Actually, my awesome kids just want to be kids
My children suffered my stroke.
At the time, Lulu and Friso were that in-between, rascally age of 11 where you sit on the fence of adolescence, waiting for hugs from your mama and simultaneously too cool to receive them and Cleo (the Squidge) at the tender of 6, my baby girl, who’s life revolved around fairies, eating pasta with butter and me, her mommy.
If you could have asked them in early February what was on their minds, I suspect that the older two would have fretted about who their roommates would be at ski camp and as the good Swiss skiers that they are, their laser-like focus simply seemed to be on the chance to ski with the best. And the Squidge was solely concerned about planning her 7th birthday party, which as far as she was concerned, was on par with the planning of the Golden Globes.
Nothing prepares an innocent child for the day when their mother suddenly turns from a super-hero into a normal, everyday human.
When calamity strikes, children are left fully exposed. They can’t sheild themselves as we adults do. As adults, we have spent our entire lives building intricate defense systems and putting them in place.
We know how to bury our pain. We are experts at assigning blame or, by contrast, turning the whole kit-and-kaboodle over to a higher power, completely absolving ourselves. We take it out on ourselves, on the other guy, on the man on the moon….
We have the authority to handle it any way we see fit. It is not always healing and it sometimes gets messy, but we have the power to affect our situation.
We know how to handle our pain.
We as adults, have created this concept that to feel no pain is a good thing and something is wrong if we do. Rarely, we allow ourselves the space and the time that it truly takes to overcome our afflictions.
On the unlikely chance that we allow ourselves to find out which bits of the broken glass are worth being collected - those which were not shattered beyond recognition and those which were not broken in the the first place - we can start to slowly accept our loss.
The knowledge and craftsmanship to glue those broken bits into something whole again, acknowledging those that needed mending before, and the wisdom to accept the missing pieces helps one to slowly rebuild.
The magic lies within us, as parents, to see the golden nugget of opportunity nestled in between the pain of our children.
I am not going to gloss over this point, because our children indeed, suffered a hell of a lot of pain. From the moment Johan told them about my stroke, to the moment they saw me in the hospital for the first time, to this exact moment here and now - they are suffering.
Of course they are.
All the way thru this ordeal they have been rockstars, understanding me and my limitations from the get-go. Friso has even developed this uncanny ability to understand me and my crazy-mixed-up language skills, even when I can’t get the words out.
How can I explain to them what I’m going thru when I don’t even understand it myself?
I’m here, 23 weeks post stroke, I have three little ones to live for and I’m determined to do just that. In the process of collecting the pieces of my broken glass, I am willing to try everything. I will try everything from the medical, to the non-traditional methods, to trying other kooky approaches.
Because I have the power and the will to do just that… and I want to give them the same.
They are certainly rockstars, but even rockstars need a hand.
Here’s the thing, that golden nugget of opportunity, that’s all we have to show our children.
Instead of pretending to have it all figured out, we’re trying to give them something greater. Instead of finding a solution, as we’re meant to do as adults, we’re giving them the authority to make real changes.
This was not something I planned, in fact I wasn’t even cognizant of the fact that I was doing the work. For me, it was the only way to move forward, to put little tools in my everyday life and to make sure that my three had them as well.
I was a mama-lion and my little cubs needed protection… sometimes even from me.
From my fog, I could even see that they needed a shield for the times when they were vulnerable against me. Against my emotional outbursts, those times when I see red and nothing can stop me from digging myself into a hole of words. I needed to give them the authority to stop me.
So, the word candy cane, with its bright, cheery overtones has taken a new meaning in this house. Now if someone shouts candy cane, it doesn’t mean that Santa is on his way, its my shared code word with my family and their magical shield.
It means that I should stop! what I am doing, breathe, consider what is really important in my life, readjust and go on. There isn’t an after-effect. I’ve given my word that by shouting candy cane, the emotional outburst stops and the person who said it remains unscathed.
We’re giving our family a way to control an uncontrollable situation.
In the same vein, responsibilities like learning to cook dinner (Lulu has learned to cook a mean bolognese!), folding clothes and working out their problems by themselves do not only lend me a helping hand, but they also instill a sense of partnership in our children.
They’ve also been given the enormous, heavy task of learning how to call for help, should I fall victim of a re-stroke. That, my friends, is something that I never hope for them. But, they accepted the responsibility in stride.
This summer has been all about them earning their keep, so to speak, but it is also about so much more.
Sure, they earn weekly pocket money for a job well done and, yes, the older two were given my old iPhones to make that emergency call but….
I don’t think, for one minute, that it is adequate compensation for all that they’ve gone thru.
In order to give our children the power and the will to recover from my stroke, to make damn certain that we all do, we have to feel the pain. And traipse on thru. Thru the shitty bits. The bits where I am screaming my head off because someone with an umbrella crossed my path. Thru the uncertainty. And then, only then, thru the reconstruction of our lives.
I am in the dark. I do not profess, by any means, to have this thing called life figured out. I am just putting one foot in front of the other. Sometimes hitting a wall. Sometimes hitting the ball out of the park.
But I do know one thing for certain, my awesome kids deserve my honesty, my commitment and the promise to let them be kids… albeit kids with iPhones.
Incidentally, I asked my kids what they wanted from their summer holiday and the answer was pretty genuine and simple. Like all kids, the summer means unstructured time… time to play football, time to eat icecream, more swimming and less schedule.
For children who have been thru something traumatic, of course their truth is a little bit more complicated than this seemingly straightforward answer.
