Tag Archives: children

More than a village

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It’s true. It takes a village to raise a child.  It is also true that not just any village will do.  Truly raising a child requires villagers willing to look past the rough, unfinished exterior. Paulann.1People willing to see both the core, and the possibility of becoming within each child. Children don’t need perfect villagers.  They need real ones.  People aware that although they may be more “finished” than the children in the community, they still have growing to do.

My Aunt Mary was one of those imperfectly wonderful villagers for me.  I spent countless days of summer and holidays in her home with my cousins, riding horses, playing marathon Monopoly, and eating the best ever chocolate cake with white icing. While at Aunt Mary’s house, I was one of her kids, nurtured and disciplined.

I think I understood from the beginning that my Aunt Mary was a wonderful, committed adult in my village.  But it was during a conversation with her after I was grown, with children of my own that I came to understand the depth of her commitment and her determination to brave her own growth.

Aunt MaryWe were standing at the sink, side by side.  Her washing, me rinsing.  I had stood in that kitchen, at that sink over the years with cousins, laughing, complaining, splashing.  Now it was me, a mother myself, having a grown up conversation with Aunt Mary.  I talked about my girls.  She talked about her grandchildren, one of whom was struggling with bedwetting.  You could feel the emotion in her voice as she worried about the potential stigma and hurt for her grandchild.  And then she stopped, turning to look at me.  Blinking back tears she said, “I hope I never made you feel bad, like there was something wrong with you.”  “I hope I never made you think I was angry with you.”

You see, I had been a bedwetter.  All the way through elementary school.  Her words instantly took me back.  I thought of that chapter of my life and the frustration she must have felt at the extra laundry alone created by my bedwetting.  Swimming through that sea of memories enabled me to look her in the eye and say without hesitation, “No.  Not ever.”  In that moment I knew she was the best kind of grown up for a child’s village.  She was a villager that cherished the heart of a child above all else.  She was a villager brave enough to be real and to keep growing.

Thank you, Aunt Mary.

Remember the day this child was born.

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An offering to
parents, copied with permission from Linda Dixon.  May we
all “remember the day this child was born”, and celebrate their
being.

As a mother, who has had
the experience of receiving a phone call from a woman, asking for
my daughter’s hand in marriage, I feel qualified to speak on the
issue of marriage equality. Is this not the very thing which
strikes terror into the hearts of parents who have tried to raise
their children right? Isn’t it our reward, to be mother of the
bride, as a lovely daughter glides down the aisle toward the man of
my/her dreams?

Image

 

 As
a gay marriage survivor, I feel it is my duty to help others
negotiate the harrowing ordeal. Therefore, I have taken the liberty
to write a small handbook on the subject.  There is much
more I could say, but here are the ten essential
steps.

 

1. First,
allow yourself to remember the day this child was born. Recall the
wonder of gazing into the eyes of a tiny, precious new life and
feel the sense of awe at the depth of love you experienced.
 Remember your vow to nurture this tiny person, who came
from you but is not a replica of
you. 

 

2.
Immerse yourself in the memory of learning who this child is and
noting how that unique personality was there from the beginning,
just waiting to be discovered.  Wrap yourself up in that
blanket of parental protection – the one you used to swaddle your
child’s sense of self and protect her from those who would try to
squelch her
dreams.

 

3. Reaffirm
to yourself and anyone who will listen, that this is still your
primary responsibility as a
parent.

 

4. Listen to
your adult son or daughter.   Ask what they love about
their beloved and look to see if they are truly
happy.

 

5. Observe
how they are treated by their partner or fiancé.   Ask
yourself if you would approve of this person, had she been born of
the opposite gender? If the answer is
yes…

 

6. Celebrate!
 Treat your future daughter/son-in-law as you would like
to be
treated. 

 

7.
Remember that all you ever wanted was for this person to be happy
and to feel loved and cherished.  Know that your fondest
wish has been fulfilled.  Thank
God!

 

8. If you are
unable to share in your daughter/son’s joy, take responsibility for
the problem.  Review your life and try to figure out where
you went wrong.  Get help if you cannot resolve this on
your own.

 

9. Forgive
yourself.  Rejection of your own child is a very serious,
but treatable illness.  If you find yourself in this
predicament, make it your goal to heal yourself before the wedding.
 Repeat steps 1-5 as many times as it
takes.

 

10. Go to the
wedding and toast the happy couple with love and sincerity.
 Welcome your child’s husband/wife into your family and
live happily ever
after.

Thanks Linda, for
giving voice to a parent’s heart and a child’s
happiness.

Pass this way…

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I expect to pass through life but once.  If therefore, there be any kindness I can show, or any good thing I can do to any fellow being, let me do it now, and not defer or neglect it, as I shall not pass this way again.  ~ William Penn

For the Children

Let us have a heart

For children everywhere.

A mind to think

On their behalf,

With love and sacrifice.

Hands,

To touch,

To do,

To create the evidence

Of our love

And their worth.

Paulann C. Canty, December 19, 2012

[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BI6SlqIUG4s&w=560&h=315]

Have a heart that never hardens, and a temper that never tires, and a touch that never hurts.  ~ Charles Dickens

Run, laugh, and lollygag…

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I grew up in a moderately large city.  I learned to allow for travel time when going from one side of the city to the other.  I have now lived nearly half my life in a small town.  All these years of small town life and I’m still tripping over the false belief that you can get from any point to another in a matter of minutes. This misconception means I sometimes feel a “beat the clock” anxiety in the car on the way to my destination.

On this particular morning I left my house, driving purposefully, hoping to arrive on time.  I entered the school zone, slowing to 25 mph.  I proceeded slowly, up the hill, toward the school crossing.  I hoped to escape the zone with no unnecessary delays and continue on my way.  I saw the crossing guard boldly step into the street.  Taking ownership with her red octagon held high, she stopped us in our tracks.  It took a second to see the two small children approaching the crossing.  Maybe second and third grade.  A girl and a boy, perhaps big sister, little brother.

The crossing guard smiled as the girl dutifully, and quickly, crossed the street.  “Good job!”, I thought as we waited for the little boy to complete the crossing task.  The little boy was taking his own sweet time. My frustration rose.  Then my best self started the conversation.  “Of course you wouldn’t want to wait for a child.”  “Children are to be dismissed, rushed past, redirected.”  They run when we try to hold them back. Embarrass us with their over the top exuberance.  They lollygag when time is of the essence.  What are we to do?  Maybe follow their lead.

~~~~~~~~~~~

On Friday morning, January 12, 2007, Joshua Bell took his violin in hand.  Leaning against the wall, near a trash can, he played six of the most exquisite classical musical compositions.  His violin case lay open at his feet for any charitable gift from a willing listener.  Mr. Bell was playing where many other street musicians had played.  He was at the L’Enfant Station Plaza of the Washington, D.C. Metro subway.

Something distinguished Joshua bell from other street musicians.  Mr. Bell was a world renowned violinist, playing on his rare Stradivarius, as part of an experiment suggested by the Washington Post. The question?  “What would happen if one of the world’s great violinists had performed incognito before a traveling rush-hour audience of 1,000-odd people?”

For nearly 45 minutes, Mr. Bell played, and a video camera recorded the event.  This musical prodigy played, largely ignored, as 1097 people walked by on their way to somewhere else.  The Washington Post writer summed up the “audience” with these words.

“There was no ethnic or demographic pattern to distinguish the people who stayed to watch Bell, or the ones who gave money, from that vast majority who hurried on past, unheeding. Whites, blacks and Asians, young and old, men and women, were represented in all three groups. But the behavior of one demographic remained absolutely consistent. Every single time a child walked past, he or she tried to stop and watch. And every single time, a parent scooted the kid away.”  (Pearls Before Breakfast, Gene Weingarten, Washington Post Staff Writer)

The first child that was drawn to the sound of Joseph Bell’s violin was a three year old named Evan.  When his mother found out what she had pulled him away from, she laughed and said  “Evan is very smart.”  Little wonder that the outcome of the test led the writer to note,

“The poet Billy Collins once laughingly observed that all babies are born with a knowledge of poetry, because the lub-dub of the mother’s heart is in iambic meter. Then, Collins said, life slowly starts to choke the poetry out of us. It may be true with music, too.”

I dare you to let a little child lead you back to life.
Consider adding these childlike moments to your day.

               Run for no good reason.

Embrace over-the-top exuberance.

Lollygag when you feel the
stress of your day mounting.

Then, find a child and say,

“Thank you!“

Read Gene Weingarten’s entire Washington Post article, Pearls Before Breakfast.  It’s a beautifully written, insightful commentary.  The video of Joshua Bell’s performance is embedded in the article.

Valentine’s Day and the other 364…

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I don’t know how true it is in other countries, but in the United States we are big on Valentine’s Day.  You only have to walk in any store by the first of February to witness our commitment to this heart felt day of expressing our love for the important people in our lives.  Aisles and displays of stuffed animals, boxes of candy, flowers, in a million shades of red and pink.  Valentine’s Day is all about love and loving.

So why would anyone want to cast a shadow on this day of love by bringing up domestic violence?  Maybe because no matter how much we love this one day, I want to know about the other 364 days of the year. We have a problem 364 days of the year.  Actually it is such a big problem that it happens on this special day of love too.  We have a serious problem with domestic violence.  We are violent toward those we say we love.  We hurt each other in private, in public, and in front of our children.  We see cuts and bruises and we keep our silence.

The Makers of Memories Foundation have identified:

Top 10 Alarming Facts About How Domestic Violence Impacts Kids
1. 63% of all boys, age 11-20, who commit murder kill the man who was abusing their mother
2. 75% of boys who are present when their mothers are beaten were later identified as having demonstrable behavior problems
3. Children from homes characterized by domestic violence are five to seven times more likely to experience significant psychological problems relative to children in the general population.
4. Domestic violence exposed children are four times more likely to visit the school nurse.
5. More than half of school age children in domestic violence shelters show clinical levels of anxiety or post-traumatic stress disorder.
6. Researchers have linked exposure to chronic abuse and violence with lower IQ scores, poorer language skills, decrements in visual-motor integration skills and problems with attention and memory.
7. Cognitive problems associated with exposure to violence and abuse comprises one of the most direct threats to the developmental task of school adaptation and academic achievement.  Read the complete article…

Make this the most loving and significant
Valentine’s Day ever.
Love responsibly.
Find your voice.
Speak out
Against domestic violence.

…,and keep your sense of humor.

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My first clinical internship while in graduate school, was as a therapist in training at a hospital.  I worked primarily on the adolescent residential unit with kids who were there for a length of time.  During the internship, I was also hired to work weekends.  After graduating, I worked full time while completing the requirements for licensure.

I loved my job.  I might still be there, except the hospital closed.  But while I was there, I loved being a therapist and working with teenagers in an inpatient setting.  I had already worked a lot with kids in a church setting, and I discovered there were many similarities between church and hospital.  Perhaps the most striking difference was that the kids now lived at the “church”.  They were there 24/7, which meant I got to be present for the best and the worst as teenagers tried to navigate their life (lives).  The teachable moments happened frequently right in front of me.

We’re used to thinking about teachable moments in the lives of children.  We’ve heard a lot about the importance of adults recognizing and taking advantage of those moments as golden opportunities for growth.  Moments when children are more open to learning, more malleable.

Working in that hospital, fresh out of graduate school, taught me that teachable moments aren’t reserved for children.  I was sometimes painfully aware that while the kids on the unit were trying to find themselves and their path, the adults involved were engaged in a parallel learning process.  We were routinely faced with our own teachable moments, often under the instruction of the kids we were responsible for.  Growth was an equal opportunity experience for doctors, nurses, techs, a variety of therapists, unit school teachers, and me.  It was on that adolescent residential unit that I learned the impact of responding vs. reacting.  I began to watch the ways our behavior as staff helped escalate or de-escalate the behavior of the kids on the unit.

One day as I talked with a frustrated colleague, I began to think out loud about the self-management skills that could make or break your work with hospitalized adolescents.  Over time my colleagues began to refer them as Paulann’s Cardinal Rules for working on an adolescent residential unit.  A fellow therapist arrived at the hospital one day with a stack of computer generated “Cardinal Rule” cards for me to hand out to my peers.  It became a running joke grounded in seeds of truth.

When the hospital closed I went on to new jobs, new colleagues, new consumers, and new teachable moments.  I don’t think I realized at the time that the one thing I took with me were those rules.  I discovered they were helpful to remember and to practice, with my children, my colleagues, my clients.  Those rules have been with me for twenty years.  I think I even have one of those original cards in my momento stash. Those rules have served me well.  I would like to say they’ve become second nature to me.  That I do them in my sleep, with one hand tied behind my back.  But in spite of knowing them, there are times I violate every single one.  So maybe they’re better thought of as goals to shoot for.  So, for what it’s worth, Paulann’s…,

Daily Goals To Shoot For

1.  Don’t Forget to Breathe.

 

2.  Keep Your Sense of Humor


3.  Don’t Take it Personally

He had a dream.

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This day of remembering Martin Luther King, Jr. has stirred memories of my own “growing up” before, during, and since the civil rights movement.  It surprises me when I remember that every school I attended from first grade until I graduated from high school in 1967, was segregated.  College was my first experience of getting to learn with people of color.  The diversity was not as balanced as it should have been, but at least it was present.

Fortunately for me, I had other opportunities during childhood to cross the lines of color that were so clearly drawn at that time.  My earliest memory of an influential African-American in my life came before I started school.  My dad went into business for himself, opening a full service gas station.  His only employee was a black man that everyone called Bourbon.  I loved to watch him as he worked.  I loved drinking a cold bottle of Grapette pop from the vending machine while listening to him tell stories and laugh.  When he laughed I laughed, and all seemed right with the world.

There was a family owned restaurant next to my dad’s station.  We ate there a lot.  Bourbon did too.  We ate in the front, Bourbon in the back, with the other black folks.  That back room is permanently engrained in my memory.  We walked through the “colored” room to get to the front.  Who knows how many times I passed Bourbon sitting in his room while on my way to mine.  I wasn’t more than four years old and even then I knew that arrangement wasn’t right, didn’t make sense, and I felt embarrassed that I was a part of it.

Then there was Eddy, my grandfather’s only ranch hand.  When at my grandparents I worked beside Eddy, feeding cattle, herding cattle, and listening to he and my grandfather talk cattle.  There wasn’t a “colored” dining room at the Lazy A.  Eddy sat at my grandparent’s kitchen table with us when he ate.

Martin Luther King, Jr. had a dream. . .

“that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin but by the content of their character.”

He spoke those words in August, 1963.  In December, 1960, I went with my best friend and her mother to the annual Christmas parade in downtown Tulsa.  I was in the 6th grade, full of untested opinions about how the world should operate in regard to color.  The streets were crowded with families standing in the cold waiting to be ushered in to the holiday season.  As the parade began to pass I became aware of a young woman standing beside me.  She had two little girls with her, maybe three years old and much too short to see over the crowd.  She held one for a while, then the other, back and forth, up and down.  It didn’t seem like a huge gesture, just a sensible one as I asked if I could hold one of the girl’s while she held the other so both could see.

The parade ended.  The young woman thanked me again.  I said good-bye to the little girls.  I didn’t think I had taken a stand across the color line.  I just knew how much fun it had been to enjoy the parade through the eyes of children.  The fun ended when we returned to my friend’s house and sat down at the kitchen table to eat.  They began to make jokes about what I had done as though it was inconceivable that a white person would do such a thing, and that I must be uninformed or stupid for having chosen to help.  I can still recall the sickening, angry feeling that my “best” friend was behaving this way and her parents, adults I trusted, were encouraging her by participating in the teasing.  I was glad to get back home to the safety and freedom of my own family’s kindness and acceptance.

I look back on that experience and am reminded that it is often the children who take the first step toward good.  I was a child then.  It was years later before I defined my actions as courageous.  At the time I just thought of them as right.  There is a child nearby willing to be kind, willing to see something beautiful in others, willing to step toward what is right.  That child is also watching you.  When the first, courageous step is taken, let’s make sure we’re not standing in the way.

“The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.”  MLK

Thank you Dr. King.

Just a piece of paper. . .

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I stepped into the seventh grade literature class to watch and discuss scenes from the movie “Freedom Writers”.  A boy greeted me with “I know you!”  I smiled, thinking of the time spent over the years with students at SMS.  I assumed he remembered me from another class, the hallways, or at some school event.  He said, “You talked to my grandparents.  You gave them a piece of paper for me to sign.  I signed it and it’s in a frame on my bedroom wall.  It’s my promise to stay in school and to not do drugs or join a gang.”

It took me a minute to shift gears and realize his grandparents must have come to a parent involvement night when he was a fifth grader.  We had watched “InsideOut”, a documentary about the epidemic of school drop outs and the value of staying in school.  The parents were given certificates to take home to their children.  They were encouraged to talk with their kids about their education, asking their fifth graders to “contract” with them to choose school instead of dropping out.

Positive outcomes are always good news.  Coming from a seventh grade boy made it even more special.  As I replayed the scene throughout the day, I began to think less about my part in the outcome and more about the power of a piece of paper.  For two years a piece of paper hanging on a boy’s wall had reminded him of his grandparent’s commitment to him and their investment in his future.  That framed piece of paper was their celebration of his commitment displayed in a prominent place.  It was a subtle, daily message that they expected him to keep his part of the bargain.  A paper statement of their belief in him.  And he clearly got it.  Just a piece of paper, printed in bulk from my computer, handed out to multiple fifth grade parents.  Just a piece of paper, turned into so much more by grandparents and a grandson who believe in possibility.

My youngest daughter created a time capsule in a shoebox as an eighth grade science assignment.  She spent several days filling her box with bits and pieces of her life.  I didn’t know the contents of her time capsule until ten years later when the science teacher, now administrator, brought my daughter’s box to me.  I raised the lid for a walk down memory lane through the keepsakes chosen by my daughter to represent her eighth grade life.

There were snapshots, trinkets, movie tickets, drawings, and pieces of paper…post it notes…from me, dropped in a lunch bag, stuck in the front of a binder.  Notes that said, “I love you”, “Have a great day!”, “I’m proud of you.”.  Pieces of paper that an eighth grade daughter chose to keep at a time when becoming a person separate from her mother was part of her job.

Remember the MasterCard commercials that listed items one at a time followed by their price tag.  Then the resonant voice read the last thing on the list, usually something involving human connection.  After a pause for effect, the voice said, “Priceless.” The commercial reminded us the value of some things goes way beyond a dollar amount on a price tag.

Sometimes a piece of paper is just a piece of paper.  Sometimes a piece of paper is a relationship, a child’s drawing hung with a magnet on the refrigerator door, a reading award, a “have a great day” post it note in a lunch sack, or a boy’s signature on a certificate that says “I will stay in school”.  That’s when a piece of paper becomes. . . “Priceless”.  Create a priceless relationship moment in someone’s life today.  All it takes is a piece of paper.