. And each time you stay home without permission, you are making a choice.”

I want her to know she’s in control of this situation. She has the power to stay here and continue at what is really a lovely school. Or she can send the message that she’s willing to give that up and move away.

I reluctantly admit I’m somewhat ambivalent about this prospect. I feel a knife in my heart when I think of Maddie not living here. Who will take care of her when she’s sick? Who will hug her every night and every morning and throughout the day and tell her how wonderful she is? That’s my job, and I’m good at it!

But the truth is, it would be such a relief. My mornings wouldn’t begin with a deep feeling of anxiety and dread. I could spend more of my energy on things I enjoy. Parenting Maddie is exhausting and stressful. What if I handed that off to somebody who’s both more qualified for this and less emotionally invested? The deep breathing might involve more inhaling joy than exhaling pain.

There is hope, though, at least for the immediate future.

“I want Dad to wake me up,” Maddie suggested.

“Every morning?”

“Yes.”

That would be the gift of a lifetime: handing off this relentlessly stressful task to somebody else. Maddie’s dynamic with Jake is so different. She loves to take on a character, and he magically knows how to interact with her that way. I’m baffled by this scenario, and she knows it.

Also, he doesn’t get up each morning with 15 years of frustration with her on his shoulders and in his brain, waiting to spring forth at the first hint that she might refuse to cooperate. For me, each moment is fraught with the pain of all those years of experience. She has been, after all, my 24/7 job since the day she was born.

At my request, he has made an attempt to get her moving. Better late than not at all. She wasn’t responsive. We have passed the point of decision, and it’s nearly impossible to redirect now. Even for Jake. I’m not optimistic.

So what do I do? I haven’t cried today. You know I don’t cry much at all. There aren’t any tears, but my eyes have that burning, heavy feeling you get when you cry. My head hurts. I feel the heaviness in my face, too, my mouth turned down in a sad frown. Maybe I really am crying–on the inside. It feels like that.

I am working on letting this go, as I so graciously and effortlessly (well, not really) did yesterday. The idea that Maddie is making the choice, and removing the burden from myself, sounds so smart and wise and evolved. I want to hold onto that. I’m not sure how to do it, though.

Because the truth is, at some point I have to decide that she has made her choice. I will have to find the school for her. I will have to make that happen. It’s not quite as easy as it sounds, this letting go. Because I’m still the mom. And she’s still the child.

I’m breathing deeply. I’m waiting. I’m hoping, but I’m not really that hopeful in the moment. This is going to be a long day.

One Step Forward, One Step Back, Then Maybe Sideways

Chris Irvine, Parent CoachLeave a comment

This Tuesday I wanted to give up.

Every weekday morning, when my alarm goes off, my initial reaction is dread. I never know how it’s going to go. How many times will I have to try to get Maddie out of bed? Will she finally get up? Will yelling be required? What if she decides she’s not going? How much patience and creativity will I have to conjure up? Will anything I say or do make a difference? Will this be the day when I finally crack?

And Tuesday my dread was fully justified. What a terrible morning we had. Sure, I finally got her off to school, but not until I’d just run out of gas. The rest of the day I felt deflated. Picture that literally: a flat tire, a deflated ball, a shriveled up balloon. I had nothing left. I didn’t want to talk to anybody. I couldn’t do housework. I didn’t even want to see Maddie when she got home from school. I guess I was depressed. It’s a challenging way to be, getting out of bed each day, knowing your efforts will likely be unsuccessful, but not knowing what to do differently to change the outcome.

It’s a frustrating experience. And it’s not as linear as parenting a neuro-typical child might be. There is no real direction. One day Maddie will step up, and then she may not the next day or the next week or the next month. Then she might be agreeable and motivated for a week. One day I might say something magical that seems to penetrate her often impregnable system. And that magical something may never have an impact again. It’s a constant struggle to be creative and patient, to maintain hope when I’ve run out of ideas and Maddie seems stuck.

So tomorrow is Friday. I’m pretty sure she’ll go to school because Fridays are her favorite days. All her favorite classes occur on Fridays. And, I just learned, she has chess club. I had no idea she was into chess until she mentioned it last week, explaining why she skipped a lunch time rally. I will try to start the day with optimism because Fridays tend to be more successful days overall.

But even on a successful day, there is a period of panic. Maddie just cannot get herself out of bed. So as I’m juggling breakfasts and lunches and helping my son with whatever he needs, I’m making multiple trips to her room. Often I think she has gotten up only to discover five minutes before the cab is to arrive that she is still in bed. Then, in a panic, I raise my voice a little say things like, “Pretend there’s a fire!” or even “Act like you’re in a hurry.”

Then she’ll say, “Don’t rush me.” That absolutely kills me. “Well, then give yourself more time in the morning,” I’ll reply. She doesn’t seem to get the connection. She can’t help that she moves slowly, she’ll say. And I’ll tell her that’s fine, but then she needs to give herself more time. She either needs to be faster or have more time. That’s just logic, isn’t it? But all she can think of is “Don’t rush me.” How I would love to not rush anybody! It makes for a stressful morning for both of us, and sometimes I have a hard time shaking that morning experience.

Today I haven’t felt well. I’m sleep-deprived and exhausted, probably a bit depressed. I’m definitely at the end of my rope. This evening I asked her about homework. She says she doesn’t have any. I don’t know if that’s true. Oh, well. I don’t even care right now.

Then I tell her she does need to shower. That’s the one single think I ask her to do. She says she’s busy but she’ll definitely do it. Later, I remind her, and it’s getting close to bed time so time is of the essence.

“Oh,” she says, “I’m not going to do that.” She has decided.

She smelled my defeat earlier, I think. She knew I didn’t have the fight in me. She has that ability, I’ve noticed. Whatever. I can’t even do this. I ask her to please brush her teeth and wash up before bed. I’m pretty sure she’s completed those things. I don’t know why she decided they mattered when nothing else I’ve said today has had much of an impact.

I also noticed this morning when I was absurdly applying deodorant to the appropriate place on Maddie’s body that she had shaved her underarms. That was a shocker. She never does anything like that unless I make her. And she had actually thought of it herself and then done it.

And yet, by contrast, there I was spraying deodorant on my 15-year-old daughter’s armpits.

She is full of surprises!

So before I go to bed, I am taking some deep breaths. I will try to be optimistic for tomorrow because it’ll be Friday. I’m so happy it’s Friday, even if I have about 28 loads of laundry to do. The next morning I get to sleep in! I don’t have to dread the day ahead. It’s like a vacation from frustration, aggravation, depression and sadness all wrapped up into two days!

Well, not really. There will be things to accomplish. We shall see how it goes. That’s just how it is every day over here: We shall see how it goes. We shall see.