both hands

These past weeks I've been extra busy. I've set a goal for myself of reinstating my social work license with the state by mid-August (when we are going to see some very special people in a very beautiful place). In order to become a licensed social worker again, I needed to collect 40 credit hours of continuing education. It's been a crash course in all kinds of engaging areas of practice, a time of reacquainting myself with the profession and an old identity that had slipped onto the back burner while mothering my dear ones took center stage. The hope is to begin doing more clinical work with vulnerable populations in the fall, hopefully maintaining some modicum of the relatively flexible part-time work life I now enjoy. I recognize having it all isn't feasible. But I think having some good things some of the time and other good things at other times is a reasonable aspiration.

Yesterday I did an all-day training on trauma that included an excellent primer on how traumatic events affect the brain and can over time -- in cases of traumatic stress disorders -- impact brain structures in such a way that affects concentration, mood, and everything else you can imagine on which how well we can function, be in relationships, and live a good life depends.

Therapists can help "dislodge" the trauma that is repeatedly harming a person through something called bilateral processing. The idea is that through engaging both sides of the body while remembering a traumatic event, the information that has been stored in one area (unlike everyday information and memory that is stored throughout the brain) can be integrated into both hemispheres of the brain and thereby lose its close connection to the "limbic brain," which includes the parts associated with the fight or flight response (panic, stress, fear, anger). The idea is that eventually, through bilateral processing, the traumatic memory is separated from the flood of feelings initially experienced and made manageable.

Well. I am not sure if I got all that perfectly right. I'm sure some of you could explain this better! The takeaway is that engaging both sides of the body helps the brain to deal with terribly difficult stuff. It also helps the brain to deal with mildly difficult stuff - hence the excellent clarity and lightness of spirit we can feel after a good long walk, or the mood boost an intense twenty minutes on the elliptical machine can give me. It's interesting, right?

Here's what's even more interesting. I've been noticing that children do this bilateral processing thing all the time. They are constantly being asked to learn new skills, meet new people, figure out tacit sets of rules in different social settings, and process new information and ideas. And they are constantly in motion! I think of my children telling me a story from their day while flipping over the couch, pacing the room, and attempting headstands. It's hard to follow the story, but it is clearly all for a good reason. If you look around, you'll see that expressly bilateral movement is favored by kids. Think monkey bars, running, double dutch, bicycle riding.

Frances asked me last night if I knew any clapping games. The time has arrived! In camp she's been learning to chant and clap or chant and jump rope and some of the chants are the same as - or at least derived from - the ones I knew on the playground so many years ago. We sat on the edge of the bathtub while Gabriel splashed and she taught me. The clapping was the kind where your right hands meet, then you clap in the center, then your left hands meet.

When you get going, that singular experience of flow takes over. Our hands were flying and our eyes were locked, Cinderella-dressed-in-yellow, and as soon as we noticed that our hands were moving without our express intention we'd lose the rhythm and laugh and start all over. It was delightful, and brought back a forgotten experience of childhood so very vividly.

Nothing like a good bout of bilateral processing with your kiddo to make you feel really great: mind, body, and soul.

poetry and motion

Today we bagged camp and spent the morning with a special friend. Mrs. Hampton, one of Frances's first grade teachers, and Gabriel developed a deliciously sweet connection over the course of the school year. Every morning that he and I would walk Frances into her classroom, Gabriel would prepare sometime to show her: bits of trash, plastic bugs, a library book, a beer bottle cap found on the street. If for some strange reason he forgot, he'd look at his empty hands and begin to cry. But the sadness never lasted, because Mrs. Hampton found a way to gently and affectionately show Gabriel that he had in fact brought her something...! A smile, a very nice t-shirt, a story about his day.

It isn't always easy for a boy like Gabriel, who adores his older sister completely. Ferociously loyal, he looks up to her always. When she has a friend over and doesn't want to play with him, he resorts to bratty younger brother-style mischief . But perhaps the worst is when he is being out-talked and out-witted by his verbally skillful older sister. That inspires pushing and shoving. Didi! he will yell inches from her face. Let me talk!

So that is why people like Mrs. Hampton are so very precious to me. My boy is blessed with countless adults who really listen to what he has to say. I am sure that these friends have helped make possible the infectious confidence with which he runs and jumps and shouts odd poetic phrases. Today we were in the bathroom at our pool and Gabriel pumped a bit of purple soap into his hand. He looked up at me and started laughing before he even got the words out.

This looks like...purple marmalade!!

And then he marched back to the pool with a swing in his hips, chanting pur-ple mar-ma-LAY-ADE! over and over, breaking into a ridiculous dance poolside, then collapsing in a laughing fit in a chair.

Sometimes he moves and speaks in a way that communicates a pure, delighted pleasure in simply being himself. What finer thing could a parent possibly witness? Thank you, Mrs. Hampton.  

all will be well

Over the weekend, accompanied by friends and family, I turned thirty-five. It feels pretty good.

We were in Berkeley (aka Birthday) Springs, West Virginia, with good friends, one of whom - Amelia - has a birthday the day after mine. So there was much celebrating with excessive sweet desserts. Also lake-swimming (one of my very favorite things to do), leaf-hunting, BBQ ribs-eating, warm springs-exploring, and plenty of quiet reading time. 

Nonetheless, I sometimes felt mired in what, at a particularly low moment, I heard myself call a "family-wide stress storm." Parent-child conflict, envy, anxiety, fear, and general disequilibrium reared their less-than-welcome heads. When one member of a family system is struggling, the effects ripple through to all members and find expression in all kinds of idiosyncratic ways. And somehow - at least in my experience - traveling can make us uniquely vulnerable to these disruptions in family harmony.

So back home on Sunday night, I determined to call a child psychotherapist  that I've consulted with a handful of times in Annapolis over the years. I brought Frances when I went to see her yesterday morning and I am so, so glad I did. Frances ended up doing most of the talking, and I sat back, watching this animated, creative, articulate child of mine, her face aglow, earnestly explaining the intricacies of her fears (imaginary monsters I had no idea lived in her closet) and laughing about fears from her past that no longer frighten her. I was able to see her for who she is: lively, confident, beautiful.

The sweetest part was the way she was in constant motion -- flopping back on the couch, pacing around the room, curling up next to me -- yet she always managed to maintain physical contact. A finger rested on my arm, a toe squished up against my leg.

It was a great relief. She is a brilliant person, and we love each other very much. We may struggle, but it seemed clear to me that no great damage is being done (something I have sometimes worried about).

Today I walked into the house at 5:30 after a day-long social work training and was greeted by the toasty smell of steaming brown rice, excellent music, and the sight of my husband at the stove and my children quietly cutting and pasting magazine bits into collages on the cluttered kitchen table. What a peaceful and contented scene they formed! I nearly cried with gratitude. They are so very dear to me.

Here's to peace in our homes, and spending time with the people we love.

refugees

The storm on Friday night blew up seemingly out of nowhere. One moment it was hot and still, and the next the wind was howling, the tree limbs moving wildly as if possessed, and the lightning flashing with an almost green light, making everything look eerie and changed. We were really scared for a few moments, sitting in the living room, riveted by the sight of the storm outside and wondering if we should we wake the children and bring them to the basement.

We didn't. It passed. But of course the power went with it, and when it was still out the next morning, I had a bad feeling. We were without power for nearly a week after Hurricane Irene, and the word from BGE was that this would be a similar slog - and through 99 degree days, no less! I called my mom, looking for sympathy, and she suggested we come visit her. Yes. A fine idea. It took us about half an hour to pack up and get on the road.

The only hitch is that I am still really struggling with my dear eldest child. My mother is scaling mountains of work - excellent work - but still, work. We are not especially conducive to productivity. I am trying to contain the detritus that flies about in the wake of my darling tornadoes, and not lose my temper, nor allow my daughter to misbehave too glaringly, nor allow my son to tackle his grandmother while she is going over the rehearsal schedule. This containment effort is ill-fated at best.

Despite my ramped-up doling out of consequences (I'm trying for neutral emotions and immediate consequences in the face of minor infractions - rather than letting the rage build up after 20 such infractions and screaming like a mad woman) (Friends, please comment on this approach) (Isn't figuring out and implementing discipline the worst part of parenting?) ...good lord, where was I? Oh yes. Despite many time outs and stern words, I think things are okay. We remain relatively cheerful refugees, and our hostess has not lost her mind. Not yet, anyway.

The best part of today was a picnic lunch at Millersville's Swan Pond. My mom came with us, and we brought a little extra lunch to share. Ducklings! Swans! Turtles! Disturbingly large fish! I think we could have stayed all afternoon.

Gabriel made friends with this squirrel, who would stand on his hind legs and catch little bits of sandwich in his forepaws, delighting all of us. (Later, we found the same rascal licking the frosting from a cupcake liner. We had left our things, including a sealed package of cupcakes, while we walked around the pond. He chewed a squirrel-sized hole in the plastic, pulled out a cupcake, and peeled the paper off in order to better enjoy it. Genius rodents.)

Everyone was happy until Frances, lost in feather-collecting, got a little too close and suffered a swan nip. Yikes. Those birds can go from elegant and regal to brutal and bullying in the blink of an eye.

We hear our power will most likely return on Thursday afternoon. We may just stay here til then. Staying out of Grandma's hair is inspiring visits with friends, sweaty playground adventures, trips to the market,  and stops at our favorite cafe. Hopefully all the fun will ease parent-child relations, lessen the need for disciplinary interventions, and quiet any concerns my mom might be entertaining about whether or not she raised an intolerant tyrant. 

Oh Mom, I'm doing it out of love! I'm pretty sure I am, anyway. That and desperation.