when your love language is expletives

My first-born daughter's love language is physical affection. I wonder why life has given her a mother who doesn't like to be touched. I so desperately want to give her the love she needs, and she needs it, oh so desperately. She requests constant confirmation that I haven't changed my mind over how I feel about her. I don't know why. What have I done that this kid does not believe her mother's love is a permanent condition? I thought, I am a pretty conscientious parent -- I have always made an effort to talk about our feelings, good and bad. But, I guess, all my kid wants is to be held every day and even though I would die for my children, giving out hugs is a task requiring great effort where there should be none. My hugs feel mechanical and my daughter comments with amusement over my somatic shortcomings. Nonetheless, she reaches out to be touched every day.

To make things worse, I also have this bad habit of slipping with my language when I care about someone. Combined with my animal-like morning self, I'm a ticking time-bomb in the hours between approximately 6am and 9am. This psycho version of me is no stranger to my kids. When my younger daughter Nini was three years old, she once quietly woke me up with a piece of artwork she delivered to my bedside. 

"What's that?" I inquired.

"This is Mommy - angry in the morning," she explained like it's the most natural thing in the world.

As my kids have grown older, I've become even more relaxed. Too relaxed for someone who doesn't allow cursing in the house. I have developed, like my father when I was a teenager, the double-standard that I, as the parent, am allowed to use crude language when needed, but for the children to use a foul word would be a down-right abomination. Never mind the fact that, from hearsay, I know that my 18-yr-old curses like a sailor when she is with her friends. 

The other day, I yelled at Lee to wash her effin' hands and to eat her effin' french toast already (and, no effin-s but the actual F word were used). Granted, it was before 9 a.m., but who does that?! For all the self-control I can exercise throughout the day - some call me the queen of diplomacy (okay, nobody does, but I'd like to think I am) - in the morning hours, I am pure animal instincts. When the kids were younger, there were times I would simply just growl at them. Like a mother bear, but not in the affectionate way one might imagine this now.

When Lee later reminded me of my schizophrenic behavior in the morning and recommended to perhaps avoid interaction with other people before noon, I went into a bit of guilt-driven introspection. What I emerged with was that, while I may in fact be a different person in the morning who is best left alone to adjust to the waking life, the expletives targeted at my kid earlier in the day were ultimately driven by worry and love. I love my child and she is systematically starving herself into a body that more resembles a victim of famine than an average, athletic American teen from a loving, somewhat middle-class home.

When I presented my theory to her, she rolled her eyes. 

"I think my love language takes the form of expletives," I said.

"Your love language is acts of service, Mom", Lee responded without looking up from her phone.

Okay - so much for today's attempt at self-analysis.

Maybe my daughter does know how much I love her.

covid graduates

Here an article I wrote about my HS senior graduating during covid quarantine measures. Why? Because I didn't get to place this article anywhere (well, I only pitched to two publications, so there is something to be said about my lack of persistence, but let's not get into that).

It's kinda vanilla, now that I'm re-reading it. I guess, some publications like it like that, but is my blog one of them?

Senioritis & Mental Health in the Times of Covid

When my daughter started her senior year in high school last fall, I was prepared that it was going to be easier and more laid back than previous years. I was introduced to the concept of senioritis and that it was an accepted "condition" of any graduating high-schooler. However, the way this is now playing out for students around the country in the midst of the CV-19 induced society pause is a whole other level of laid back.

Both of my teenage daughters sleep until noon these days but are among the kids in their schools who actually rise early. They stay on top of their homework and wake up briefly in the morning to virtually check in, but main operating hours begin in the afternoon and last into the wee hours of the morning. I now go to sleep hours before my kids do. I just can't keep up with them.

My 18-year-old was struggling with anxiety and depression for most of the year and has never been an outdoorsy person. With such predetermined conditions, quarantine restrictions presented an ideal living situation for her. At first, I was worried that the lack of any remaining social contact she was forced to engage in at school was going to plunge her even deeper into depression. Outside of school, she had long immersed herself into self-imposed isolation, a side effect of her idling mood. When one of her favorite teachers died in a tragic accident at the beginning of March, she stayed in bed with the curtains drawn for days.

To my great surprise, however, the situation changed in ways I didn't anticipate.

A few weeks ago, my daughter's mood began to stabilize and I noticed her in relatively good spirits every day. She regained her appetite and responded to my nudges to reach out to her friends. She even joined an online group of students entering her college of choice, making new connections without anyone pushing her to do so. I am not sure what exactly is causing the change in mood, but it is probably a combination of things, the covid-19 lock down being part of the equation, for sure. Because she is now home almost all the time, I can monitor that she eats well, regularly takes a dropper of CBD oil as well as a few pellets of a homeopathic remedy (our chosen alternatives to anxiety meds), and engages in healthy daily structures -- minus the 3a.m. bedtimes, that is. She is also free of any girl drama (an inevitable part of school life, it seems) and spends daily quality time with her sister and me (#familylove). Unlike most of her classmates, she wasn’t upset about missing out on her senior trip or graduation. She was also perfectly happy with not having had to return to school, as was the case for the New York City school system this semester. The only thing she was bummed about was the cancellation of her prom. Surprising - as she does not like to party; surely a side-effect of the cloud over her head all last year.

In a group chat with her classmates, named "covid-graduates", they talk about quarantine challenges and college life uncertainties (besides discussing their food cravings and other random topics). Nobody can assure them of anything. Will college be in person, will it be online, is my scholarship promise still good? I've tried to convince my daughter of taking a gap year as some of her friends have already decided to do, but she thinks it will derail her from her path to higher education.

It's good to see that this kid, who just a few months ago was wondering about the purpose of life, is now looking to the future with what I perceive to be optimism. She just set up her college class schedule for the fall and she was excited about her virtual graduation's speaker line up. The national class of 2020 had the honor to be addressed by Barack & Michelle Obama, Malala Yousafzai, Oprah Winfrey, Jimmy Fallon, Lady Gaga, and many other celebrities.

Star studded or not, one thing is for sure -- this will be a graduation to be remembered.

recognizing the relativity of time & age

Never before have I been reminded as often as I have in the past few weeks, that time is relative. It is a concept that isn't exact and as such, I assume, has been described as "an illusion".

On the one hand, there is the perception of actual time. For example, I have met this man - this beautiful soul - and when I am with him, 12 hours feel like one. It's near magical, how the perception of time changes depending on what you're doing or who you're with.

But, what I have been reminded of lately when it comes to the well-known relativity of time, is how age plays into it. I am so set into the concept of age according to the years we have on our backs, accepting the associated limits as facts, even though a lot of them are social constructs, that I have forgotten how fluid time and, more specifically, age can be.

I'm not saying ageing is an illusion. Ageing is part of life, sure. But the way we have packaged it, is very generalized and doesn't necessarily apply to everyone. I recently heard an interview with David Sinclair (on the Good Life podcast) that further expanded my understanding of the aging process. I don't know if I fully believe all theories presented by Dr. Sinclair, but some things he said really did ring true. He reminded me of the fact that we have a recorded age and a biological age, which can be determined by simple DNA testing.

I'm not sure why I have always felt old. I remember, it was right after my 24th birthday, that my thinking shifted. By the time I reached 30, I felt ancient. The discovery of my first wrinkle sealed the deal that it surely was all downhill from there.

When I look at photos from that time (around 30), I am in amazement at my skewed perception of self. I had the face of a 15-yr-old.

A couple of days ago I spoke to the guy who I had been intimate with over a few years until I cut it off last year. This sentence makes him seem like a very casual, irrelevant connection. While it was perhaps casual, it was so only for one reason: our age difference. He is 20 years younger than I am, and even though he is a lovely, incredibly mature young man who clearly loves me, I could never allow to open my heart or life to him. It was my responsibility as "his elder". 😝

He has asked me to marry him and have a child together on more than one occasion. Once more, when I told him that I had met someone (i.e. sealing the doors for good). It never was casual for him. But, as I was venting to a girlfriend of mine, our age difference wasn't going to change. Even if I would have opened myself and said yes to his proposals, there is no way he would always desire me. I will soon be "old". He may always love me, but at some point he is not going to want me anymore. 

Over this statement, my friend chuckled and reminded me of the fact that age differences have nothing to do with such developments. Usually, it is just a side-effect of long term relationships. She herself was in such a situation. No big age gap, two magazine-type beautiful people, raising a lovely little family together, but struggling with the upkeep of sexual desire for each other. Just like most married couples do. It takes work and sometimes miracles to maintain the sensual and sexual element. I've been married myself before. 12 years. I know its realities. Especially with small children in the picture. It's a challenge.

Either way, my friend managed to return perspective to my skewed conviction focused solely on age. And it made me think what else I was sabotaging based on my socially conditioned opinions.

the ugly face of a mother's love

My relationship with my first-born daughter Lee has been giving me nightmares.

I hate it when my fear whispers into my dreams, wrapping its fingers around my neck, pulling me out into entirely too early morning hours to remind me, as I awake with a gasp, that sh** is out of balance.

Last night, I dreamed that I had yet another argument with Lee, who is now 18 years old. She can vote, she could start her own, independent life, but she is far from it. She is, at heart and in essence, still a child. I don't know what we argued about, but I remember that, once again, I walked away exasperated, recognizing that the only solution to the problem would be for me to care less.

"You know what's the best part about life?" she asked as I walked away.
"What?" I asked with a tone.
"Death,"  she said, effectively taking a hammer to my heart.

I imagine, this dialogue sprang from my fears over thoughts of hopelessness Lee shared when she was deep in depression a few months earlier.

I am not sure whether caring less would be a viable solution.
Aren't we always afraid for the lives of our children?
How can the average mother ever discard the care for her child? Kids become adults, but mothers remain mothers. The problem is that mothers don't usually express their concerns for the well-being of their children with picture book examples of "care taking". Their true love and worry for their kid is often manifested via compulsive micromanagement and an ongoing guilt-trip commentary. I know it from my own mother, who surely loves me more than anything. So why does a mother's care assume this ugly form of condescension and continuous critique?

Even though I know my disapproval of pretty much every one of my teenager's actions isn't helping, the words still leave my mouth, sometimes creating havoc, sometimes disdain, but definitely always - discontent and, probably, a dented self-confidence as I have yet again established that I am superior in my ways of thinking. Forget that my ways may actually be better sometimes (e.g. "yes -- you do, in fact, need to eat real food and can't just have a toddler sized meal once a day and assume that will do in terms of nutrition.") -- it's not the point.

I don't know how to let go. The only way to disengage from this un-motherly behavior would be not to care at all.
The fact that my daughter seems to have issues with food (one can count the things she eats on two hands) is a permanently lodged thorn of concern. She also doesn't regulate her sleep, her electronics use, her insane work load from school, or the general need for physical activity and sun-light. As a result of the mismanagement of all these variables, she often dips back into anxiety and depression.

Maybe she just has to go through all of this to understand the importance of self-care. Maybe she has to hit rock-bottom and pull herself out on her own to learn how to live a good life. But it is hard to simply bare silent witness to this learning process - and if we are lucky, it will be a learning process. The fear in my head not allowing me to STFU is based on all the scary stories out there, how depression can lead to suicide, skipping (or discarding, rather) the whole part of learning and process.

In my dream last night, I didn't respond with care or compassion. I, as in real life, expressed my worry in the form of anger and what I said came out as a dismissive and furious guilt-trip.
Well, if you're going to kill yourself, then I hope you're aware that you are going to be taking not only a sister from your sibling, but also a mother. So you'd be taking at least three lives, not one.

Maybe my nightmare was only a portent of what was to come.
My daughter had been feeling so much better after almost a year and a half of an ever growing anxiety and depression. Finally she seemed to have come out and back into the light. She wasn't scratching her face anymore, she reconnected with her friends, she made us laugh with her bubbly personality every day, and she regained her appetite. But when she returned from her father's house later that day, I realized my dream had been a premonition, or perhaps just an intuitive connection to my child's well-being. She had changed during the few days she spent at her Dad's. She was exhausted and not feeling well. Not feeling well in the way she does when she is dipping deeper into a dark mood. Four days of sitting inside the house doing nothing but stare at a screen did immediate damage to her fragile and only recently recovered well-being.

Now it is up to me to make sure she eats a few nutritious and balanced meals, gets enough sleep, and goes out for social contact and some sun. But, it can't always be me. I have to figure out how to let go and she has to figure out how to take over.