It's fascinating how you can read a book about attachment, learn the basics on a subject, and still forget the entirety when it comes to living it out. I suppose it's like any other lesson in life: love your neighbors, be thankful in all things, turn the other cheek. We learn and forget in the span of a breath. I cannot tell you how many times I ask our therapist why my child behaves a certain way, and he explains some aspect of attachment that illuminates the world again. Yet when Sugar Monkey doesn't play well with others, or All-Star is torn up with worry, I forget anew.
The learning curve is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be.
I started reading Ann Voskamp's, One Thousand Gifts. Have you read it? It's life-changing. Well, it seems to be and I hope it to be life-changing. I just pour over the pages like she's written honey of which I can't get enough.
I've started my own gratitude journal with the hope that it begins to transform my heart the way that it has hers. Should you be interested, the title refers to an endeavor challenged to her to write down 1,000 gifts God had given to her. Then her thousand-item list became lifestyle of gratitude. She found the 'joy in all things,' about which Paul wrote, stems from thanksgiving. The challenge lies in becoming a person who is indeed daily, hourly thankful. It's a fascinating book.
Savor the little things, say all mothers, because the little things disappear all too soon.
little hands fetching to be held
wide eyes ready to play
arms lifted high, begging to be pulled to the sky
squeals of delight
little voices speaking, i love you
But when little men roar about a world from which they have fallen victim and then beat their chests against any perception of pain anew, it feels so easy to board up a wall of protection instead of waiting for the tears of relief, (which will fall in time -- just wait) and then to love and feel thankful for wet, tear-stained faces to smashing deep into the belly.
Hard. But necessary.
Today we had one meltdown over homework before the neighborhood friends arrived to bring joy back to the day. One meltdown with screaming and head-banging and tears that eventually slowed, then drifted into a stillness of regret. Waiting for that stillness, I finally asked why we had that meltdown. He said he saw he had one more bit of homework and it tipped him over the edge (in little man, absent of feeling words, vocabulary). Now? He's up in a tree with his brother and two neighbors. And I'm thankful these boys have each other, that the tree holds four bodies mightily, that laughter squeals fill the neighborhood whether the neighbors like it or not, that my boys are safe and happy,
and that they are mine.
My messes forever.
The learning curve is so much bigger than I ever thought it would be.
I've started my own gratitude journal with the hope that it begins to transform my heart the way that it has hers. Should you be interested, the title refers to an endeavor challenged to her to write down 1,000 gifts God had given to her. Then her thousand-item list became lifestyle of gratitude. She found the 'joy in all things,' about which Paul wrote, stems from thanksgiving. The challenge lies in becoming a person who is indeed daily, hourly thankful. It's a fascinating book.
Savor the little things, say all mothers, because the little things disappear all too soon.
little hands fetching to be held
wide eyes ready to play
arms lifted high, begging to be pulled to the sky
squeals of delight
little voices speaking, i love you
But when little men roar about a world from which they have fallen victim and then beat their chests against any perception of pain anew, it feels so easy to board up a wall of protection instead of waiting for the tears of relief, (which will fall in time -- just wait) and then to love and feel thankful for wet, tear-stained faces to smashing deep into the belly.
Hard. But necessary.
Today we had one meltdown over homework before the neighborhood friends arrived to bring joy back to the day. One meltdown with screaming and head-banging and tears that eventually slowed, then drifted into a stillness of regret. Waiting for that stillness, I finally asked why we had that meltdown. He said he saw he had one more bit of homework and it tipped him over the edge (in little man, absent of feeling words, vocabulary). Now? He's up in a tree with his brother and two neighbors. And I'm thankful these boys have each other, that the tree holds four bodies mightily, that laughter squeals fill the neighborhood whether the neighbors like it or not, that my boys are safe and happy,
and that they are mine.
My messes forever.
