The Playground

Looking at this picture it looks like an average playground, right? A place where moms and dads take their little kids to play outside and learn to socialize. For most kids this is a place to squeal and run around with other kids that you don’t even know. Funny how kids can just jump right in where there is no judgment or shame or the tricky navigating that takes place as people begin to age and notice differences.

It was at this very playground that I had taken my kids to play over 26 years ago that I noticed the big difference. Being a native to my city I am often overcome with memories of not just my childhood, but the memories of raising my own family here and the changes that have occurred over my life time. It never fails when I walk past this playground I am transported to a time over two decades ago when a simple intention to have a little picnic at a playground shook my world.

Triggers are a funny thing like that. They sneak up on you when you least expect it and send you back in time. Thankfully, over the course of twenty years and lots of personal growth I am no longer triggered to a place of pain, but rather I think of the young mother that I was who was lost in her own life and about to embark on something that would either break her or make her.

Seeing the merry-go-round on my lunchtime walk I was reminded of the sunny summer day when I was carrying my one year old around making sure that he wasn’t eating too much sand or climbing on things too high, and trying to watch my older two kiddos. My oldest son was fully self-sufficient at a playground and was busy making new friends and doing what boys do on playground equipment. Scanning the area for my daughter, my eyes finally landed on the merry-go-round. There she laid, stretched out and holding on with her little hands while a group of older kids were spinning her as fast as they could. She was fixated on the sky and completely at ease.

Huh. That is strange I remember thinking. No other kids were on this piece of equipment, only the bigger kids spinning her. I watched for a few minutes and eventually walked over and spoke to her. She was completely unaware of the spinning sensation or how most of us would feel being spun into a dizziness that I cannot even imagine. I tried with everything to get her off the merry-go-round but the tantrum that came when I touched her arm sent her into a rage that I had never seen.

Then came the stares from other parents. Then the grabbing of their little boys and girls and taking them far away from this now screaming, sweating, snotty, disheveled mess of a three year old. Then came attempting to get my boys and her get out of there fast as I could while the gasping of others was all I could hear. Then the protests from my oldest son that we had just got there.

I am sure to an onlooker it was scary or even perhaps the thought that she was being a “bad” kid.

Soon after my life began to turn itself upside down. More and more opportunities occurred that I was aware of how different my little girl was. More and more opportunities for me to feel shamed and embarrassed and on the outside of a club called parenting. More and more sadness and the great unknown.

Over the years I learned that her little brain could not interpret things like spinning and effectively organize the sensation and as a result her brain caused chaos in her sensory system, so she learned that spinning was not something she was allowed to do, although she craved it.

Today, I am able to walk past that merry-go-round–the exact one that was my first look at my different girl– and be grateful to see that it was an experience that would either crush me or lead me down a new path.

Although it took many years to get on the path, I eventually did and it led me someplace amazing.

My message hopefully will be read not as sadness but a reminder that you never really know what is happening in a person’s life and that different doesn’t always relate to bad or scary. Blessings to all the parents struggling and my hope is that the world softens a bit and people choose to be helpful instead of judgmental.

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Maybe

Just because someone carries it well doesn’t mean it isn’t heavy. I think that it is pretty likely that each day we hold things in our heart, and sometimes these things become incredibly heavy. But also choosing to carry grace sure lightens that load.

It was on this day that my kids lost their dad forever. It was years before that though they also lost him. I realize that he did the best he knew how to do. It wasn’t ideal by any means, but he did what he knew. And that is okay.

I choose grace.

I choose to hold my head up high. Looking at my grown kids I know that the load I have carried for years was worth every single ounce. My kids are remarkable people and that makes the load all worthwhile.

Someone recently asked me how I got to the point in my process of being able to choose to forgive. And to let go. Well let me first say it wasn’t always easy and there are still times when those feelings of anger or disappoint bubble up, but I try really hard to not allow those heavy feelings to take over. I did a couple years of therapy and I dove into working on myself which invited me to not spend my waking hours fuming about what I didn’t get and instead look at what may have been my part in it all and to be able to learn about perspective.

Divorce takes a little bit of your heart regardless of how amicable it is.

Co-parenting may seem like a great idea, but the truth is finding common ground that works for the kids is even harder when you have two households working. It wasn’t many months after my divorce and my three little kids and I were no longer receiving child support. He didn’t think he needed to and so he chose not to. He also chose to have his visits with the kids shorter and few and far between. The raising of the kids landed solely on my shoulders. It wasn’t just the daily grind, but the big picture things that one parent should never be completely responsible for if the other parent is capable. Or so I used to think.

Maybe he wasn’t capable. Maybe he had no idea how to think beyond himself. Maybe his own heart was shattered and he couldn’t access the part of himself to step up. Who knows.

Within a few years he began to slip into a slow, horrific self-inflicted slow death. He chose to neglect himself. He chose horrible things to do to his body. He chose to give up. Or so I used to think.

Maybe he didn’t know how. Maybe he had something inside him preventing him to get and allow help. Maybe he just couldn’t.

I think about my own father in much the same way. Something in him was missing and he wasn’t able to to plug into being a part of my life. Maybe it was his own addiction or his own beliefs that he had. Maybe he never had a father step up in his own childhood. Maybe he didn’t know how.

When someone asks me how I arrived in a place of peace about my kid’s dad (or my own dad), my simplest answer is that I got tired of allowing all of that pain to take up residence in my heart and preventing me from allowing something much better into my heart, like love. I realized that they both probably never had a father that stuck around. I was able to step back and see that my former husband was a young man with a tremendous amount of responsibility and perhaps he simply could not do it. He was giving all he had to his little family that eventually crumbled in front of him, and maybe it broke him.

I chose to see my father as a lost little boy who had no real father to speak of and an abusive mom. No wonder he was disconnected.

I replaced the feelings of anger and disappointment with compassion and love. Then it was really simple to carry on with a little lighter load in my heart. Being able to do that certainly doesn’t lighten the heaviness of raising three people alone and the huge responsibility that I had, but somehow having a heart full of compassion rather than pain, I was able to move forward and feel good about myself and my kids.

Maybe I will be an example for them.

The Pot (repost)

This beautiful tale comes from my other, more personal blog but it is worth reading here. Being real and raw can invite such a healing.

For many, many years I have often thought of my internal state being that of a boiling pot of water.  Sometimes the water simmers and sometimes it is a raging boil.  The lid may slip off from time to time to allow some steam to release but for the most part I have keep the lid tightly sealed.

A lifetime of experiences and years of conscious choices to see the good and the potential in all situations has served me well and yet, the boiling water remained.  Always there under the surface of acceptance and gratitude.

Disability. Autism. Fear. Shame. Conditional love. Solitude. Survival. Abandonment. Fatigue. Gut-wrenching sadness. Grief.

Recently the day came when the pot erupted into an over-boil and the water scalded me and the all that raged inside me.  As if I was taking the lid off and pouring the wretched water out, I stepped into the deepest darkest caverns of my soul. I allowed any and all emotions to flood out as I poured this enormous pot of water out. Hot and blistering in its sensation, I conceded to its pain.

I cried. I sobbed. I yelled. I stomped.

I questioned God.

And then I withdrew into the emptiness of a pot no longer holding a lifetime of pain.  I sat in the stillness of a depleted and vacant space within my soul. Weakened by the rage and invigorated by the freedom of no longer holding the lid on tight, I felt empty.

In the space of barren feelings, I realized that being pissed off at the cards I was dealt is okay.  Certainly seeing the good in what the cards have offered me is healthy and a beautiful practice that I enjoy living, but denying myself to feel the pain has been destructive.  No more.

The vessel is dry and awaits to be filled with love and happiness.