Social responsibility

I was at a social event a while back, outside of my neighborhood, with people I sort-of know but don't know well. It was a small gathering.

At one point I was talking about Eldest and her job search (she's a senior now), and how she wants to put her computer science degree to use in a position where it would make a difference in the world. She's not interested in working in finance, and not interested in start-up shopping services, and not interested in designing violent computer games. She's looking at companies at the intersection of computers and education, and at firms that build computer games that improve health outcomes, and at places that make applications to accelerate relief services after natural disasters.

One of the women turned to me and asked, "How do you teach a kid that kind of social responsibility? Kids feel so entitled these days!" Then the doorbell rang, so I didn't get to answer.

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Had I had the chance to reply, my reply would have been, "You can't teach social responsibility... you have to live it." I would have also said that there's no guarantee. I don't know what proportion of what parents teach their kids gets tossed out; I've always guessed it's about 30%. It's probably a different 30% for each kid, too. Kids make their own choices, and some of them will end up having values very different from ours.

All we get to choose is the input. This one of the things I think many parents struggle with mightily: even if we do it all "right", at best we influence rather than control the outcome.

We're also notoriously blind to our sins of omission. What we teach our kids consists not only of what we say is right and wrong, but by what we show them. We can assume our children know we believe we should take action to alleviate human suffering, but they don't see what happens in our heads. They don't even see the check we put in the mail for typhoon relief. If we remember to tell them about the check, we forget that they don't necessarily know a) the thought process that went into our decision, b) whether the amount we sent constitutes a real sacrifice or simply an allocation of funds, or c) what our role is in alleviating suffering in the world.

We may forget to talk about how suffering is a constant for many people, not a weather-driven exception. We may forget to muse aloud about how hard it is to remember that others suffer, and how hard it is to remember -- in the midst of thinking about what we'd like to eat for dinner -- that we are the means of making the lives of others better.

When someone else's extreme suffering intrudes on our feelings, we have social sentiment. Social responsibility is what we do day in and day out.

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I think it helps not to have extra money to donate to causes. Kids, after all, learn by doing, not by writing checks.

They learn by shopping for the food pantry ("Let's buy the good stuff, because think of what a bummer it would be if you had to go to the food pantry for Thanksgiving dinner supplies. And think how happy you'd be to see something really yummy in your bag!")

They learn by coming with you when you deliver the meal to the mom with a newborn. ("I betcha Sam's mom is exhausted. So I made them supper to make her day a little easier.")

They learn by having to deal with your absence when you're at a community board meeting, or when you shlep them along to put up fliers for an event, or when you send them on an errand to help a neighbor.

The main thing is that they get the picture by connecting the dots... and there have to be a lot of dots for the picture to make sense.

Musings on hard times

Way back when I was single, I took a vacation trip to Spain. My plan was simple: I rented a car in Madrid, and drove until I found a place I wanted to stay. Then I tried to persuade the inn owner to rent a room to a single woman, found a restaurant that would serve a single woman, and went back to the inn to bed.

As I drove south I went through a mountain range. The road was a two-lane highway, and it was only after I had entered a long tunnel that I realized two important things. First, the tunnel was unlit. Second, I didn't know where the headlight switch was on my rental car. Far, far ahead I could see the end of the tunnel.

The question was whether or not I could get there before crashing. I couldn't stop, because a car might come up on me from behind. I couldn't see where the wall was, except by occasionally tapping the brakes to check by dim brake-light.

It was the most terrifying quarter mile I have ever traveled. And when I finally emerged into daylight, the road lacked a shoulder onto which I could pull over so I could heave my guts out. I had no choice but to keep going.

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I have been feeling glum the past couple of days. The road ahead of me appears very long and dark. It is hard, after having traveled a rough path for a decade with Big Guy, and a long stretch with other woes, to contemplate handling yet more difficulty. The one reason I know I can do it is that I can't afford not to. Like driving in that Spanish tunnel, I don't have any choice but to keep going.

The I-don't-want-to's of life are long and numerous. They easily morph into I-can'ts. But as soon as you say 'I can't', chances are that you're lying to yourself. This is one of the huge benefits of big, big problems: it doesn't matter if you don't want to. You have to. And then you learn that you can.

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I saw a friend yesterday I haven't seen in a while. She asked how I'm doing, and I replied, "A lot of my prayers these days start with, 'Really, God? I mean... really?'" We laughed. Sort of. She has been through a lot this year, too; I spent a couple of weeks this spring coaching her through her 15yo's hospitalization for depression. It was something helpful I could do. Being helpful gives me joy and a sense of purpose.

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I am a person of faith. I believe that everything happens for a purpose, yet I don't believe that purpose always has to do with me. The Bible verse that people like to quote in hard time, "For I know the plans I have for you,' declares the LORD, 'plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future'" (Jeremiah 29:11) comes smack in the middle of what God said to a nation that was being exiled to Babylon for 70 years. Yes, exiled for a lifetime. And that promise was made to an entire nation, not to an individual.

Lemme tell ya, bad stuff happened to those exiles. They endured misery until they died. The promise was true -- it just didn't happen to come true in their lifetime. There are times when the greater good subsumes the individual good. There are times we're called on to be the ones who suffer for no currently-visible reason.

It's taken me a while to be okay with that. Hope doesn't necessarily have to be the kind of hope we 21st-century Americans are accustomed to having. We think in terms of personal outcomes and personal goals and personal happiness. If you ever get to the place where you have to let go of all that, it's actually kind of a relief. You can start thinking about having hope in God, rather than hope in what God will do for you. And you start to understand -- just a little bit -- that what's going on here on your section of the face of the earth this week or month or year is neither the beginning nor end of the story.

Life with a child in crisis

My child sobbed the other day, "Mommy, I'm sorry I'm broken. I don't want to create problems for the family."

I swallowed the football-size lump in my throat enough to reply, "Sweetie, I'm sad, too." Pause. Think. Pray. Then, "None of us want you to be broken. But you don't have to feel bad about the fact that you've fallen apart. And you don't have to stay broken, you know. We're all working to help you get put back together"

Oh, it's hard. It's hard to see your child suffer, hard to not-know if or when things will turn around, hard to manage a very complex situation. One afternoon last week I felt like a total failure. I told my child's therapist that it is wearying to try so hard and to give everything I have to give, and still not succeed. She replied gently, "Your child is alive. Your child is not in the hospital. That is success. That is because of you."

I dried my tears and thought, Okay. I can hold on to that. It's not much. On the other hand, it's everything.

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The child in crisis is perpetually cranky, snapping irrationally at minor things, melting down over next to nothing. Not surprisingly, this triggers the other children. They don't like being screamed at, they feel unjustly accused, they snap back. The family is a pinball machine of anxiety, with one kid pinging off another. The situation exacerbates Big Guy's anxiety issues, another child's anxiety issues, Andrew's anxiety issues.

I keep an eye on my own tension level. When others start to blow I whisper, "Use a gentle voice. Stay calm. Get through the next five minutes." I succeed at this a surprising amount of the time. This is not due to me; it's abundantly clear that I'm not capable of doing what I'm doing. Someone, somewhere must be praying for me. For this I am thankful.

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There is another snarling-screaming-weeping child incident and I dig deep, searching to find compassion. I know that somewhere behind my child's rank irritability lies pain, and I need to respond to that rather than react to the behavior it causes.

It is hard to shove aside my desire to scream, explode, snap back. I do it because although the short-term effort is exhausting, the long-term consequence of falling apart myself is too expensive to contemplate.

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At night I wrestle with my ego. It is hard to feel like a good mom when your child falls apart. I cringe at the thought that I've ever offered advice to anyone. Who, me? Me, whose family seems to be in perpetual crisis?

I grapple with the difference between shame and humility. Shame is the I don't want others to know piece, the fig leaf behind which I hide to preserve the image I want people (including myself) to have of me. Humility is honest nakedness, the here-I-am-ness, the willingness to say, "This is hard and I'm bumbling along, probably making mistakes... stay with me. Please."

Sometimes heroism consists of doing something as simple as crumbling the fig leaf. Sometimes, but not always, I can be heroic.

Priorities, the hard way

Big Guy has been doing well for some time. We have not had to even think of calling 911 for over six months. And then on Thursday we had to make a call.

Four large policemen arrived. We discussed the situation, and agreed that based on the incident that triggered the call, Big Guy needed to be evaluated by a professional. So they summoned the EMTs, and off Big Guy went to the ER. Andrew went with him.

I've BTDT so many times that the first thought in my head was, "Okay, so for now everyone is safe."

That is how parents of kids like mine think. But not at first. The last time I was at the psych ER I spoke to a mom whose daughter was being admitted and said, "I know you feel like the biggest failure in the world right now, but you are awesome. You have done the very best thing you could do for your child, because right now she is SAFE. And whatever anyone thinks or anyone says, what you need to tell yourself over and over again is, my child is safe."

Despite the positive framing, there are things that are so not okay. While Big Guy was blowing up, Snuggler curled on the sofa, tears running down her face as she moaned, "Not again! Oh, no, not again!"

Little Guy screamed and ran into the bedroom and hid himself under the blankets. "No! No'! No!" he cried, "I don't want anyone to die!"

And I couldn't help them, because I had to focus entirely on managing Big Guy. Safety. Safety. Safety. There is a point where the whole world, the whole list of priorities in life reduces to safety.

I was very proud of Snuggler, who after a few minutes pulled herself together and, of her own accord, went in to solace Little Guy. Later she said, "It helped me, too, Mama. When you have to calm someone else you need to calm yourself first." That takes a degree of courage and insight that's unusual in an 11 year old.

After the police arrived and we were on safe ground again I packed up my two youngest and took them off to Dancer's dress rehearsal. I'm sure that sounds weird, but after a crisis my #1 priority shifts from safety to security, security, security. Oh how, oh how, oh how do you give a sense of security to children who have to live in an erratic and sometimes dangerous situation? How can kids grow up healthy when things can shift from safe to scary in a moment? One gives snuggles and hugs and love, and tries to keep life feeling as normal as possible. We make time and space in which to remember that this one event doesn't constitute the whole of our lives.

A delayed stress reaction hit Snuggler as we arrived at the theater. We had a bit of waiting time, so we hung out in a corner as she whimpered that she was scared. We played hangman, talked about school, waited in line. We watched -- and greatly enjoyed -- the performance. Dancer was stunning. When we got home at about 10pm, I emailed Snuggler's teachers to say they shouldn't expect to see any homework the next day.

Then Andrew called to say Big Guy had been deemed safe and was being sent home. Getting the others to bed, and more importantly to sleep, shot to the top of my priority list. Because, you see, it's hard to get to get a scared kid to sleep. Now my mantra was calm, calm, calm.

I washed dishes, talked to kids, got them to bed. Little Guy slept in the girls' room on the top bunk, "Because my brother won't find me up there." Snuggler opted to drift off in the living room, listening to an audio book.

Big Guy and Andrew arrived at midnight. Big Guy was exhausted and went straight to bed. The day was over. The next day (and perhaps for the next week or month) we'd most certainly see fallout, but it would be a new day. That wasn't today. I said my prayers, and went to sleep.

One of my favorite quotes is from Winston Churchill, who said, "When you're going through hell... keep going."

It's easier to keep going if I have my priorities in order. Be safe. Stay calm. Find the things that help you feel secure. Remember not to let the bad things become everything. Pray. And keep moving forward, at whatever tiny pace you can muster.  

On being unfragile

I've been reading, slowly and intermittently, Antifragile: Things That Gain From Disorder. It's about the curious fact that some things grow stronger when faced with a stress. Your muscles, for example, need resistance in order to grow strong; if you lie in bed for a month they atrophy. Then there's the Hydra, who grew two new heads each time one was lopped off.

Not that I want to be a Hydra. But y'know, it would be handy to go a step further than bouncing back from difficulty, and grow stronger.

I was having a hard time processing some of the book, until the author pointed out that the situations in which antifragility is possible are quite specific. Too much stress for too long a time is harmful; you must have a period of recovery or rest in which to process what has happened and prepare for the next stage. Chronic stress -- whether situational, like eternally rough finances, or self-imposed perfectionism -- is almost always destructive. After all, if you work out in the gym all day every day your muscles get exhausted rather than stronger. It's the break that allows for regrouping, progress, increased strength.

Most of us, I think, imagine inner strength is something we either have or don't-have. The idea that stress could be good for us is distasteful: it means we have to go through difficulty. Worse, it means we have to take responsibility for how we respond to stress, because we actually have a choice (of sorts) when it comes to what to do with it. We can cave, we can persevere, or we can continue looking for growth.

It's all under control...

When my kids were little and we went about town in a line like Make Way for Ducklings, people expressed amazement that we were able to get out and about. I eventually concluded that with five kids, only three things are necessary for others to consider you a miracle worker. You have to:

1. brush the kids' hair, 
2. carry tissues, so no one has a bubbly nose, and 
3. make sure shirts and sweaters are buttoned straight. 

In the eyes of others -- who don't see the real stresses in your life -- these are signs that you have things under control.

Let's be honest: I will never have things under control. Kids are people, real people with their own minds, souls, ideas, neuroses and weaknesses. I don't and can't and hopefully don't want to control them. At best I can control some of my (and their) circumstances.

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I ran into a mom the other day with a special needs child. I don't know what the child's issues are, but I recognized the suffering in the mother's eyes. This woman knows what it is to fear that her child's life will never be what it should be. She knows the anguish of thinking her child may never fit in. She knows the despair of sensing that all she can offer him and all she can do might never be enough to protect him from rejection and pain.

Those things are hard to deal with. They're far harder to wrestle into submission than endless doctor appointments and therapies. It's not as if this woman can make a phone call and check off the "Handled complicated feelings of shattered dreams" and "Addressed angst caused by not-knowing how to deal with this" items on her list.

I wanted to take this mom for a long, heartfelt chat over a good cup of coffee, to let her pour out her heart. But as we were talking her son woke up. The boy woke with a grin; he had a great smile.

The child didn't have tangled hair or a gooey nose or a mis-buttoned shirt. The miracles that his mother is called upon to bring forth are bigger: miracles of patience and longsuffering and everyday determination to look at her son as her son, to accept him as he is, and to wrap him not in her grief or fear, but in her love.

Sometimes what we're called on to control is our tendency to run in circles howling, "I can't take this!" That's hard. But then, self-control is the hardest. 

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One day not long ago Little Guy said, "I'm scared you're going to die!"

I replied, gently, "You don't need to be afraid of that: of course I will die. Everyone does. It probably -- hopefully -- won't happen soon. But one day I will die. And what will happen then?"

He looked at me solemnly and said, "I will be sad."

I drew him close and told him, "Yes, you will be very sad, probably for a long time. But you will go on, and do what you have to do. Things may be harder than you want them to be, and you may think you can't handle it. But you will go on, and you will discover that you are stronger than you think you are. And you will be okay."


There is life beyond our fears. But you don't get there if you don't walk through the fears, if you allow yourself to panic because it's not all under control.

It's never going to be completely under control. In its own weird way, I find that comforting.

A tragedy, and a bad day

There was a news item yesterday about a 19-year old who, in a rage, beat his mother to death. It turned out, in one of those too-few degrees of separation things, that the boy went to high school with my friend Ellen's son.

I have a child who has raged out of control. I have a teenage son who has been in psychiatric hospitals, who is in therapy and on medication. This news story slipped in under my skin, lodging itself on my nerve endings, making the slightest thought painful. There have been times -- admittedly not many, and not lately -- when I have gone to bed with the clear knowledge that some day my child could kill me in a rage.

The horror story did me in. I went to bed very, very early. I curled up in a ball and waited for the wave of anguish to pass. It didn't. I lay still, keeping my eyes shut, floating in the pain. I heard Andrew calling the kids for bed, heard the clatter of dishes being washed, heard all the sounds of a normal evening. Eventually I fell into an uneasy sleep filled with endless dreams of court cases and jail cells and misunderstandings, dreams in which I was the perpetrator one moment and the grieving parent the next.

I awoke at 5am. Unrested. Fragile. This morning when the bus ate an extra fare on my transit card, I burst into tears. I arrived at the DMV on the next-to-last day to get a non-driver's license before my passport expires, found a line winding around the block, and began to cry. Be nice to me, I wanted to whisper to the world, Today I can't manage. 


I turned myself around and walked back to the bus stop. I rode back across town, face dripping with grief, wondering why the people of this city all wear black. Is it because they are filled with sorrow, or because it primes us to have colorful personalities, or because monochrome fashion makes it easier to cry in peace? I looked for a place to suffer and found that the only rest was to keep going. There's truth in that, you know.

This afternoon I am better, stronger, still shaken. I have told myself all the things I need to: I've highlighted the differences between my son and this young man, noted the progress Big Guy has made, emphasized the support structures we have in place, and reminded myself that most stories don't end this way. I've spent an entire day talking myself out of catastrophizing, out of predicting, out of overreacting.

Which isn't to say that I've forgotten that my son could murder me. He could. I don't think it will happen, but it could. And here's what's important for me to know about that: it doesn't in any way change my job for today. I still have to be his mother as best I can be, to love him as best I know how, and to give him the very best that I can. I still have to live my life according to all I believe is important. I have to grow and give and cherish and find the joyful things in life.

That's today's job, and I can't let fear of an unknown and undefined future prevent me from doing it.I have to -- somehow -- carry the weight of 'what could be' without having it set me off-balance for dealing with what is. Because today is today, and it's what I know is given to me to handle.

Today is today. Live it.