This year is the first year I've not spent Easter morning in church, in Windsor with my family - my parents, my siblings, my own children. Covid19 has certainly changed the world, our ways of living, our ways of relating to others, our ways of celebrating both life and death. Every day, a new statistic of the number of positive cases and number of deaths bombards us. News media sites hail grim stories of countries losing more lives, articles critical of certain political leaders, first hand accounts from the front line medical staff of how dangerously quick this virus can attack a human. Small businesses are likely unable to survive the emergency measures shuttering non-essential operations, certain races are more likely to suffer greater losses due to poverty, lack of medical insurance or simply because they are considered to be "essential" workers, often in the service industry paying low wages. Nothing is more heartbreaking than the knowledge that many are dying alone, unable to feel the ungloved touch of a loved one, or hear the whisper of a final goodbye.
For the past month, I've been filled with gratitude at having the ability to carry out my job at home, and not worry about whether or not I need to defer a mortgage payment or wonder if I could feed my children, or how to get to a food bank. I am extremely fortunate that my spouse is also able to work from home. Although many days I've nearly torn my hair out at the chaos of having all the children at home, and setting up "my office" at the dinner table between the two younger ones and their Chromebooks is simply a recipe for insanity, I remind myself that other children in my own neighbourhood have to share a laptop to access their daily on-line class work. Having to answer or read yet another math question again and work through it, or counting out the beat for piano practice, I am reminded again why I never pursued a career in education. We've lost track of the days of the week, and it's looking like I'll have to add "barber" to my list of talents soon. Like many, the first few days of the social distancing and stay at home was filled with family board games and lots of baking, but now, it's a daily battle to get the kids out the door for fresh air and pry them from the video games.
At this point, it doesn't appear we're close to "flattening the curve" or even the "peak" of this pandemic. The bureaucrats are stating many more weeks of social distancing, and I'm betting school is not happening on May 4. Standing in line at the grocery store is becoming routine, and now there's another email informing summer hockey is cancelled. Who knows when life will return to "normal" or if it ever will.
As for many, it's been difficult to be far away from family. Never more so than now. I am fortunate that my mother has both my brother and sister nearby.
This past year has been difficult for all of to navigate - trying to understand this grief process, to be supportive of each other whilst struggling with our own sadness and missing our Dad so much. Each birthday or holiday is bittersweet. Sometimes the memories of past celebrations is almost too much to bear. At the birth of Wellesley, Dad's 10th grandchild - all I could think of was how happy he would have been to meet him. Yet I know he's been watching from heaven, smiling and beaming with pride. He's also likely shaking his head with a grin, calling Devlin's arm flexing "mosquito bites".
But with this covid19 pandemic gripping our world this year, I am thankful, in an odd way, that we lost our Dad last year. (I hate that term "lost", but I know where he is, and it's not like we misplaced him.) With every story I read about the limited number of ICU beds and ventilators in our country, and decisions being made as to which patient should receive possibly life-saving treatment, I have to stop myself from going down the road of what-ifs. What if Dad had gone into cardiac arrest this year? Would the doctors have listened to my family saying don't stop trying to save him? What if there wasn't a bed available in the ICU? What if the doctors decided my dad - a man of God, a loving husband, a survivor, an idealist, a dreamer, a father and grandfather - didn't get a ventilator? What if only one or two family members were allowed to be with him? What if hospice wasn't an option? What if? What if? I have to stop because I don't want to even consider the scenarios.
Rather, I want to reflect on the generous time we were given to hope and pray for my Dad, to hold his hand, to hug him, to love him, to sing to him, to gather as a family, to encircle him with love. To be given the precious opportunity to express our gratitude to him for being a strong role model, our cheerleader always, father and grandfather, to pray with him, to love him and hold onto him. To touch him without gloves. It seems like a luxury today that we were all given those weeks to prepare, somewhat, for that final moment. And for that gift, I am thankful.
Sunday, April 12, 2020
Sunday, June 2, 2019
A Love like No Other
Throughout these months of my father's devastating illness, my mother has maintained a steadfast belief in his recovery. In the days and weeks following the cardiac arrest and the catastrophic ensuing events, my mother remained at this bedside, holding his hand, caring for him, documenting every sign of improvement, celebrating every tiny victory and reminding Dad that he promised they would live together forever. We all prayed for God's healing touch. Every night, Mom begged God to heal him. And to us, she'd state she couldn't live without Dad.
My parents have been married just shy of 50 years. They met at church, when he was a penniless student, and she was starting her nursing career. My parents never really talked much about their courtship when we were young. The story of how my dad took her for a walk to a cafe for their first date where they shared a glass of orange juice (very expensive in post war Korea, my dad always pointed out) varied a little with each re-telling. My mother's family was dead set against the idea of her marrying a student, and only son of a widow when there were more attractive prospects for my mother. My dad persisted though. He was a dreamer and an idealist. So even though he was leaving for Canada on a scholarship, he asked my mother to marry him. As per tradition, he also asked her parents, three times, for my mother's hand in marriage. And was flatly denied three times.
With a plane ticket in his hand, my mom and dad got married, aided by my paternal grandmother. The ceremony was moved up by an hour so my maternal uncles couldn't stop the wedding. Dad got on his plane and the wedding feast with an absent groom was held.
My parents started this marriage separated by an ocean. Mom immigrated to Canada two years later. Dad earned his Master's degree from the University of Windsor, and I was born a few days after the convocation ceremony.
Over the years, they added three more children to their family. My paternal grandmother lived with us, helping to care for us and parent us. Throughout their marriage, my parents were separated by distance. My dad took on teaching positions in St. John's, Halifax, and Korea. We remained in Windsor, and saw Dad when he was visited monthly. Then he decided to answer God's call and studied theology at the University of Toronto. And during his career in ministry, there was more separation when Dad took on a pastoral charge in Vancouver.
Throughout these separations, my parents' marriage remained strong. I have no doubt it was difficult for my mother, raising children whilst working full time as a nurse. My grandmother certainly was an integral part of our lives, caring for us, waking us, walking us to school when mom's shifts prevented her from being present at home.
As difficult as those years must have been, these past 12 weeks have been, understandably, the most trying for mom. Every week, she has had to adjust her visions for the future. In the beginning, it was enough to be grateful Dad was still with us. We believed he would recover and come home in a few weeks. Then we learned about the anoxic brain injury, and worried about paralysis. Mom's expectations adjusted. Life with a wheelchair if he was paralyzed was envisioned. She pictured herself wheeling Dad in autumn to meet his newest grandchild. Then we learned he had lost his eyesight. Dad loved to read. Mom's dreams once again adjusted to take on this challenge.
Dad had a tracheal tube inserted. We adjusted to a future where we wouldn't hear his voice. More heartbreaking was the knowledge that Dad would never sing again.
When it became clear the brain injury affected his ability to swallow and a feeding tube was required, Mom took this in stride, wallowing in her disappointment only briefly. As in many families, our celebrations revolved around big family dinners, late midnight snacks, and relishing a good bottle of wine. It was more important that Dad was still with us. Living out their retirement at home or a condo once again adapted to one in a nursing home or long term care facility.
His spirit and determination to recover remained as steadfast as Mom's. Dad never once complained of, or indicated he was in pain. But the various infections proved too much for Dad's weakened state. The medical doctors counselled on the grim prognosis.
Mom struggled to accept and finally make the decision to pursue palliative care for Dad last week. His wish was to come home. Understandably tormented, there were many many tear filled conversations amongst us. Unfortunately, Dad began to deteriorate before we were able to fulfill his wish. The doctors had warned us three days ago he only had hours to live, but he hung on.
As Dad lays in his hospital bed, his breathing labored, it's becoming evident we don't have much time left with him. His four children and his true love are gathered around his bed. We share our memories of Dad, gently tease each other, laughing and relishing the love. Sometimes I'd think he's hanging on because he wants to be part of the fun.
We gather, and we gently clean him. Wiping off the sticky residue from the various bandages. Massaging lotion into his arms and legs, rubbing his feet. Shaving his face, smoothing cream onto his cheeks. Cleaning his mouth. Adjusting his bedding. Everything. We talk to him. We tell him we love him. We thank him for being the wonderful loving father and grandfather he has been. Though he grew up without a father, he tackled and conquered fatherhood, leaving us with a legacy and big shoes to fulfill as parents ourselves. Even now, we're learning of the special treats he would share with each child separately. I never knew, until a few days ago, that Dad would bring home chocolates for my youngest sister on the sly, and then hide the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can so no one, including Mom, would be none the wiser.
We cling to him, taking turns to hold his hand, stroke his forehead, gently massage his feet. But his response is only for mom. Only when Mom holds his hands and tell him she loves him, does he turn towards her voice and nods. I can't bear to watch. The love between them is overpowering. Growing up, I hardly ever saw them display affection in public. Rarely did I see them hold hands. But there was never a doubt my parents loved each other with every fiber of their being. It was evident in their actions, their teasing and the sacrifices they made for each other. My mother took up piano a few years ago, long after sacrificing to provide music lessons for all of us. Last year, my dad purchased a grand piano for her. So she could practice on the best.
I don't think Dad is ready to be parted from Mom, his life long partner.
My parents have been married just shy of 50 years. They met at church, when he was a penniless student, and she was starting her nursing career. My parents never really talked much about their courtship when we were young. The story of how my dad took her for a walk to a cafe for their first date where they shared a glass of orange juice (very expensive in post war Korea, my dad always pointed out) varied a little with each re-telling. My mother's family was dead set against the idea of her marrying a student, and only son of a widow when there were more attractive prospects for my mother. My dad persisted though. He was a dreamer and an idealist. So even though he was leaving for Canada on a scholarship, he asked my mother to marry him. As per tradition, he also asked her parents, three times, for my mother's hand in marriage. And was flatly denied three times.
With a plane ticket in his hand, my mom and dad got married, aided by my paternal grandmother. The ceremony was moved up by an hour so my maternal uncles couldn't stop the wedding. Dad got on his plane and the wedding feast with an absent groom was held.
My parents started this marriage separated by an ocean. Mom immigrated to Canada two years later. Dad earned his Master's degree from the University of Windsor, and I was born a few days after the convocation ceremony.
Over the years, they added three more children to their family. My paternal grandmother lived with us, helping to care for us and parent us. Throughout their marriage, my parents were separated by distance. My dad took on teaching positions in St. John's, Halifax, and Korea. We remained in Windsor, and saw Dad when he was visited monthly. Then he decided to answer God's call and studied theology at the University of Toronto. And during his career in ministry, there was more separation when Dad took on a pastoral charge in Vancouver.
Throughout these separations, my parents' marriage remained strong. I have no doubt it was difficult for my mother, raising children whilst working full time as a nurse. My grandmother certainly was an integral part of our lives, caring for us, waking us, walking us to school when mom's shifts prevented her from being present at home.
As difficult as those years must have been, these past 12 weeks have been, understandably, the most trying for mom. Every week, she has had to adjust her visions for the future. In the beginning, it was enough to be grateful Dad was still with us. We believed he would recover and come home in a few weeks. Then we learned about the anoxic brain injury, and worried about paralysis. Mom's expectations adjusted. Life with a wheelchair if he was paralyzed was envisioned. She pictured herself wheeling Dad in autumn to meet his newest grandchild. Then we learned he had lost his eyesight. Dad loved to read. Mom's dreams once again adjusted to take on this challenge.
Dad had a tracheal tube inserted. We adjusted to a future where we wouldn't hear his voice. More heartbreaking was the knowledge that Dad would never sing again.
When it became clear the brain injury affected his ability to swallow and a feeding tube was required, Mom took this in stride, wallowing in her disappointment only briefly. As in many families, our celebrations revolved around big family dinners, late midnight snacks, and relishing a good bottle of wine. It was more important that Dad was still with us. Living out their retirement at home or a condo once again adapted to one in a nursing home or long term care facility.
His spirit and determination to recover remained as steadfast as Mom's. Dad never once complained of, or indicated he was in pain. But the various infections proved too much for Dad's weakened state. The medical doctors counselled on the grim prognosis.
Mom struggled to accept and finally make the decision to pursue palliative care for Dad last week. His wish was to come home. Understandably tormented, there were many many tear filled conversations amongst us. Unfortunately, Dad began to deteriorate before we were able to fulfill his wish. The doctors had warned us three days ago he only had hours to live, but he hung on.
As Dad lays in his hospital bed, his breathing labored, it's becoming evident we don't have much time left with him. His four children and his true love are gathered around his bed. We share our memories of Dad, gently tease each other, laughing and relishing the love. Sometimes I'd think he's hanging on because he wants to be part of the fun.
We gather, and we gently clean him. Wiping off the sticky residue from the various bandages. Massaging lotion into his arms and legs, rubbing his feet. Shaving his face, smoothing cream onto his cheeks. Cleaning his mouth. Adjusting his bedding. Everything. We talk to him. We tell him we love him. We thank him for being the wonderful loving father and grandfather he has been. Though he grew up without a father, he tackled and conquered fatherhood, leaving us with a legacy and big shoes to fulfill as parents ourselves. Even now, we're learning of the special treats he would share with each child separately. I never knew, until a few days ago, that Dad would bring home chocolates for my youngest sister on the sly, and then hide the wrappers at the bottom of the garbage can so no one, including Mom, would be none the wiser.
We cling to him, taking turns to hold his hand, stroke his forehead, gently massage his feet. But his response is only for mom. Only when Mom holds his hands and tell him she loves him, does he turn towards her voice and nods. I can't bear to watch. The love between them is overpowering. Growing up, I hardly ever saw them display affection in public. Rarely did I see them hold hands. But there was never a doubt my parents loved each other with every fiber of their being. It was evident in their actions, their teasing and the sacrifices they made for each other. My mother took up piano a few years ago, long after sacrificing to provide music lessons for all of us. Last year, my dad purchased a grand piano for her. So she could practice on the best.
I don't think Dad is ready to be parted from Mom, his life long partner.
Thursday, March 21, 2019
Dad's Hands
My dad is in the ICU. A few weeks ago, we all thought he had a simple cold. None of us realized it was pneumonia nor the dangers it posed to my father who underwent a bypass surgery a couple of years ago. Leaving the doctor's office with a prescription for antibiotics, my dad was overcome with weakness and could no longer stand. Passersby assisted by mother. An ambulance rushed him to the nearest ER. While being assessed, his heart stopped. My dad was resuscitated but he would go into cardiac arrest several more times. Each time, his will to survive and the medical team brought him back. By the time I was able to reach his side, he had stabilized. Nothing short of a miracle. He continued to hang on, and ever so slowly, his vital signs improved over the next 48 hours.
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring. His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren.
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.
But the prolonged period of time without oxygen damaged his brain. That we knew and accepted. The extent of the damage remains unclear.
As the swelling in his brain crested, movements and reactions we had witnessed in Dad earlier disappeared. It tested our faith. Ever so incrementally, movement returned. First his right leg shifted. Then his right arm. Then he squeezed my hand with his. Tears of relief and joy filled my eyes.
As I stared down at our clasped hands, memories flooded me.
Dad's hands were swollen with fluid from this ordeal. Normally, his hands are strong. Not wizened, not sinewy, not mottled with liver spots. Rather lean and tanned, and fingernails always trimmed.
His hands have gently cradled my siblings and me when we were infants. His hands also meted out discipline and punishment when required.
His hands grabbed me and pulled me out of the water when I went in over my head at Point Pelee as a toddler. Although I was only two or three, I remember seeing the water close over my head, bubbles from the air escaping my lungs as I cried out, and then the feeling of relief as strong hands gripped me. My dad's life-saving hands.
Those same hands held onto the back of my bicycle seat while he ran alongside, teaching me how to ride a two-wheeler. I never noticed he had let go and I was actually pedalling and riding on my own, until I glanced at the shadows and saw that I was alone. My confidence dropped and the front wheel wobbled, and I crashed into the curb. Those same hands that applied bandaids to the cuts and scrapes from that fall.
My dad's hands taught me how to change a flat tire, and replace brake pads. And they gripped the dashboard with white knuckles while he barked out driving instructions to me. My younger sister ended up taking driving lessons with a professional instructor.
His hands have clumsily brushed and tied my sister's hair into pigtails when he took care of us girls while my mother was in Korea for a summer vacation.
His hands demonstrated how to hold the knife and chop vegetables for a salad - his version of a Waldorf salad. Dad was very particular about how chores were to be done, as he demonstrated the proper technique for sweeping the kitchen floor. Three tile squares at a time, otherwise the dust would go everywhere.
His hands are calloused from hard work. He toiled in the backyard and garden, spending hours tying up the grape vines, or digging up the soil. He got blisters from helping us scrape up the ugly parquet tiles in the house we had just purchased, in preparation for new wood flooring. His hands tinker with household appliances, fixing broken toasters and soldering leaky pipes.
Those same hands delicately held a sewing needle as he taught me how to fix a broken strap on my knapsack.
His hands have proudly clapped at many graduations. His hands held his daughters' as he accompanied them down the aisles on their wedding days.
I stroke his hands as I remember how he held and baptized his grandchildren.
I believe his hands will soon bring us comfort through his touch. I have to believe my strong-willed father will overcome this challenge. He has already beaten the odds. His life has been about setting his own course, doing the unexpected and the unconventional and walking to the beat of his own drum. Who else would pursue a second career as a minister, a preacher by returning to school at the age of 50? A dreamer too.
This may be a big bump in the road, but it's not a roadblock. It's a detour.
I believe his hands will again hold us close, and will stroke his grandchildren's faces. Soon.
Wednesday, October 31, 2018
Memories of my First Halloween
This year, I can sit at home and give out treats, enjoying the silence of a normally chaotic home. All the kids are trick or treating with their pals, and Daddy is out supervising the boys. Fortunately, the rain stopped and it's actually warm for an October night. I'm seeing more trick or treaters than usual.
As I hand out treats to little goblins, I am overcome by the memory of my very first Halloween ever.
My parents, being recent immigrants from Korea, had never heard of this tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door to receive candy. That didn't happen in Korea, at least not back then.
We were at my surrogate Grandfather's home, and he came down with a ratty looking pillow case, and beckoned me to follow. I remember going around his neighbourhood, shyly repeating "trick or treat" and getting CANDY in the pillowcase. What an exciting experience! I think I was 3 or 4 years old. I wasn't ever allowed to eat candy! But that night, I got to indulge in everything I had earned from my trek.
The following year, I remember my dad taking me out in our neighbourhood. My mom hadn't quite gotten the idea of a costume, but I remember wearing an uncomfortable plastic Wonder Woman mask that cut into my face and getting more candy than the previous year.
As the years went on, our costumes got better. Mom made a witch costume, and I remember someone being a bunny. My younger sister still uses the jack o'lantern outfit mom made for her thirty years ago.
Dr. Toop was a crusty bachelor who didn't really participate in children's activities, but I know he made an exception for me. Instead of candy though, I think he gave out pennies. It has been several years now since our surrogate Grandfather passed away. He was a huge part of my life, from introducing me to Halloween, to helping me with science projects and teaching us all how to curse. His driving tips still stick with me - it's safe to change lanes when you can see the other car's bumper in your rear view mirror, and you know you've gone too far when you hear a sickening crunch! I learned how to tile a wall, and how to polish a floor with wax (a skill I will likely never use again). Dr. Toop was with Dad and me when I opened my first bank account at age six and then treated me to dinner at Sneaky Pete's. I remember "educational" trips to museums and going to the police auction with him to bid on a ten speed bike. I paid way too much for it and spent just as much on buying new gears, tires, and paint for it. There was a lesson in that too.
What I also remember now is, while Dr. Toop introduced the Kim family to Halloween, Valentine's Day was another North American tradition (at that time) that he did NOT explain. I remember being in kindergarten, and cutting pink and red hearts to paste on an empty cracker box. Then sitting in a circle on the rug while all the other children dropped paper into the boxes, while I was at first mystified, then mortified that I had nothing to share! That was how the Kims became acquainted with Valentine's Day.
As I hand out treats to little goblins, I am overcome by the memory of my very first Halloween ever.
My parents, being recent immigrants from Korea, had never heard of this tradition of dressing up in costumes and going door to door to receive candy. That didn't happen in Korea, at least not back then.
We were at my surrogate Grandfather's home, and he came down with a ratty looking pillow case, and beckoned me to follow. I remember going around his neighbourhood, shyly repeating "trick or treat" and getting CANDY in the pillowcase. What an exciting experience! I think I was 3 or 4 years old. I wasn't ever allowed to eat candy! But that night, I got to indulge in everything I had earned from my trek.
The following year, I remember my dad taking me out in our neighbourhood. My mom hadn't quite gotten the idea of a costume, but I remember wearing an uncomfortable plastic Wonder Woman mask that cut into my face and getting more candy than the previous year.
As the years went on, our costumes got better. Mom made a witch costume, and I remember someone being a bunny. My younger sister still uses the jack o'lantern outfit mom made for her thirty years ago.
Dr. Toop was a crusty bachelor who didn't really participate in children's activities, but I know he made an exception for me. Instead of candy though, I think he gave out pennies. It has been several years now since our surrogate Grandfather passed away. He was a huge part of my life, from introducing me to Halloween, to helping me with science projects and teaching us all how to curse. His driving tips still stick with me - it's safe to change lanes when you can see the other car's bumper in your rear view mirror, and you know you've gone too far when you hear a sickening crunch! I learned how to tile a wall, and how to polish a floor with wax (a skill I will likely never use again). Dr. Toop was with Dad and me when I opened my first bank account at age six and then treated me to dinner at Sneaky Pete's. I remember "educational" trips to museums and going to the police auction with him to bid on a ten speed bike. I paid way too much for it and spent just as much on buying new gears, tires, and paint for it. There was a lesson in that too.
What I also remember now is, while Dr. Toop introduced the Kim family to Halloween, Valentine's Day was another North American tradition (at that time) that he did NOT explain. I remember being in kindergarten, and cutting pink and red hearts to paste on an empty cracker box. Then sitting in a circle on the rug while all the other children dropped paper into the boxes, while I was at first mystified, then mortified that I had nothing to share! That was how the Kims became acquainted with Valentine's Day.
Tuesday, November 14, 2017
The pen is mightier than the sword
With four kids, physical fights are inevitable. I think it's unrealistic to expect children won't resort to kicking, punching, pushing, biting, pulling hair and jumping on one another to solve their conflicts. I'm not suggesting it's the preferred method to deal with differences, but it's not out of the ordinary. What we hope to accomplish as parents, in raising the hellions to become respectable citizens of this world, is to guide them away from physical aggression and to more constructive means of communication. Words. Spoken or otherwise, but words that are not hurtful. Words that can convey their frustrations and feelings of angst.
Although the following pictures are over a year old, I think we're getting somewhere on that particular parenting responsibility.
The following is an exchange between siblings, posted to each other's bedroom door:
And, finally, just to show that writing down one's frustrations can be a cathartic experience:
Although the following pictures are over a year old, I think we're getting somewhere on that particular parenting responsibility.
The following is an exchange between siblings, posted to each other's bedroom door:
His middle name!
When you have 4 kids, all attempts at watching your language
go out the window. Or at least it does in my case. For those of you whose
children have never heard a four letter word uttered in your home, unless of
course, the toilet backed up at the same time the washing machine broke down
and you dropped a wrench on your big toe, good on ya. You’re going to parent
heaven and I am burning in hell.
There you go, another 4 letter word.
And then there’s being the parent to a precocious, curious,
over active, mischievous child. It never fails that when I need be somewhere or
need to have Quinn do something, it doesn’t happen according to plan or
schedule.
Inevitably, there will be a crash, or a thump, or an “oopsy”
and then, a “Quinn – Goddammit! Can you please ____” and fill in the blank with
whatever you want. Brush your teeth, stop touching that wire, stop
hitting/scratching/kicking, stop picking your nose, get out the door, pick up
the toy you threw, finish your lunch …”
I have lost all pretence of attempting to edit my language
at home. Yes, I’m sure that makes me a very poor role model for my children.
But so long as they’re able to understand what is acceptable language for mommy
and what is not acceptable for them, my children are learning self-regulation.
Although, perhaps I too need a lesson in self-regulation.
The other day, after another episode of “Quinn, goddammit,
can you please ___”, my little precocious tot stated “That’s my middle name!”
“What’s your name?” I asked absently while tending to his
latest misadventure.
“Goddammit!”
Monday, November 13, 2017
Only hugs at School
How can it be? Quinn is in grade one.
With that comes the new rules for Mommy. No more kisses at drop off.
I am allowed hugs only.
Today, he gave me a kiss. But not anywhere near the school.
Once on school property, I was reminded it would be a hug only.
I must have looked sad.
He stated, "Ok, maybe a kiss on the cheek. But that's it."
That's okay. After school, it's kisses galore, and hugs a plenty. And there's still great fights at bedtime over who gets to sleep with Mommy.
With that comes the new rules for Mommy. No more kisses at drop off.
I am allowed hugs only.
Today, he gave me a kiss. But not anywhere near the school.
Once on school property, I was reminded it would be a hug only.
I must have looked sad.
He stated, "Ok, maybe a kiss on the cheek. But that's it."
That's okay. After school, it's kisses galore, and hugs a plenty. And there's still great fights at bedtime over who gets to sleep with Mommy.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)