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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 649836" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Integrity. That is a good word, a strong word. That is part of what we lose as our children ~ as the children we were responsible, to ourselves and to society, for raising ~ grew into the adults they became. </p><p></p><p>We lose the sense of our own integrity, of the legitimacy of our place at the table.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>This is how it happens. Given where our kids find themselves, we hear their stories and believe we must somehow be responsible.</p><p></p><p>And we try to supply what seems to have been missing, whatever nurturance the child feels was not enough. If takes us a very long time to get it that the child will always only see the places where we were not enough, because otherwise he will have to take responsibility for himself. </p><p></p><p>Again, detachment parenting makes sense, here. </p><p></p><p>It may be the only way they will ever see and reclaim and address that very selective puzzle they see as complete.</p><p></p><p><em>Given where our kids find themselves.</em> If their stories are positive ones, they credit us with that, too. (As we do, too.)</p><p></p><p>Not our kids. I mean the parents of kids who are not difficult child kids, the lucky bums.</p><p></p><p>Our daughter screamed at her father last night that he had brought her into this world, and he needed to take care of her. </p><p></p><p>And of her kids, of course.</p><p></p><p>I am not sure whether she meant the ex-husband, too.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>True.</p><p></p><p>How very, awfully, true.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>That is the difference now for me, too.</p><p></p><p>It isn't that I love her any less. I see that there are missing pieces of the puzzle. </p><p></p><p>And I see how carefully tailored a collage has been composed of the remaining pieces. </p><p></p><p>One side of my heart aches for her vulnerability. The other side hisses: "That's a lie."</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I remember those times. My brain would be focused on what happened, where she was, how she was while I continued the thankless, superhuman activities involved with being a mom in those days. Remember ironing? Baking twice weekly? Dinner ~ well balanced and everything home made ~ every single day, and holidays filled with people for whom, again, every single thing was home made, and presented in a spotless, tastefully decorated home where it was your job to wash the car and even, mow the grass because after all <em>you don't work?</em></p><p></p><p>Reclaiming my integrity is a surprising thing. As it turns out, I have a plethora of resentments, too.</p><p></p><p>I did and do, deserve better than what my children have given me in return.</p><p></p><p>And at this time in my life, it gets not to matter what the children think. Like Lucy, I know what the missing pieces of that terrible puzzle my children brought me as a gift ~ I know what the missing pieces show.</p><p></p><p>Okay.... So, "Not that the other guy is a jerk, but: "We hold these truths to be self evident...."</p><p></p><p>We name ourselves. </p><p></p><p>Martin Luther King's "I have a dream."</p><p></p><p>A better way, for us. </p><p></p><p>A balancing act.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I remember desperate, secret prayers underlying my days in those beginning times, those times when everything began to fall apart, and I could not make the picture of what was match with what I had believed was real.</p><p></p><p>No wonder we are all so shell shocked, here.</p><p></p><p>I have never seen it from my point of view. Have never seen it from the perspective of my puzzle with the missing pieces, to add onto Lucy's imagery.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>You know, if this were my life <em>I could choose to change it</em>. Or I could accept it for myself, and not suffer. I think this is true. We suffer because we are their mothers. Here is the thought: If I had chosen these things for myself that my children have chosen for themselves, I would not be suffering at the outcome so much as trying to avoid the consequences.</p><p></p><p>Which, again, is part of the theory behind detachment parenting and Tough Love, too.</p><p></p><p>I am suffering though, because I think she must be suffering.</p><p></p><p>But she is her own, now.</p><p></p><p>Lost wherever it was I was going with this.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>This is where I was going: This did become our lives. For a time, I took my identity there. Lately...is it because I am aging, because I sense an ending? Or is it that I realize the futility of all those buckets of money that went for nothing, and the time and effort and care that money represents.</p><p></p><p>Yes.</p><p></p><p>It is.</p><p></p><p>I see it differently, now. We are going through it again, only I see it differently, now. I don't want to give up the finishing this up with husband, as we each become more firmly married to the other, more accepting of the other and of what is coming and of who we are and of everything we do have and of everything we do not have.</p><p></p><p>We talk often, husband and I, about the thread here about where people who have never had children find meaning.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>It may be true that each betrayal left its scar. Or maybe, because I cannot take all my grands and still have this life that I cherish, I resent daughter's determined intent that we continue to be responsible for her while she does the strangest things.</p><p></p><p>Flash on all that ironing, all those toilets to clean, all those windows and PTA meetings and etc....</p><p></p><p>Or maybe, I would take them all, but want nothing more to do with daughter or son who refuse to step up, themselves. (Son is stepping up very well, actually.)</p><p></p><p>Thinking like this is very unlike me.</p><p></p><p>Anyway, what I was going to say is that it turns out these losses were phases in our lives, after all. Only the phase consisted of and was fueled by our guilt, our hope, our acceptance of the look of their puzzle, and of the story the missing pieces told from the child's perspective.</p><p></p><p>It was not a phase our children went through. It was a phase we went through.</p><p></p><p>A phase we are growing through even now, as we define and assign meaning and merit. </p><p></p><p>I remember writing once that our relationships with our children were horribly real things, without much room for illusion.</p><p></p><p>And that turns out to be true.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Ouch.</p><p></p><p>I am jealous. Insanely jealous.</p><p></p><p>That is why I hate my friends so much. They shine, in their children's eyes.</p><p></p><p>And I am not.</p><p></p><p>And I cannot even imagine what that must be like.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Maybe that is where I am going. It cuts like a knife to be jealous and enraged about it. To know that is what I should have had too, and to be angry at my child because I don't.</p><p></p><p>Make that children. </p><p></p><p>And to be angry at myself because, after all, I am the mother who did not do this right.</p><p></p><p>Very difficult to find integrity in that mess.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>That did not happen to me. The betrayal in it ~ whew. </p><p></p><p>I would have burnt the door, too.</p><p></p><p>I am angry about things, this morning. I am seeing them differently, and I am angry. How strange.</p><p></p><p>Maybe, I am letting myself see some of the missing pieces in my own puzzle. The ones that say I deserved better.</p><p></p><p>Whoa.</p><p></p><p><img src="/community/styles/default/xenforo/smilies/2012/kidseyessmiley2.gif" class="smilie" loading="lazy" alt=":kidseyessmiley2:" title="kidseyessmiley2 :kidseyessmiley2:" data-shortname=":kidseyessmiley2:" /></p><p></p><p>That is me. Not wanting to see the legitimacy of these missing puzzle pieces.</p><p></p><p><img src="/community/styles/default/xenforo/smilies/2012/sorrowsmiley2.gif" class="smilie" loading="lazy" alt=":sorrowsmiley2:" title="sorrow :sorrowsmiley2:" data-shortname=":sorrowsmiley2:" /></p><p></p><p>And this is me, believing I will come through okay and not hate filled, like my mother.</p><p></p><p>So...how much of what we are all doing, what percentage do you suppose of the grief and worry is something we do to protect our children from ourselves ~ and even to protect ourselves from ourselves. The ultimate betrayal of ourselves as mothers would be to admit our children have done and continue to do what they do.</p><p></p><p>And that it has nothing to do with us.</p><p></p><p>Pirate mom, right? "I will make another."</p><p></p><p>So there again, detachment parenting changes the chemistry in our relationships, both to ourselves and to our children.</p><p></p><p>Integrity for us.</p><p></p><p>No one to champion our children, anymore.</p><p></p><p>Surely they merit a champion? Someone to light the candles and see them safely home?</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I am glad. There is strength in the kind of laughter that comes from pronouncing our own names.</p><p></p><p>And we all have had to be so strong.</p><p></p><p>It's unbelievable, really.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 649836, member: 17461"] Integrity. That is a good word, a strong word. That is part of what we lose as our children ~ as the children we were responsible, to ourselves and to society, for raising ~ grew into the adults they became. We lose the sense of our own integrity, of the legitimacy of our place at the table. *** This is how it happens. Given where our kids find themselves, we hear their stories and believe we must somehow be responsible. And we try to supply what seems to have been missing, whatever nurturance the child feels was not enough. If takes us a very long time to get it that the child will always only see the places where we were not enough, because otherwise he will have to take responsibility for himself. Again, detachment parenting makes sense, here. It may be the only way they will ever see and reclaim and address that very selective puzzle they see as complete. [I]Given where our kids find themselves.[/I] If their stories are positive ones, they credit us with that, too. (As we do, too.) Not our kids. I mean the parents of kids who are not difficult child kids, the lucky bums. Our daughter screamed at her father last night that he had brought her into this world, and he needed to take care of her. And of her kids, of course. I am not sure whether she meant the ex-husband, too. True. How very, awfully, true. That is the difference now for me, too. It isn't that I love her any less. I see that there are missing pieces of the puzzle. And I see how carefully tailored a collage has been composed of the remaining pieces. One side of my heart aches for her vulnerability. The other side hisses: "That's a lie." I remember those times. My brain would be focused on what happened, where she was, how she was while I continued the thankless, superhuman activities involved with being a mom in those days. Remember ironing? Baking twice weekly? Dinner ~ well balanced and everything home made ~ every single day, and holidays filled with people for whom, again, every single thing was home made, and presented in a spotless, tastefully decorated home where it was your job to wash the car and even, mow the grass because after all [I]you don't work?[/I] Reclaiming my integrity is a surprising thing. As it turns out, I have a plethora of resentments, too. I did and do, deserve better than what my children have given me in return. And at this time in my life, it gets not to matter what the children think. Like Lucy, I know what the missing pieces of that terrible puzzle my children brought me as a gift ~ I know what the missing pieces show. Okay.... So, "Not that the other guy is a jerk, but: "We hold these truths to be self evident...." We name ourselves. Martin Luther King's "I have a dream." A better way, for us. A balancing act. I remember desperate, secret prayers underlying my days in those beginning times, those times when everything began to fall apart, and I could not make the picture of what was match with what I had believed was real. No wonder we are all so shell shocked, here. I have never seen it from my point of view. Have never seen it from the perspective of my puzzle with the missing pieces, to add onto Lucy's imagery. You know, if this were my life [I]I could choose to change it[/I]. Or I could accept it for myself, and not suffer. I think this is true. We suffer because we are their mothers. Here is the thought: If I had chosen these things for myself that my children have chosen for themselves, I would not be suffering at the outcome so much as trying to avoid the consequences. Which, again, is part of the theory behind detachment parenting and Tough Love, too. I am suffering though, because I think she must be suffering. But she is her own, now. Lost wherever it was I was going with this. This is where I was going: This did become our lives. For a time, I took my identity there. Lately...is it because I am aging, because I sense an ending? Or is it that I realize the futility of all those buckets of money that went for nothing, and the time and effort and care that money represents. Yes. It is. I see it differently, now. We are going through it again, only I see it differently, now. I don't want to give up the finishing this up with husband, as we each become more firmly married to the other, more accepting of the other and of what is coming and of who we are and of everything we do have and of everything we do not have. We talk often, husband and I, about the thread here about where people who have never had children find meaning. *** It may be true that each betrayal left its scar. Or maybe, because I cannot take all my grands and still have this life that I cherish, I resent daughter's determined intent that we continue to be responsible for her while she does the strangest things. Flash on all that ironing, all those toilets to clean, all those windows and PTA meetings and etc.... Or maybe, I would take them all, but want nothing more to do with daughter or son who refuse to step up, themselves. (Son is stepping up very well, actually.) Thinking like this is very unlike me. Anyway, what I was going to say is that it turns out these losses were phases in our lives, after all. Only the phase consisted of and was fueled by our guilt, our hope, our acceptance of the look of their puzzle, and of the story the missing pieces told from the child's perspective. It was not a phase our children went through. It was a phase we went through. A phase we are growing through even now, as we define and assign meaning and merit. I remember writing once that our relationships with our children were horribly real things, without much room for illusion. And that turns out to be true. Ouch. I am jealous. Insanely jealous. That is why I hate my friends so much. They shine, in their children's eyes. And I am not. And I cannot even imagine what that must be like. Maybe that is where I am going. It cuts like a knife to be jealous and enraged about it. To know that is what I should have had too, and to be angry at my child because I don't. Make that children. And to be angry at myself because, after all, I am the mother who did not do this right. Very difficult to find integrity in that mess. That did not happen to me. The betrayal in it ~ whew. I would have burnt the door, too. I am angry about things, this morning. I am seeing them differently, and I am angry. How strange. Maybe, I am letting myself see some of the missing pieces in my own puzzle. The ones that say I deserved better. Whoa. :kidseyessmiley2: That is me. Not wanting to see the legitimacy of these missing puzzle pieces. :sorrowsmiley2: And this is me, believing I will come through okay and not hate filled, like my mother. So...how much of what we are all doing, what percentage do you suppose of the grief and worry is something we do to protect our children from ourselves ~ and even to protect ourselves from ourselves. The ultimate betrayal of ourselves as mothers would be to admit our children have done and continue to do what they do. And that it has nothing to do with us. Pirate mom, right? "I will make another." So there again, detachment parenting changes the chemistry in our relationships, both to ourselves and to our children. Integrity for us. No one to champion our children, anymore. Surely they merit a champion? Someone to light the candles and see them safely home? I am glad. There is strength in the kind of laughter that comes from pronouncing our own names. And we all have had to be so strong. It's unbelievable, really. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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