Grace and Parenting

   Do you ever have those things that keep popping up? Things you keep seeing, start feeling a bit deja vous and you just cannot ignore it? I learned long ago that when this happens I shouldn't bury it. These things are reoccurring for a reason, and I cannot ignore it. Well, I've found the topic of intense parenting and discipline coming up on repeat in entirely different situations in my life the past couple weeks. So here we go.
   I always say my oldest taught me grace and my second taught me parenting. My pregnancy for my oldest child was enormously healing. First of all, by 5 weeks gestation I had what's known as Hyperemesis Gravidarum(Yes, you've seen me write about HG before HERE), which was not only physically difficult, but mentally and emotionally very challenging. I'd been battling anxiety and depression ever since I could remember, and bulimia for six years. The moment vomiting was not only no longer a coping mechanism in my life but was wildly out of my control, I was left flailing. No, this didn't instantly 'heal' me of the eating disorder, it simply morphed into a different beast I battle every day of my life. It's like alcoholism- an eating disorder  changes your brain function and never leaves you, you simply learn healthy ways of walking with it.
    Then came my obstetrical care. I had been violently sexually assaulted multiple times during my teens, and at 22 years old I was far from recovered. Regular care by my loving, understanding midwife went a long way in building trust, but there was so much anxiety about her impending birth and it was made all the more difficult by family begging to be allowed into the sacred space of the birth room, even saying at one point, "I'm justgoing sit in the waiting room and peek in the door when I know you're pushing. You won't even know I'm there," so that it was made clear to my midwife(and by her to the L and D staff during my labor) that they were not to even be allowed entrance to the department. It felt like every time I made progress I was threatened with violations of my emotional safety in more ways I had to process and overcome.

   When birth time actually came, family was a non-issue, a fact for which I am immensely grateful because the labor and delivery was beyond what I could bear. I would have no idea for years to come, but my past assault played enormously in the extended length and immense additional pain of her birth, and subsequent long recovery. 
   After my sweet girl was born, I rapidly sank into a deep, dark depression. When she was mere days old I would finish feeding her, burp her while she fell asleep and just begin to sob, thrust her toward my confused husband, telling him I didn't know why she was mine, I didn't deserve her, I was a terrible human destined only to repeat the awfulness I knew. Thankfully, despite having little to no familial or community support at that time, my midwife was incredible and my husband was willing to do anything necessary to support me. By five months postpartum I was starting to improve and pull out of that foggy black box of Postpartum Depression. 
   Our girl was the sweetest, easy baby, and a gentle toddler who taught me the joy of being Mama. She taught me quiet joy. She showed me more grace than I'd ever known from another human being. She showed me how to just be, how to delight in my child, and how to be gentle and loving in a way I'd never known. She had no preconceived judgements, no bias, no anger. She was just an incredible, completely pure, raw human being, and she was such a gift. I was so blessed that she was mine. 

   Then came my second child. No Hyperemesis that time, but his pregnancy was difficult in other ways. I was taken off of work at 26 weeks due to preterm labor, and I was on bedrest for the next 11 weeks. We all figured he would virtually fall out the moment I was off of the strict bed rest, but he fooled us all. That's kind of been the theme of his whole life. He held out for three more weeks until exactly his estimated due date before bursting into the world in four hours and weighing almost 10.5 lbs. It's really no wonder I measured 45 weeks pregnant. No, I didn't have even a whiff of gestational diabetes. Somebody always asks. From the moment he roared into the world, my boy was teaching me how to really dig in to parenting. He was a high needs baby. Okay, I'll be honest. He was a miserable baby. He never could nurse right, but I'd nursed my first to 15 months so by pure grit I stuck it out and nursed him until 12 months.  He didn't sleep, and when he did I needed to be holding him upright, tightly swaddled. He had a dairy protein allergy that took us about ten days of non-stop projectile vomiting to figure out. And he screamed. Boy, did he scream, inconsolably, for hours. Again, I sunk into that deep, dark hole of postpartum depression, but this time, in addition to my incredible midwife and amazing husband, we had community. We had become members of a fast growing little church in our area, we were nestled into a little community group, and without their love and support I don't think I would have survived those first two years. They were non-judgmental, they offered their own experiences without assuming it was the only way, and they sympathized. It was such an incredible difference from the family members saying, "He's just a boy. You're expecting him to be your daughter and he's not. He's a boy," or, "He's so naughty! Spank him! He needs it spanked out of him!" Or the pediatrician saying(without ANY evidence as to why) it was dietary and I needed to go on a bland diet of steamed white fish, bland, steamed, unsalted vegetables, and tofu. Let me tell you. If some one ever comes to you begging for help, the wrong things to do are to say, 'It's all in your head,' 'you're a bad parent,' or 'change your diet and it'll cure everything.' Just no. 
   At one point in our son's toddlerhood my husband and I decided to try their way. Our way was not making any progress, so maybe all the family members saying how naughty, manipulative, and undisciplined he was in his oblivious mischief and hours-long screaming, self-injurious tantrums were right. So we decided together we'd spank. It wasn't something our oldest had required. A stern tone or redirection brought instant results with her. We decided if we were going to spank, we needed to be consistent. We were encouraged this would be the only way to get results and show him we meant it. So we spanked. We gave a warning, detailed expected behavior, then spanked when it wasn't heeded. And we did it consistently- which for him meant near constantly. To show him we were in charge, we were serious, we were to be obeyed, like the then-highly lauded Michael Pearl recommended to break his spirit, like the near worshipped voice of Biblical parenting James Dobson recommended to break his strong will. After one week of what felt like abusing my child, nothing had improved. In fact, he was worse. SO much worse. I collapsed in tears when my husband came home the next morning and said I could not do it anymore. We had to stop. It was so wrong in so many ways. He agreed. That's when I started LISTENING to my child. His tantrums were screams for help. He couldn't cope like this. WE couldn't cope like this. We refused to continue in this sick pattern of obviously ineffective method of bending a child to our will because professionals said it worked and just hope God would clean up our mess by the time they reached adulthood. That's when things began to change for the better, and we haven't looked back. THAT is why I am so confident in my parenting.  God began a healing work in my heart. He showed me grace, love, and gentleness first. I tried doing it other peoples' ways first and it was failure. It was abuse. I no longer listen to other peoples' voices. I listen to the voices of my children, what they're saying out loud and what they're saying with their actions. That is real parenting. 

Photo by Karen Allen Photography