tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84033202870561402442024-03-06T19:35:10.428-08:00Mama Lets GoA blog on letting go through parentingBecca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-51429651490928053532022-06-14T12:16:00.000-07:002022-06-14T12:16:13.574-07:00Letting go of normalWhen I stopped trying to make my kid "normal" or even mask as normal, life greatly improved for all of us.<br />We're not normal (cause normal is a construct, made up of statistical averages and not actual people!) and our charm and lovability does not rely on acceptable behavior.<br />There is no stigma to our neurodivergent behavior. We are just figuring out how to meet needs in our house. And we are frank about needs.<br />Lots of experts want to tell you how certain kinds of kids need certain things and honestly, the thing I needed to tell myself is that I do what works for us, regardless of expert opinion. I ask questions, I listen to my intuition, and I am honest with my kiddo (he's 9, so it's age appropriate for his ability).<br /><br />Non-coercive parenting (called a few different things these days) is hard, culturally. It is COMMON and ACCEPTABLE to want to mold our children into who we want them to be (usually out of fear) but it can also be SO harmful and traumatizing.<br />I could write a whole book about my experience, but when I met my kid where HE was at, not where people told me he should be, life improved dramatically.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-82297113889476834252019-06-14T12:10:00.000-07:002022-06-14T12:16:55.750-07:00Mama lets go...of people in the villageIt's been a year of loss. There's no two-ways about it. Mostly people that have been staples in our daily or at the very least, weekly, lives. It took me a long time to grapple with each one, and I went radio-silent because loss is hard for me.<br /><br />
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<li>I left a job where I had several good friends that I saw daily and had shared my life with for 4 years! </li><li>Some of our dearest friends moved to the east coast. </li>
<li>K left his classroom of 3 years (with the same teacher, in a mixed-age class). </li>
<li>Several really close buddies of K (and their families) left our school.</li>
<li>We recently lost a young nephew of J's to a tragic car accident. </li>
<li>K's current teacher is moving away next year.</li>
<li>We're slowly clearing out our house to sell it (and hopefully build a new one right behind it).</li>
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Just to name a few losses in the last 12 months. :S<br />
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We just watched Won't You Be My Neighbor (Mr. Rogers...) documentary and to say that that loss was profound for both J and I, is an understatement.<br />
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So here I am. Swimming in the sea of loss. It feels overwhelming, actually.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-71448516371586630542019-04-03T14:56:00.000-07:002019-10-15T14:58:13.612-07:00Who are you parenting?When I named the blog, "Mama Let's Go" I was thinking of the process of letting go as a parent AND what an energetic/impatient kid would say to his mom. It fit.<br />
But today, in a meditation, I heard a different child's voice calling to a different mama. My voice calling to MY mama.<br />
That thought brought on some tears as I made space to really listen to my own 6 year old voice. I could sense my own impatience, my own insistence, my own energy vibrating through me, raring to go.<br />
Powerful.<br />
My son is the age I was (6) when my dad passed away (consequently, at age 41, my current age). We have an ancestral time spread between us. Prior to my dad's passing, he had a brain tumor that my whole family was navigating at various ages and development stages.<br />
I cannot fathom being able to witness my son's growth, change, unfolding and developing while literally losing my mind to a brain tumor, nor can I fathom my husband caring for me and three other children, one an infant, while also trying to witness and encourage an active, bright 6 year old.<br />
Even now, I am in great health, and have only ONE child, and it can be challenging.<br />
So I feel a lot of compassion for both of my parents.<br />
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And I am able to (with a lot of therapy) hold both the compassion for my parents in a very tough spot AND the hurt I felt at not being seen the way I wanted to be or even needed to be at times. It's not about blame, but about realizing that in any situation multiple things are happening.<br />
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Sometimes my compassion and understanding for my parents swept away my own hurt and longing. They did they best they could. I did the best I could. No point in getting hung up over what happened in the past.<br />
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But that's not what this is. This is simply acknowledging that my 6 year old self didn't have the compassion I have now. She wanted to pull her parents into her world of discovery. She wanted to be noticed, appreciated, and encouraged in her voracious curiosity. She didn't want to deal with cancer, she wanted to take things apart and put them back together and sponge up all the stuff she was experiencing around her. She wanted to process her emotional upheaval and her quickly gained wisdom. She wanted to yell, "Mama, let's go!!!!"<br />
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K came home the other day with a drawing he had done at summer camp and I was a bit taken aback. It was drawn by hand from a picture, and included 3-D perspective, a concept that is more generally seen in an 8 or 9 year old. Even as an adult with art school experience, I am challenged by it. After I got over that he had drawn it himself (it took a few minutes) I explained that this was somewhat complicated because of the spatial ability it requires. He was confused about why I was so taken aback. It was just his drawing ability.<br />
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Similar things have happened this year that have also been equally surprising:<br />
K can speak in an English accent with no problem (and can even do the Scottish accent a bit too).<br />
His memory is amazing.<br />
His comprehension of complex ideas is pretty alarming.<br />
His physical ability is both advanced and effortless.<br />
His reasoning skills are getting to be as good as mine, and occasionally, he has called us out on double-standard practices.<br />
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I'm not writing this to brag, but I'm just pointing out that I have had time and space to notice them! A luxury my parents did not have when I was the same age.<br />
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A part of me is parenting K the way I wanted to be parented. It's a common practice to find some healing in that. But it dawned on me that that still doesn't provide me parenting of myself. Sure, I can ask questions and stay curious about K, but I really do need to actually do some of that work for myself to really heal the wounds.<br />
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It's good just to even listen to my own voice, even if I can't do anything about it because it's in the past. It's healing to acknowledge that a part of me is still yelling that to my mom, my dad, myself, probably a few bosses, and even a few friends.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-84217359519322779812018-05-12T07:43:00.001-07:002018-05-12T07:43:20.401-07:00Birth storyThere's a common practice in the birthing world I'm in to write down and share your birth story, no matter what happened. In fact, it's often healing for others to read if your birth story didn't go as planned.<br />
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It's about speaking the truth of it for yourself, to a witnessing and loving group.<br />
It's about hearing out loud if there was something that didn't feel right or empowering.<br />It's about being present to a deep process that may have (usually does) impact on your life and your child's life ever after.<br />
For each birthing person, it's about what it needs to be about to story the process of birth.<br />
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I tell my birth story as often as I can. I have not written it down. But the telling of it, hearing my words and weaving the tale, gives it eternal life. If I wrote it down, then the story might stay stuck in the past...but as my child grows, it's important that I keep reaching back and looking at how his beginning (including his life in utero) unfolds into the present.<br /><br />I had a dream while pregnant that K came out using big, long, complicated words, like a PhD at a Mensa meeting. I woke up laughing because it was just like me to have a dream like that.<br />While K didn't come out talking, he *did* quickly learn to talk and then mastered complex sentences well before the average milestone. That dream was prophetic in a way. The dream isn't part of the birth story, but it's part of K's beginnings. It highlights that our communication was non-verbal from the beginning.<br />
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And what I share about the actual birth is that it wasn't an event, it was just another part of our conversation together. We've been communicating for a long time, well before K's arrival into the world. And the storying of his life is co-created. <br /><br />It's common to say that a type of birth produces a type of person...but what if a type of person creates a type of birth? What if K needed a c-section for *his* story? What if part of my story was letting go of *my* idea of what birth *should* be and allowing what actually is to have a place in the world?<br />Instead of saying I failed (by not birthing at home, as was my original intent), I could hold space for mystery and reality and start my child's life in acceptance, rather than with an underlying failure or defeat. I wasn't defeated. I didn't fail. I listened. And that listening transformed me in the moment. It allowed me to push myself AND it allowed me to make peace with not my way. And that is a foundation that I want for my son.<br />
I want to create the possibility that I can be in acceptance of not my way.<br /><br />When he comes to me with something that isn't my way of doing things (as he has many times already!), I can go back to that moment (actually, the pregnancy wasn't my way, either!) and remind myself that not my way didn't kill me. It came close, but it didn't actually. And him doing his thing won't kill me (or him) either.<br />
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Stories are powerful and eternal. In them we define ourselves. We create ourselves. We connect to others, we connect to the Divine. It helps us continue to come alive.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-8162160981843367142018-03-27T12:53:00.000-07:002018-03-27T12:53:44.177-07:00Why do I let go?When I thought of this blog title years ago, it seemed perfectly appropriate, as I was learning about the release of a bunch of things. It's been a great theme at every point in my development as a parent. It applies to physical, mental, spiritual, and emotional concepts.<br />
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Recently, on a long drive home from work, I realized that part of my letting go is aimed at making room. I can't keep it ALL. I have to let things go if I am to participate in the flow of life. Simple enough.</div>
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But looking back at my patchwork life, I noticed an umbrella theme that has woven into almost everything I've done or wanted to do since I was little:</div>
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<b>Engaged connection.</b></div>
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What has kept me interested, creative, willing, in relationships, at jobs, obsessed, and more, is the desire to connect. I'm an ambivert (intro- and -extro). I love reading and writing. I love sharing, stories, laughter, knowing glances. All of that is really fuel for my life.<br /><br />And I let go, so that I can remain in the flow of all of that. Letting go allows me to share (and release it into the world). Letting go allows me to reflect on it and then move it to the background of my life. Letting go allows for movement, expansion, and flexible re-defining as needed.<br />
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I don't want to consume connection, and I want to integrate it. When I allow my empathetic tendencies to reach out, hold someone momentarily, and then let go, I am only letting go of the moment, *not* the way if affects me. That then becomes a part of me and the container (of me) increases so that the next person I encounter with a similar experience can then connect, through me, to someone else with a similar experience. I am a bridge, a channel, a conduit.<br /><br />I let go to play, participate, reflect, and connect. Why do you let go?</div>
Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-68595456574485670612018-03-01T12:48:00.000-08:002018-03-27T12:48:38.482-07:00C'mon Mama, let's go!I have been bursting with this post for several days and now I need to sit down and let it all out.<br />
I want to write some disclaimers, and excuse my behavior, and allow you to set me/the post aside and call me crazy...that's my normal move. If I get too intense, I want to allow you to walk away and assure you I won't be hurt.<br />
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But in this post, I am going to say my piece. I am tired of sitting back, in my motherhood, in my parenthood, and just quietly, to a few people sharing my ideas about what's propagating in the society about motherhood and parenthood.<br />
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Most recently, I read an article that got me pretty hot. I have been a working mom for most of my child's life. He's been in school since he was 19 months. He goes all day.<br />
I work from 6:30a until about 4:30p. My husband also works full time. He works on weekends, too. We share chores, we have busy lives (we have several spiritual groups, civic groups, family groups, and friend groups, not to mention family swim time, soccer, school parent groups, and our own home chores and a business we run out of our home), and we take time to enjoy our marriage.<br />
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My parenting doesn't take precedence OVER the rest of my life. It's a part of my life. I think I am a great parent. I enjoy it, I like the challenges, I like the triumphs, I love the growth. My child, as lovely as he is, is not the only thing I wake up for each day. He is not the axis upon which my world spins. <br /><br />Call me whatever you like, but I am tired of slinking away when I hear sacrificing moms talk about how their kids are paramount. My kid isn't paramount. I don't share like this usually because, well, because I get silently judged (yes, I can see and hear you...) and questioned and I simply have to be honest about it. My kid is awesome. But if he took precedence over me for any substantial length of time, I would fall apart. I have been conscious of the balance of what I get and what he gets. I'm not telling him he doesn't get to have the world...I'm just saying, I'm not the only one he needs to ask.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-15696477319794726142018-02-19T07:18:00.000-08:002018-05-12T07:23:49.929-07:00For my family...I'm letting go of my current job. This would normally make a family nervous, if there wasn't a new job on the horizon. Heck, I did this several years ago and it made *my* family nervous (rightly so!).<br />
<br />I am leaving my job because I am finally realizing that it has made me sad and depressed, out of alignment, and creatively frustrated, which has affected my family.<br />For too long I had allowed myself to think that I couldn't do something else with my skills and that my iterations were unwelcome (well, they were, at the organization I was at).<br /><br />But I need to take the leap of faith that there's a lot more out in the world for me. I was starting to feel like a bad parent because I wasn't a good example for my creative, bright, unique son. I was starting to do that thing where I'd live/work/exist one way, but tell him to do something different (and hope that he didn't look at my life as an example).<br /><br />That's silly! I need to live a co-created life, if I want to amplify living a co-creative life. So here I go...<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-77161394457610262332017-05-09T09:16:00.000-07:002018-03-27T12:46:19.759-07:00Letting go of a bigger familyI was going to title this "Letting go of #2," since that's what I've been calling my future unborn child. But somehow the title was a little too silly...:S<br />
I don't mind being funny with an entendre, but this post has some seriousness.<br />
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We're not going to have a second child.<br />
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When I write it, it feels like I laid down this huge elephant I was dragging from room to room, moment to moment. We decided a few weeks ago but I wouldn't even hold tight to the decision, lest someone burst in on my perfect day and tell me that I'm making a huge mistake. We don't have that moment in parenting, do we? I don't approve of it (standing up and saying "Stop! Don't get married!") at weddings, so it makes sense that we don't do it that much anymore, but of course no one would EVER say it about having a kid. None of our business.<br />
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It's up to me and my husband to decide that. For five years I have been going back and forth. I told myself during my pregnancy with K that I couldn't do it again. Statistically, it could be worse for the second kid. Not only that, but then it could be just as hard afterward. And even if the kid was a perfect angel (not that I want that, of course), the money would be tight again...and not just tight, I'm being evasive...it might be harrowing again.<br />
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I have been keeping a swelling depression at bay because I can (many can't, I know) and because I actually know what is depressing me...I don't have fulfilling work. I don't feel good in my body. I am overwhelmed with obligations and stuff and a resume of half-finished ideas. The thought of raising another child didn't feel uplifting. It felt oppressive.<br />
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We have our hands full. They have never not been full. Even without a child. Another child would increase my stress, my family's stress, and I honestly couldn't come up with a good enough reason to have another kid. Many folks have offered their reasons...but they don't work for *me*. Everyone else might need or want them, which is fine. But I find myself in the other camp.<br />
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When we announce that we are pregnant, it is a glorious thing (hopefully). We call people, we create cute announcements, we surprise grandparents, etc. And with our decision not to have another kid, I found myself wanting to make the same type of announcement. I called my family and told them one at a time. When people ask me what's new, I blurt out that we're excitedly not having another kid. When I see folks with <strike>only children </strike>(<--only children is a weird way to say a family has one child...) singletons, I want to chat about it.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "san francisco" , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">My life is multi-faceted (as I'm sure everyone's is...) and instead of unconsciously ignoring the facets, I actually thought about each one: Can we truly afford this? Am I fulfilled in my purpose work? Is being a mom more important than ______? Do I ha</span></span><span style="font-family: "san francisco" , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">ve enough time for my marriage (which is awesome)? Do I have enough time for the child I already have? Do I have enough time for my close friends? Do I travel as much as I want to? Is this environmentally aligned with my values? Do I feel healthy enough for another child (heck, am I healthy enough for this one?)? Do I have enough energy? Do I feel spiritually called to have another child? The answer was no, for each question.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: "san francisco" , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family: "san francisco" , , , ".sfnstext-regular" , sans-serif; letter-spacing: -0.24px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Then I asked myself: Am I able to enjoy my life right now? Does this child make my heart sing? Is he enough for me? And I answered yes to these. And in the end, I can't live in regret but I can choose to make conscious decisions...and this was that. A conscious choice to see this child and this life with this child as <b>enough </b>(and more accurately, it's plenty!). I don't say he's perfect (perfectionism and that language doesn't work for me) because he's just him. I don't need perfect. But I do need choice. Same way with friendships and marriage. I won't regret if I make a choice.</span></span></span></span><br />
Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-41015895453713726272017-04-25T07:00:00.000-07:002017-04-25T07:00:18.874-07:00"How are you?"I just ran into a friend outside a store, earlier today. She asked me, "How are you? What's new?"<br />
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This is a standard greeting. I think the typical response is supposed to be, "I'm doing well. Not much is new. What about you?"<br />
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You have probably gathered by now that I rarely offer a standard reply. But why is that?<br />
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I was asked this once when I was living in the Findhorn Community. The person asking was physically on her bicycle moving in the opposite direction. I was feeling especially sad/lonely/isolated/homesick. I asked, "Do you really want to know?" because I didn't feel like lying, if I didn't have to. She said, "Yes, I do." She hopped off her bike, so I shared. It was probably a 30-45 minute chat. But I *needed* it. I didn't know how much, until I heard myself talking and sharing. I was thankful she asked and was honestly interested.<br />
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I try to assess when "fine" is the desired response (in case someone doesn't have time for me to share deeply), but I also like to take the time to respond sincerely and intimately. How else am I going to connect? To reduce isolation? To know what's honestly going on with myself AND them?<br />
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So my friend today asked me what's new and rather than hurry off to my next thing (which was nothing, honestly), I shared intimately. This is not someone I see regularly, but even though I tend to feel self-conscious about sharing after the fact ("Did I share too much? Was that appropriate? Does she even care? Was she offended?"), I more often than not feel some relief about sharing more personally. It's not that she needs to care or be affected in a deep way, either. It's just that I have a choice in how isolated I let myself become. When I don't share, I isolate. It's not about me and taking up space, it's about reaching out and connecting. When people commit suicide or die from an addiction, I think about how many times and instances of isolation it took for that to decision to take hold. And I don't want it to take hold with me.<br />
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I also want to be a safe space for others, should they choose to get out of their isolation. When I ask, "How are you?" I truly mean it. Or I'll say, "I can't talk now, but I want to know, so let's make a plan to get together."<br /><br />
I shared my personal thing, then my friend shared her personal thing and what could have been a literal passing each other on the street, turned into connection, a solid moment when we were both able to hang out in the Seattle drizzle and be real in person.<br />
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I can't have 4-5 hour convos like I used to. It's just not realistic. And I can't have everyone over for dinner, or write everyone a long letter of intimate thoughts and feelings. I have tried, but it's too hard with my current life. But I can still connect, reach out, be available, and make conscious choices about isolating or not. I can put my value of connection at the top of my priority list.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-44600963419806215892017-04-22T12:05:00.001-07:002017-04-22T12:05:51.901-07:00Earth DayIt's Earth Day today and a sort of <u>birth</u>day for me.<br />
When I was 11 years old (28 years ago!), I went with my Jewish community to plant trees on Martin Luther King Way, in Seattle. It was a "basic tree planting" community gig. I'm not sure I thought much about it...but I never forgot it.<br />
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Here was a group of people, lining the street, planting trees in front of homes, adding to the beauty of the city. But it was more. The people in the homes were not the tree planters and they came out to say thank you. The tree planters were all ages, all abilities, and all willing participants. I witnessed that warm feeling when people come together for a common thing. We weren't "saving the earth." We were *just* planting trees, it seemed. It was such a SMALL gesture, I see now.<br />
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But it made an ENORMOUS impact on me. That summer I figured out a way to organize an environmental day camp for younger kids. I called places to see if they'd take us on tours of green spaces, we made cool tshirts, birdhouses, learned about recycling, etc. <br />
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Then I joined an adult, Jewish, environmental group. I was 11, bringing the average age down only a little. I learned about stuff that was over my head in many ways but the adults were happy to listen to an 11 year old ask questions and inquire about why things are geared only to adults...kids are interested too!<br />
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Ever after that, I have been staunch environmentalist. I practice it in different ways, that usually correlate with my ability and willingness at the time. We were car-free for several years, then owned an electric car for a short time. We now drive two cars because of our jobs, but we still carpool and use public transportation as much as we can.<br />
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Clothing-wise, I used to buy all sorts of clothes, from sweatshop-using brands (before I knew better) and now my clothes are primarily used because that's easy for me to do and I feel way better. K only gets new clothes if it's a necessity or they are bought for him.<br />
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Food-wise, we used to eat primarily raw vegan until I needed to increase my good cholesterol. Now, the pendulum swings away from raw because our lives changed. We grow what we can in the backyard. We can go back to a stricter eating lifestyle any time.<br />
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Child-wise, we can be wasteful. Lots of things are designed disposably. And yes, for some (me) cloth diapering is challenging for reasons other than convenience. We do try to scale back on the consumption, when it works for us. Believe me, I tried to be dogmatic about it and it was agonizing.<br />
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We still consume and we still use (and sadly, waste) resources, but we're partnering with <a href="http://www.thecommunitygeneralstore.com/">The Community General Store,</a> in West Seattle, to share bigger purchases with others because we don't use all that we have right now. And we don't need to buy things new. We don't need new toys, or new books. We'd rather share the space and be with people.<br />
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It's silly to think we can dogmatically be one way forever. Even <a href="http://noimpactproject.org/">No Impact Man</a> couldn't stay No Impact forever...but that's not the point. The point was to examine conscious choice and decide intentionally what was needed vs. wanted.<br />
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I share all of this because it's not about being one way forever. But we can examine the choices we have made and then re-examine them again later, to see if we still want to be doing that. We have a big home now, but we're looking to design a smaller, most sustainable home in the future.<br />
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On Earth Day, I don't just celebrate the Earth, I celebrate the beginning of my conscious relationship with the Earth. I don't just practice environmentalism because I'm told the world is falling apart. I am actively partnering with the Earth. I can't live in Seattle like I did in the <a href="https://www.findhorn.org/">Findhorn Community</a>. That takes a level of commitment that would likely be easier in a different location and within a different culture (I have tried, it is HARD to live like I did there, without living in an intentional community). But I know I will go back there often, and for longer stints to do it more.<br />
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The Earth might benefit more from us partnering with it, rather than trying to save it. It's powerful, it will eject us when it needs to. But we can partner. We can listen. We can act, even in small ways. It does make an impact.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-3394302279410020662017-02-16T11:03:00.003-08:002017-02-16T11:03:35.946-08:00"Tell me something uplifting"A friend of mine at work sat down at the lunch table, where we all eat together, and said, "Tell me something uplifting. I'm worried about the immigrants in this country."<br />
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I waited to see what my progressive, political, super-informed co-workers had to say. Several folks weren't able to come up with anything. It's a tough time that's just beginning and people are worried.<br />
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I thought about whether to share a personal story or not, because I was worried it wouldn't apply. But because I didn't want my friend to keep going down the depressing spiral, I decided I would share.<br />
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"Before I worked here, I was unemployed. I was 'living' with my husband on one small income, with a mortgage and an almost 2 year old. We were literally eating beans and rice (thankfully my husband is a very creative cook) and we'd rotate which bill got paid each month.<br />
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I knew if I didn't pull my community closer to me, I would plummet into a deep despair and I wasn't sure how I'd get out. So that's what I did. I emailed a few close friends and said, 'Look, we need you right now. We're going to start inviting ourselves to dinner and showing empty-handed at potlucks because we don't have enough at the moment, but we don't want to isolate.'<br />
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And my friends were awesome. They said, 'Of course.'<br />
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So we spent MORE time with them, we found ways to creatively hang out for free, we invited people over to our house for a potluck, even though we didn't have much, and the place filled with delicious food, laughter, and togetherness. Eventually, I did get a job, but what could've been a tragedy, turned into <b>a way to get closer</b>. And we did."<br />
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My friend said that actually DID help her feel less despair. And another co-worker said that she was thankful I had shared my story.<br />
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I share it now here to remind us that we have a choice in conflict...we can pull apart and isolate, or we can get closer, warm by each other's fires, and share. For some of us, it might be hard to reach out, and I have been there. I had to practice making phone calls. It took me a while to stop wishing it would go to voicemail. But it just takes practice. One call/dinner at a time. Find one person or family that you can practice getting closer to. Pick one day a month to invite someone(s) over. Start somewhere and we can lift ourselves (and each other) up.<br />
<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-62818481045585969442017-01-22T13:21:00.002-08:002017-01-22T13:21:46.038-08:00Mama, Let's Go and MarchMy family and I marched yesterday in one of the biggest marches Seattle has ever seen. An estimated 140,000 people came out with signs, pink pussy(cat) hats, and supportive energy (a few folks showed up to "trump" on us, but were drowned out, of course). We were a part of herstory and it was enlightening.<br />
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This morning, seeing all the social media pictures from practically everyone I know marching yesterday was even more encouraging. Time, energy and choice were put into going out to the Womxn's March. I loved it. K loved it. Josh loved it.<br />
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And I think it bolstered us as a people. As a part of the nation that stands strong in its support of progressive values. We looked around and saw ourselves in each other. That's what's supposed to happen. We do it in protest many times, but for me, the community energy is why I do it. To be alive in the flow of love, acceptance, resistance (to hate and fear) and togetherness.<br />
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I've protested a lot in my life. This felt much easier, much more normalized, much more about a way of being, not just a statement against something. It was many statements FOR things. Awesome stuff. And I saw a sign that said, "Thank you Trump for bringing us together" (or something like that). And I thought about that and y'know it's true. It got 140,000 people out to walk together.<br />
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Another personal anecdote I wanted to share is this:<br />
Josh and I had a REALLY rough year in the beginning of 2014. Rough enough to create some big darkness inside me about self-worth and purpose. That's never good. But also during that financially, emotionally, spiritually challenging time, we were more engaged with our community than we had been many years prior. We asked for more help. We were more humble. We gave what we could. We received with grace. We reached out, we stayed out of isolation as much as possible. We learned what was important to us, what made us thrive when we were struggling. We held on to what we were grateful for and put more time and effort into appreciating it.<br />
So it will be for us when shit hits the fan for however long T-bag is in office.<br />
Join me if you wish, or some up with your own way of moving from surviving to thriving. We CAN do this. We've all done this before (maybe not on such a grand scale, but we have). Stay strong.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-83845910081581404812016-07-30T08:56:00.001-07:002016-07-30T08:56:15.486-07:00Cage free vs. Free range parentingOkay, I admit, the labels we use to talk about eggs is NOT the best analogy, but as my almost four year old son ventured out into the front yard to "look for fossils," I realized that my parenting has changed a lot in the last year.<br />
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When he was two years old, he looked and talked like he was three. On the playground he often saw kids, who talked and looked like him, do things that I wasn't sure he knew how to do yet (like jump from a certain height on the playground). So I hovered and helicoptered. I don't care what other parents say, I know the distance I need to be for us both to feel comfortable.<br />
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But over time, I noticed that he was venturing farther and farther away (not too far, of course) and we learned to "check back" (he uses his own internal clock to check in with me from time to time so I know he's safe), he learned to try stuff without me prodding or cringing, and eventually, I learned to see how much he trusted himself.<br />
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That was key, though. I needed to see how comfortable he felt with himself, not how comfortable I felt about him and his actions. For instance, he's really comfortable in the water. He wears a life jacket and has no problem jumping in, getting his face wet, belly-flopping, etc. I don't think I would have guessed it would happen so early (I was not a fan of face in the water swim methods as a child), but he's way into it. When he does get a mouthful of water, we're right there, NOT freaking out, and asking if he's okay. We aren't alarmists. Freaking out in the water always makes it worse. We see if he's okay and when he nods, we go back to what we were doing.<br />
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We still don't let him roam too far away, but we are in communication often. Cage free for chickens means that they aren't in cages but have no outdoor access (so the analogy isn't really accurate, we DO let K outside!) and free range is full access to outdoors, and ability to freely roam. We're not <u>there</u> yet (but we talk about when that might be a lot). But I like the idea that we are paying attention to what sort of freedom K needs. It's not simple enough to say that he can play on his own (he can't, he needs some eye contact every once in a while), but he doesn't need us around every moment, micro-managing. He needs to know where we are, so he can find us, and he needs to know we're paying attention. I believe that helps him trust himself and allows us to see how much he trusts himself. He's also free to tell us to go away. He needs that too (and so do we).<br />
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I don't want to undermine that. When he gets older, we'll have to do similar things. I was trustworthy but my parents were skeptical and that irritated me. While I did a few "teenage-y" things, I was relatively responsible. And had they been more trusting, I might have shared more.<br />
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Communication is 93% nonverbal and 7% verbal! So trust is one of those things that is probably mostly non-verbal. Saying we trust him is probably not what demonstrates trust. Letting him experiment, explore, play, and roam on his own is what shows that we trust him and he learns that he's trustworthy that way, too.<br />
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We're definitely not perfect at it (and sometimes even if he's "safe" I micromanage the use of crayons, pens, and staining things because <u>I'm</u> like that), but it helps to realize that we are in communication about it, even when we don't say a thing.<br />
<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-9290172399900272952016-04-28T15:08:00.001-07:002016-04-28T15:08:32.628-07:00Letting go of doing, letting go of persona (a double dose of letting go)The last couple of weeks have been intense and challenging. I'm not sure it's over yet. As is my style, I am dealing with challenges with K, my career path, and just life in general, all at once.<br />
In the midst of that I am being coached around writing a parenting book (very exciting) and developing more income streams. At work I have been encouraged by several people to take more of a leadership role in my job.<br />
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I'm officially overwhelmed.<br />
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My normal go-to experience (and coping) of overwhelm involves me shutting down, getting very cynical, daydreaming of becoming unemployed again so I can hide, complaining that it's all too much, oversimplification about how problems can be solved, etc. It's how I rebel in that state of mind. It's very rarely effective. It definitely gets me attention.<br />
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I'm afraid people won't like me if I make bigger leadership moves (like doing something not everyone will like--I love to be loved!). So if I shut down, that's easier. That gets more sympathy and empathy, which I'm perfectly fine with. Sometimes I'll get help solving the problem (until it shows up again, of course). If I plead innocent in the way life rolls out, then it'll be okay and I'll still be loved, seen, understood.<br />
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But in the past couple of days I have noticed that my sleeves are too short on this emotional shirt of "It's not me, it's the rest of the world." I have experienced a growth spurt overnight and all of a sudden, ways I've been living my life don't fit.<br />
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In my coaching sessions we talk a lot about being, rather than doing. A part of my mind is like, "Yeah, yeah. I got it. Be-ing not Do-ing. But anyway, let's get back to what I'm doing...Be-ing is for people with free time and lots of money." Oh. Cue the gut punch. Do-ing has been a hallmark of my behavior. If I "do" correctly (and that means perfectly, entertainingly, uniquely, etc.) then I will win in the end. I will get recognition, I will get more money, I will be loved and appreciated the way I crave, and all will be well. And if I am not feeling those things, then I'm just not "Do-ing" right. That's an amazingly simplistic and easy way to view my life. It's also a great way to qualify my effort. It's easy to tell myself I'm not capable, I'm lazy, I'm unlucky, and whatever self-deprecating I can pile on.<br />
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Through coaching I learned about my Essence. I learned that I Be (Yes, I am aware of all the strange grammar and hyphenation, but that's a bit of poetic license) these: Integrity, Connection, Play, Curiosity, Beacon. Whether I'm Do-ing or not, I am Be-ing those things. Which I definitely take for granted. Be-ing is not good enough, I tell myself. Just walking around Be-ing is lazy!<br />
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And here it goes again...that struggle.<br />
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So in the past week I have been thinking a different thought as much as I can. What if <b>before</b> I launch into Do-ing, I start out from Be-ing? Can I work from a place of Be-ing Integrity? When I get home tired and my kid is happy and excited to see me, can I come from a place of Be-ing Play, rather than seeing the time with him as another way my energy will be depleted? Can I come from Be-ing Connection? That's less about Do-ing and more about simply Be-ing.<br />
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Do vs. Be is an old discussion. So old that I think I assumed I could have some awareness and that would be good enough. I'd just switch automatically. But here's the loop: in order to fully Be, I need to be aware of the moment when I slip into Do. My energy dips just thinking about it. I don't act playful, I Do playing. Which is exhausting sometimes. So part of the Do-ing needs to be in the conscious choice of Be-ing.<br />
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If I take a moment to Be my Essence (or simply be conscious that I am my Essence already), then Do makes more sense, I feel less drained, more grounded, more spacious, slower (in a good way), more engaged and connected, lighter, more seen and heard, less annoyed, more generous, more compassionate, etc. If I can remember that I don't have to Do anything to be the Essence of myself (it simply exists inside me), then I can always start out from there because I am <i>already</i> always starting out from there.<br />
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This is a huge thing for me.<br />
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Trauma, and particularly early childhood trauma, can skip over the Be and jump right to Do. Kids are rarely conscious of who they Be. They are their Essence and cannot usually separate that out. But in my case, and I'm sure I'm not alone, I went right to Do. What can I "do" about death, sexual abuse, being liked, staying invisible, being seen, fixing the world, fixing myself, etc.? What do I need to do to get money, succeed, feel happy, win?<br />
A small person might think, "Well, Being (as in being innocence and curiosity) seems to have led to these traumatic (but possibly avoidable) events, I will need to focus more on Do (which is also how we control our world)." It's not logical to adults the same way it is for kids. Kids simply start making hypotheses and then executing and testing against them. Whatever works best, wins. Even if it doesn't work *that* well, if it works well enough, then it stays.<br />
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This plays out in parenting all the time. I have a very hard time believing that it's who I am Be-ing that is my best work, rather than what I am Do-ing. I want my kid (and everyone else for that matter) to know that I am working as hard as I can to fix, guide, corral, and control how he navigates the world. Boundaries, limitations, unique experiences, whether we have another child or not, who he interacts with, what he eats, how he sleeps, rules, what he reads, etc. (sadly, the list goes on and on). Working *really* hard to manage all that.<br />
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What I don't do very much is come from my Essence. I don't seek Connection first. I don't start out from Be-ing Playful first, and then engage my son. I don't come from Curiosity (I usually come straight from Control and Fear, to be perfectly honest).<br />
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I need to develop a daily (probably hourly) practice of consciousness around my Essence (I'm so sneaky, I just turned this into a Do!). It doesn't need to be complicated, just an awareness of when I get caught up and feel trapped, it's probably because I'm moving into Do-mode.<br />
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If work is hard, who can I Be? Can I stand in my Integrity and move from there?<br />
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I'll never stop Do-ing, I know that. That makes sense. But I can start from Be-ing and then the Do-ing isn't so disconnected and untethered.<br />
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One day at a time, but awareness is key.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-49551005765980311982016-03-17T21:30:00.001-07:002016-03-17T21:30:20.190-07:00Letting go of peopleI'll share more about this later and I've already shared about isolation in other posts but I wanted to write about it, because honestly, that's why I started this blog in the first place. I'm not the first mom, nor am I the first mom to blog, and I'm still not the first mom to tell the truth on a blog. And telling the truth is the most important part of being a mom to me. At least, telling "a" truth.<br />
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My family and community lost a dear, dear friend to suicide this week. I don't know the details but from the snippets I've heard there was some PTSD, depression, and extreme financial strain that probably contributed to this lovely, beautiful woman choosing to end her life.<br />
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We don't like to talk about suicide in our culture. We often want to separate out those who commit suicide from those who...well...didn't. "Those people over there" couldn't find a way out. They were sick. They didn't want help. We can tell ourselves a lot of things. We can also flip it and go to self-blame. I wasn't there for her, I didn't do enough, I should've called, I should've, could've, would've.<br />
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But it's too complex for those absolute fix it thoughts, too. Life is a conversation, not a mere question and answer session. We toil, we test, we triumph, we try, and we think some more. We roll it around in our heads. We say it out loud to see how it sounds.<br />
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What I want to say tonight, and what I will continue to talk about, is that we all have a responsibility to ourselves and each other, to learn about isolation and how it can wreak havoc. We can start talking about it. We can start recognizing it in ourselves and others. It's not just a mental illness thing. Media has a part, consumerism has a part, groupthink has a part, etc. We repeat what we hear and don't even think about how it might be isolating, to us OR others.<br />
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Many a person experiences isolation in their lives. If we have lived a life at all, we have experienced it. I just hope we can start talking more about it.<br />
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More later.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-57790062243777468822016-03-12T16:04:00.002-08:002016-03-12T16:04:31.157-08:00Letting go of trying hard to be someone I'm notIt's hard to keep up with the blog sometimes...in comparison to how fast my kid is changing and me along with him. But this is important to share.<br />
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So I work in a non-profit at the moment, and while I enjoy working for a good cause, I was starting to get restless. I am a restless person, or so I have reflected about my experience of life, so this seemed really natural. I had a million interests growing up, I was really involved in high school, I attended 5 colleges (with credits at 9 colleges by the end), and I have a million ideas at least every day before noon. If you know me at all, this isn't new information. I've just accepted this about myself (and you have too, probably). I'm entrepreneurial to a fault and it's one of those things I love/hate about myself.<br />
When I was in my early 20s my mom asked me, "Why can't you just get a job and stick with it?" I didn't have a good answer, other than, "I just don't like it anymore. It doesn't speak to me."<br />
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On and on it has gone for me. Always into something new. I left the same law firm twice to try different things, in hopes of being self-employed so that I could escape the monotony of work. No dice.<br />
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And here I am, at 38+ and I'm doing it again. Getting restless and dissatisfied. In addition to working 35 hours a week, and running an airbnb in the summer, I've been wanting to earn additional money. We're doing okay at the moment, but I can't fathom having another child with no increase in income and so I've been looking around. What could I do? What can I do that doesn't require extra education, that won't have me starting at entry level or won't make me bored in 6 months? I like coaching. But I'm horrible at marketing myself (or just confused). Maybe I could do some virtual work or drive for Uber or sell all my belongings or...or...or. This is where the exhausted emoticon goes.<br />
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I thought about a complete career switch into Organizational Development, but that sort of requires an MA in Org Dev and with it, more debt. Which if you know anything else about me, it's that I am tired of my debt. When I shared this dilemma (for the millionth time, it seemed) with a close friend, she gently said, "Look, you do this a lot. You have a way you want to be, and instead of just doing it the way you want to do it, you try to shove it into a more acceptable career and then you get restless and then this starts all over again. Since I've known you, you've been a writer in your heart, and I think you should just do THAT."<br />
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Huh. She was right. I did do this over and over. I tried to get busy being useful to others, I tried to find a way to shove my creative, artistic, intuitive self into places where it sort of didn't belong, where there was really no place for it to be confortable. Sure, I got a few moments of reprieve and acknowledgement, but not enough for my tastes. I was always ANGRY that no one appreciated my value and worth. I am intelligent, skilled, I have experience in a lot of things, interest in even more things, I am well-read, well-traveled, etc. I stayed at jobs with a crap ton of low self-esteem because I didn't see how to fully be myself in a work environment. I've had great bosses that let me be as much of myself as possible, but couldn't really let me fly because that wasn't what I was hired for. It was depressing.<br />
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Being a writer though? That was just a lifelong hobby. I mean I couldn't make money at it. At least that's what I was told once. I needed a backup plan. Artists don't make money, I've heard over and over and over. I mean, some can (the really special/brilliant/lucky ones), but not me. Certainly, not me. Right?<br />
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But as this friend's truth washed over me, I had to admit that I really hadn't given it a good shot. I really hadn't let that part of me shine very bright. I wrote daily, I took classes, I graduated (finally) with a concentration in writing, I lived and breathed writing, but how could I possibly make it a career or even just take it seriously?<br />
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I've been feeling really stuck lately. I'm heavier than I want to be, crankier than I want to be, I'm exhausted and annoyed, I feel undervalued, underemployed, unheard and unseen. Some of my friendships are strained or distant (usually because of me). I'm overwhelmed easily. I have no energy. I'm constantly challenged by my kid. I have no faith I can have another kid and stay mentally sane. Could writing, and committing to writing as a way of life and possibly, eventually, a career, be the ticket to solving or at least helping ALL of these problems? That one thought, the thought that writing could bring me up to the surface, started to make me feel lighter all of a sudden. Really?<br />
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As cliche as it sounds, was 'it' always here, right under my nose, the whole time? How come it took about 20+ people (my first boyfriend in 10th grade told me I'd be a famous writer one day...and many, many people have kept telling me over the years...) to finally let this in? How come I hadn't really invested the time? Was it because that one time, one person said it wouldn't be worth it? Was I afraid she was right?<br />
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I'm finally in the "I don't care what people think" part of my life, or at least mostly there, and maybe it needed to take this long to try EVERY OTHER THING first. Even when I claimed that writing was just a hobby, I still did it a lot. Blogs, morning pages, NaNoWriMo, poorly paid online content, letters to friends, a degree in Creative Nonfiction, several book starts, countless short personal narrative pieces. I never stopped. I actually don't think I can stop. When I think about not being able to write I get <strike>nervous</strike> anxious. I always need a pen around. Blank journals are the best presents. It seems silly looking back as far as I can remember and thinking that this <i>wasn't</i> inevitable. I write for my life and through my life. I write to save my life. I write to save the lives of others. I write to move through the pain, to hear the Inner Voice, to hear the Higher Self. I write to hang on to the shreds of sanity. I write to let go. I write to dislodge the stuck places in my heart and mind. I write to release the anger.<br />
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So I took some time to really let it sink in that I am a Writer. Which means that I started to see all the anger and the confusion and the low self-esteem as the symptoms of my not writing, and more specifically, my not <b>committing</b> to writing. It's not just a hobby. It's a way of life. I have never tried to make a living at writing. I had never even attempted to publish (anything) until 2014 and when I sold about 40 ebooks on Amazon and didn't turn into an overnight sensation, I thought that it was true, I couldn't make a living. I didn't really put much more effort into it.<br />
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But now I get it. I need to lean in a lot more. I need to commit a lot more. I need to see writing as expansive and flexible and able to hold all those different pieces of me. I need to focus on more than one way to express myself. I have to write more than one book. All those ideas I've had about ways to share words, I need to honor those and actually do them, practice, ship it out (as Seth Godin says). I need to risk rejection and failure and then see myself keep going and keep trying things out. Writing is <i>fun</i> for me. If I am going to survive the hardest parts that are probably yet to come in my life, I need to write <i><b>more</b></i>.<br />
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I've been reading a lot of Derek Sivers, Gary Vaynerchuk, Chris Guillebeau and Seth Godin and many others (coincidentally, not a lot of women...hmm). I need to surround myself with writers, with folks who are bucking the norms, who are stepping away from "acceptable" careers and ways of being to be who they are.<br />
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So I'm working on a few books, a few blogs, some art pieces, and even some clothing ideas. I feel better, I am able to spend more quality time with my son, I'm able to let go of trying a million more things (so exhausting, by the way), I want to connect with my friends, and in my free time, I just want to write.<br />
<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-75506927821634221352016-01-29T15:15:00.000-08:002016-01-29T15:15:41.748-08:00A few creative writing pieces...<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Evidence - October 19, 2013 (1+years old)</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">As I pick up your toys from the day's adventures, and hear you talking yourself to sleep in the other room, I smile as each plaything goes back in the toy box. I live the day in reverse, thinking of all the fun we had. The coffee table, helter-skelter from being pushed aside to make room, the pillows carelessly strewn around your playhouse, perfect for wrestling, and crumbs from a recent snack attack are photographed in my mind, to keep forever. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "verdana" , sans-serif;">Righting the furniture to the original placement, sweeping up the crumbs, and turning the living room back into "public space," it occurs to me that the only evidence of our awesome day is the warm, expansive feeling in my heart and the tiredness in my body from pure play. </span></div>
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<a href="https://www.facebook.com/notes/becca-campbell/all-of-a-sudden/10151567311219013" style="background-color: white; color: #232937; cursor: pointer; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 18px;">All of a sudden</a></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">In the beginning, your cries are high pitched and emergent</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">It's as if you don't think anyone is coming back for you</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">But y'see, we never leave your side. Even when our bodies are apart</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">we are always sending out mama and papa waves</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">telling you we're here</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Then you get a little bit older and you learn about us coming back</span><span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br />you hear us in another room and turn to our voice<br /><br />Your body grows and learns to locomote and you follow us around<br />always wanting us in your view<br />Like we always want you in ours.<br /><br />When you sleep, we sneak peeks and cry about your sweetness<br /><br />Then all of a sudden it happens...<br /><br />We are always in the process of holding you close and letting you go<br />And you are always in the process of trusting our distance and expecting our return.</span></div>
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<span class="text_exposed_show" style="background-color: white; color: #141823; display: inline; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">And when those tiny but strong legs learn to walk, we all know something new<br /><br />We know this is another beginning of not only a phase, but of a separation.<br /><br />We'll still always be there and you'll still always look,<br />and the invisible, but very palatable cords between all of our hearts,<br />will lengthen, but never weaken.<br /><br />All of a sudden.</span></div>
Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-78371393698964500432016-01-29T15:14:00.000-08:002016-01-29T15:14:27.387-08:00The flipside of letting go<div style="text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's been a few months and I've been on vacation and upon my return I bought a book that a friend recommended: </span><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1607747308/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1607747308&linkCode=as2&tag=goinggreen-20&linkId=OU6CJ55PZHSWIHXQ">The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of Decluttering and Organizing</a>.<img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=goinggreen-20&l=as2&o=1&a=1607747308" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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In a hyphenated word, this book is, well, life-changing. The title is appropriate. In fact, it's life-changing AND magic. I read it quickly, but she has a few key points that turn things on their heads. Rather than de-cluttering and letting go with the idea of what you can part with, why not just keep what SPARKS JOY?<br />
I'm sorry, what? Joy?! What do you mean? Well, to be fair, I know exactly what she means from studying energy, dowsing, and intuition for years, but I'm being dramatic.<br />
Because this idea hadn't really occurred to me with regard to my stuff. Sure, many things I have in my home make me smile or remind me of good times, but sparking joy seems a lot different. She didn't say "Gives you a chuckle" or "Reminds you fondly." She wrote, "sparks joy."<br />
While reading the book, I would put it down and look around my lovely house and think, "Crap, not much of this sparks joy."<br />
I've always had the concept of usefulness and almost everything would stay because it *could* be useful *someday* and well, sometimes that day came, but MOST times it did not.<br />
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So what does this mean for me, I kept wondering. Would I need to touch every object in my home and ask if it sparked joy? Could I possibly do that? And would that work? Would it really magically change my life? Well, I'm planning my go-through days soon.<br />
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Marie Kondo says to do it all at once, and not over a longer period of time. And she says that you should just do it once, not over and over.<br />
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Just those two ideas alone are life-changing. I go through my clothes sort of about twice a year. I go through my books once a year or once every two years. </div>
Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-12348051387279235342016-01-29T00:00:00.000-08:002016-01-29T00:00:09.999-08:00Parenting while traveling...AKA extreme letting goI recently did something that many people warned me about. They told me K was too young, that he wouldn't remember it, and that it will be hard. Don't call it a vacation, they said. Don't try to do too much, they cautioned.<br />
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Well, I did it. I took my three year old to Europe (Paris and Barcelona). My mother traveled with me and my younger brother at the same age, to far more dangerous countries, and she said that it was a great idea.<br />
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We went because the Universe conspired to arrange for us to go. I had the idea that I wanted to go to the Airbnb Open and it seemed like a pipe dream and yet, moment after moment seemed to clear away ALL the obstacles (include some financial obstacles AND in Paris, a terrorist attack!).<br />
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I love Europe. I love it in a way that I can't always explain. And J loves it too. So why not bring K, whom we also both love, to the place we both love?<br />
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Because you know this blog is about letting go, and you know by now that I always start out with grand ideas, you can assume that more grand ideas were laid to rest while abroad.<br />
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I thought my kid would sleep on the plane. I thought we'd be able to eat gluten free. I thought my kid would eat food other than the SAME food he eats at home. I thought he would be able to handle crazy hours, no naps, and long hours of walking (this was just my fault for not really understanding how much I walk in Europe---6-9 miles a day!).<br />
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That all faded as the trip went on. By the time we returned on the plane, I was more than comfortable allowing my kid to zone out for 10 hours (well, eight, because c'mon, he needed one nap!), he ate what he would eat, we carried him a lot more (because 9 miles of walking is a lot for anyone, especially ones with little legs), and the frequent outbursts and tantrums were just par for the course.<br />
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I had not planned on K pronouncing "croissant" in a French accent, or his playground radar to be so accurate (there are SO many playgrounds in the big European cities!), or his Metro/subway riding to become so adept. Relatively speaking, he was awesome. It was still hard for me to simply focus more on parenting than enjoying Europe, but for the most part, he went out late with us and got up early with us and marveled at the same things we did. We have initiated a world traveler.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-44477070866472511372016-01-28T19:50:00.001-08:002016-01-28T19:50:38.621-08:00Another Mama chimes in...<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
<i>This is written by a good Mama friend of mine, <span style="line-height: 18.6px; text-indent: 2px; white-space: pre;"><a href="https://www.facebook.com/peatuttle?fref=nf">Kristin Tuttle-Tomaschke</a>. I haven't changed any part of it and other than this small intro, I have not weighed in. Perhaps I will comment down below if others chime in. Feel free!</span></i></div>
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Why we have to stop calling our sons, “All-boy”</div>
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When I first found out I was pregnant, I was immediately sure I was having a girl. My daughter. I remember walking down the street to the grocery store, talking to her in my mind, imagining the afternoons that we would make this walk together. We picked out a name very early on, even before we knew we were pregnant, and I called her by name in those first few weeks.</div>
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Months later, I was 30 weeks and very, very pregnant. Everything had changed- we had told everyone, facebook included, our spare room was piled with baby clothes and gear, and our bed was a mountain of extra pillows. We were weeks away from moving and one afternoon I sat on the floor, sorting things into boxes and watching movies. In one movie, I watched two dads adopt a little boy and felt a lurch in my stomach. I think this was the first time it occurred to me that yes, I could actually be the mom of a boy. That it really could happen, and it might. In the coming weeks, I flirted with the idea of having a boy, a son. That I could be that type of mom, that sporty, no-fuss, smart, savvy, mom-of-boys was outlandish to me, and kind of intriguing. In the throes of labor, moments before he was born I asked everyone in the room what they thought the baby would be. Everyone there said girl, including my husband. I said boy.</div>
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On September 17th 2012, our son, Julian Rex was born. Two years and three weeks later, our second son Ambrose Aldan slipped quietly into the world to join him. I am the mother of sons. Whatever that means, whatever it says about me and my husband, who we are, who we should try to be- that’s us.</div>
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In college and even growing up, I had fantasized about what it would mean to raise a daughter, to teach her to be strong, loud, bold, large. To challenge the status quo, to learn how to sew, to repair things, to move furniture, cook dinner, speak up for herself, use jumper cables, read a manual before calling the plumber. I read hungrily all the articles on avoiding body shaming, silencing, bullying etc. But then I had boys. At first, I told myself, “Just reset.” Okay, so I don’t have to teach those lessons. That’s okay; there are other mountains to conquer. There must be something important I can teach them about being tender and emotional maybe? About being friendly, making eye contact?</div>
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If you know my oldest son, you know that it is not untrue to call the way he carries and moves himself through life “barreling.” He was born early, came out like a shot, immediately seemed cool and together in his new world. Even as a baby, I knew him. He made an impression. If he could physically do something, he did it about 100 miles per hour. As a 3 year old, he hasn’t changed. He jumps into things, talks to anyone. He is daring, he is bold, he speaks up. If you get too handsy, he’ll knock you down. If you look at him too hard, he'll walk toward you and not stop until your faces are millimeters apart. He is bossy, he is direct. He pursues what he wants until he gets your answer.</div>
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And so it began, even at a tiny age. At the park, walking through the grocery store, at a play gym. “Boys, right?” “Wow, he is just all boy, isn’t he?” “Well, boys will be boys!” I never was quite sure what it meant. If he was hitting/pushing/being bossy was it his birthright? It certainly wasn’t okay. Was this our future, undoubtedly? What of the other boys in the room or at the park or in the shopping carts who weren’t like him, weren’t swiping at the cereal boxes and singing at the top of their lungs? If they weren’t “all boy” were they just “partial boys” or “not boys”? Speaking to that, what of my second son? Born almost two weeks late still in his water bag, Ambrose was cautious from the first. He is also brave, and can be so quick and ornery that I’m truly shocked, but he doesn’t barrel through the day. He watches. When someone takes his toy and runs away, he follows them, moves around the front of them and bends down to look in their eyes. He mimics his brother, loves to run naked, sings from the back seat. He’s hilarious. His sense of humor- even at 16 months- has nuance. When they’re together, people just say it of both of them, “Goodness, they’re all boy, aren’t they?”</div>
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Except that they aren’t. To hear my mom tell it, Julian as a toddler is just like me. Youngest of three girls, I recall growing up my two older sisters’ ability to grace a room, to wait, to be shy and interesting. They were both very thin, and very curly haired- a kind of delicacy that could be utilized, and one that I never had. And though we spent countless rowdy, playful imaginative days together, they had a kind of reserved nature that I could never quite get a hold of. They were loud, and funny and full of energy to be sure, but they could turn it off, if and when they wanted. Restraint, a kind of brilliant, sparkling poise. Whereas I was noise, and elbows and round edges, big feet, and LOUD. Ceaseless in conversation and movement. I was Julian, or rather, he is just like me. For a while, when folks would exclaim, “he is all boy!” I might retort, “Actually, I think he’s all Mama!”</div>
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The other day we were at the park together, Julian, Ambrose and myself. We found a magical little hut there in the forested area of the park, intricately woven of fallen limbs and Julian immediately climbed inside. He played Star Wars (though he doesn’t really know what that is). He had me come inside, then kicked me out again. He wanted Ambrose to come in, beckoned him, wanted him out. He found a stick, it was a sword, he hit his brother; it turned into a wand, and I turned into a unicorn. “Now DING, Ambrose is a unicorn, and DING, I am a unicorn, and DING you are a unicorn. Mama, we’re all UNICORNS!” As he spoke he leaped from a stump onto the ground, his hand-me-down pink sparkly high tops glinting in the sun.</div>
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What do we mean when we say, “all-boy”? I don’t know for sure (and perhaps this is the most worrisome part), but I have some suspicions of what the average person means, and I don’t think I’m wrong: Loud. Aggressive. Bold. Dauntless. Confident. Risk-taking. Messy. Energetic. Self-reliant.</div>
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When I look at my son, I can understand why you might say that about him. He is, in moments, all of those things. But, you see, I don’t want to miss him, and of all my mom fears, this is, perhaps, the greatest one. The more I tell myself who my son is or even who I want him to be, the more I fear I will miss the reality, the more complicated, more messy, more beautiful truth. His favorite colors are pink and purple. He loves fairies, ponies, mermaids, ballerinas, princesses. He uses a stick more often as a magic wand than as a gun. His favorite animals are the babies. He loves his toy trucks- and one day I caught him cuddling one in bed, and telling it, it’s birth story. Sometimes things scare him. When the train fell over the edge in Inside Out, he sobbed. If we have to leave a beloved toy behind, usually some kind of car/train/truck, he says he doesn’t want to because, “He’s my best friend!” A few weeks ago he pretended he had a baby. He carried it in his belly, it was born, it was a girl, named Frisbee, and it went to bed with him every night to nurse.</div>
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As I watch my second son, still a baby, grow, I don’t want to miss him, either. He is cautious, but watch out, that kid can go from clingy to 3 blocks away in a half second. He is reserved and watchful, but he can be breath-takingly loud when he wants. And sometimes, he does. And here’s the real danger, and the reality that came crashing down on me that day in the park watching Julian go from storm trooper to purple unicorn faster than you can say “Twilight Sparkle”:</div>
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I don’t really get to teach my sons what it means to be a girl. They don’t have a sister, their niece is thousands of miles away. They play with plenty of girls, but I’m not those girls’ parents. The closest I come to teaching them what a girl is, and the best I can do at shaping the way they interact with women in the future, is by teaching them about themselves. If being a boy means being loud, aggressive, bold, dauntless, confident, risk-taking, messy, energetic, and self-reliant than what am I teaching them about girls? That girls are quiet, passive, meek, shy, insecure, risk-averse, tidy, reserved, needy.</div>
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I LOVE the number of articles I’ve seen passed around lately about how to teach your daughter, and to support all the young girls you know. About how to talk loudly and assertively in meetings as an adult woman. About how to carefully examine the way we hear our female leaders. But I keep waiting for the article that says that how we talk to and about our boys matters just as much, and for the same reason. I haven’t seen it yet, so I thought I would write it myself: Parents, grand-parents, friends: we *have* to stop telling our sons that they are “all-boy” unless we radically clarify and redefine the term. At best, we miss out on the complexity of what it does mean to be a boy; at worst, on what it means to be a human.</div>
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If you know my son, you know he doesn’t hesitate to tell you what he’s thinking. As I watch him fly around the room- he’s a bat, he’s Stella Luna, he’s hunting, now he’s sleeping- I know and I love this about him: He is, without a doubt, all-Julian. This is the most I could ever want for him. This is the most I could ever hope for our children.</div>
Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-28253947340479238022016-01-26T09:16:00.000-08:002016-01-26T09:16:06.185-08:00Letting go allows me to do more...I go to regular therapy, every other week. I go like people go to the gym (only, every other week works better for mental health than phys health, right?). I need to keep my mental and emotional health fit.<br />
Last night I was sharing that yesterday's "bad day" didn't make me feel like a piece of s**t, like it usually does. I usually take myself "out back" and flog myself when I make too many mistakes. It can be pretty emotionally violent up in my head. :(<br />
But I messed up several things and low and behold, no one fired me, yelled at me, gave me a demerit (no, people don't do this anymore, I guess), or told me I was a horrible person. And I guess, for once, I followed suit. I didn't do that to myself, either. I worked out a plan to fix the mistakes, I mea culpa'd where necessary, and finished the day.<br />
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I shared that in therapy because it was strange. I usually come in and try to dig deep into why I made all those mistakes...and many times I blame myself (inappropriately) for not knowing, not paying attention, not being good enough, etc.<br />
Recently, I've been taking <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1422143619/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1422143619&linkCode=as2&tag=goinggreen-20&linkId=WAW5KXYGH3WTHRHA" target="_blank">SMALL steps</a> (this book helped me start doing that) to commit to my creative endeavors. Prior to taking small steps, I have been paralyzed with fear about wasting time and not creating something worthwhile.<br />
Listening to the part of me that liked the smart, small steps plan from the book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1422143619/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=9325&creativeASIN=1422143619&linkCode=as2&tag=goinggreen-20&linkId=WAW5KXYGH3WTHRHA">Just Start</a>, I actually ended up starting a podcast AND deciding on a direction for my next book. Aha! Progress! Movement! Concrete steps!<br />
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And then my therapist brilliantly reflected, "It seems that letting go is allowing you to do more..." I've been trying to get to THAT (doing more, releasing more of my creative talents into the world) for a long time. And letting go was the KEY. In order to commit, I needed to LET GO. Normally, I am not about creative commitment because I am afraid of making a mistake in the commitment (bad idea, bad direction, no one cares about it, I'm nothing unique/original, on and on...).<br />
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This time, with the commitment, I just told myself that smart, small steps would allow me to commit incrementally and then if I must change directions, I would do so when it made the most sense. If it didn't make sense, then I wouldn't have to change directions. I was trying to see the end before I started. Ack.<br />
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Anyway, I have a lot more to say on this, that I have recently discovered about myself and I encourage you to get the book, to think about small, smart steps in the direction of your desires, and how letting go can help you do more.Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-36937315542475403582016-01-21T08:51:00.002-08:002016-04-15T13:00:07.740-07:00"Dear Mom of the Difficult Kid"<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">From Stuff Moms Say...<a href="http://www.stuffmomssay.com/2015/03/dear-mom-of-difficult-kid.html?m=1" target="_blank">"Dear Mom of the Difficult Kid"</a></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This was nice to read. I am learning with Every.Single.Thing. regarding my kid that I am always taking the road less traveled. He's intense. He's talkative (like non-stop, from waking til passing out..and sometimes IN HIS SLEEP). He smacks me hard in the face when he's angry. Calls me names. I had to use my corporate assessment test to remind myself that I am creative, strategic, his world is no more complicated than mine, and I am still alive. <b>So we can do this.</b> Sloppily at times. Horribly at times. Wonderfully brilliant at times. I do not have a heart of steel. I have a part of the Divine Heart, that must bear witness to the craziness of the world, that my son picks up so easily, as an empath. I am not alone. My kid is not alone. You are not alone. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now, I know my kid might read all this that I write about my life with him. And I want to be clear that I don't think of him with the label "Difficult Kid." That was the author of the article, linked above. My kid is simply my kid. He looks difficult at times, but he's all I know, really. And it is difficult for me, but that doesn't make HIM difficult. I know, it might be semantics, but it's important. He's himself. This is all he knows too! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">He feels deeply. His curiosity is unparalleled (I do not know another child like him in that regard). His language, not just his vocabulary, but the way he forms thoughts, sentences, ideas, analogies, is complicated. He stumps me often. His reasoning is beyond my comprehension sometimes. The only way to prepare for a kid like him is to HAVE a kid like him. So me raising him is my bootcamp, my immersion, my intensive. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The cliche that parenting is the hardest work you'll ever love is appropriate. I have suffered more acutely, for shorter amounts of time. My heart has broken prior to this kid entering my life. More than ever, a more appropriate cliche is that Life is Suffering. To be in my life, the way I am now, is to experience the suffering of being separated from the Divine. My kid brings me back to that Divine everyday. Whether directly through my experience with and of him or indirectly through my reflection of who I am and who I want to be. Parenting this beautiful child reminds me how hard things can be. And also, how simple they are, too. He goes from 30-60 in 3 seconds. I GET that. I am able to control the impulse (sometimes) to scream at the top of my lungs, to froth at the mouth from something not going the way I planned, and to smack the closest person to me, regardless of how much they love me, but that took a while. I just get it.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So K came to me to remind me. We're complicated. We're intense (ask anyone who knows me...). We developed ways of being in the world to deal with that. I'm just witnessing K's learning about how to cope. It WILL change, I know it will. Because it already has. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;">So dear parents of kids living in the world, being present, suffering what it is to be human, <b>keep going</b>. Your kids may not tell you right now, but they are internalizing your compassion, your willingness, your growth. Even if they see how hard it is for you, that helps, too. They learn how to handle themselves from watching you. Even when K sees me fly off the handle (and boy, does he ever sometimes...), he ALSO sees me acting calm when he flips out. He sees me take breaks. He sees me set boundaries about what I can handle. He sees me lean on my friends. He sees me laugh, he sees me care for myself. I gotta believe that sticks too.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 16px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span>Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-31163435198341837532015-09-05T08:16:00.000-07:002016-01-29T15:14:03.756-08:00Seasonal letting goSometimes I get caught up in not wanting to let go of something because if I let go, then I have lost it somehow. Like it was mine to *have*. And yet, like with the seasons, I have a hard time letting go and also a hard time remembering that they return. Every year. Without fail. Things about them change (how 'bout that Seattle summer, huh?), but not too much usually (okay, you can argue Global Warming/Weirding). <br />
My point is that I'm sensing the need to make letting go of and looking forward to a part of the process. It's not merely arrival and departure, it's appreciation and reflection.<br />
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What brings me joy is watching the seasons change. I love the new school year, the smell of pumpkin and cider, I love the dampening of sound when it snows and the cinnamon and pine smells, I am elated at the sight of the first bud and how the flowers have their own natural timing of blooming, and the drippy peach juice of summer and early dawn sunlight.<br />
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What bums me out is when I don't take time to appreciate those things. They are mere moments, but if I wait too long (as is often the case) to appreciate them, then I feel I have lost them, and then the resistance to letting go is strengthened. But what if Fall was only those brief moments of cider sips, pumpkin pie, and leaves changing? And I set aside time to pause while I reflected? And what if Winter was one snowfall, on one night in the woods, drinking one cup of hot chocolate, listening to (one part of) Harry Potter on audiobook? And what if Spring was a walk through the Volunteer Park Conservatory or a Garden tour and one bouquet of lilacs? And Summer was one peach, one dawn-breaking walk, one outdoor pool trip?<br />
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Why am I trying to cram in a lifetime of memories into each moment, as if it's the last (well, I can think of unhealthy reasons why, but I digress)? And can one Fall be about pumpkin picking and the next Fall be about cider pressing? Does every Fall have to be about ALL of it? The answer is that I've tried the trying to get all things into one season, to no avail. I think I keep making all my memories cumulative and then I compare 35 years of memories of Fall into one, barely three-month, season. Every year. Yikes. I'm pretty sure I didn't do every special thing, every single season.<br />
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That's my focus this Fall. I want to slow down and try to only appreciate a few moments, not ALL the moments and see if that changes anything. One Pumpkin Spice Latte, one breath of woodstove smoke on a walk, and maybe a pumpkin pie. There's always next year.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-76539130889690154622015-08-10T14:45:00.001-07:002015-08-10T14:45:39.028-07:00We can't compare...I've seen and read countless articles about the comparison of working stay at home parents and working out of the home parents.<br />
Some of the articles are satirically funny (or try to be) and others are straight up slicing and dicing critical of one way or another.<br />
Parents who work are socially flogged for not spending enough time with their kid (and we don't know *why* they are working, do we?), parents who stay at home are stressed out and overworked and despise being seen as not working just as hard as out of home parents.<br />
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But even as I write this I can't for the life of me pick out one example of parents I know who fall 100% on one side or another. And that tells me something. There aren't sides. There are perspectives.<br />
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I know stay at home parents who have blissfully easy children, who do what they say most of the time and who nap regularly, and I know folks who are raising a flock, gaggle, (murder?) of kids who are sapping the life out of them. Sometimes to the point of divorce, illness, and scary other options. I know working parents who are struggling to stay sane, who figured out that finding professionals to help them care for (and raise!) their kids was BEST for their kids and themselves. Most of the people I know did different things at different stages of their children's growing up, to flex to what their family needs.<br />
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<b>I don't know any parent who doesn't struggle with what their parenting looks like.</b><br />
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<u>Read that again.</u><br />
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Whether it's how they spend their time, money, resources, or what they do, say, believe...it seems that we're all writing (and sadly, reading) a lot of articles about the ways we're parenting and how other people feel about that.<br />
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I'm one of the folks that takes offense that someone has pigeon-holed me based on how I spend my time parenting. Just because I'm at work, doesn't mean I'm not parenting, honestly.<br />
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I hear other co-workers flexing their time, talking to their kids on the phone, leaving work early for Dr. appointments and school achievements, and taking sabbaticals to spend more time with their families. You can't tell me that a parent's heart stops beating for their kids when they come to work. I know it's not true. They are still concerned, stressed, strategizing, planning, and loving while they are 'away'. <br />
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But here's what I know: the more I talk to people, the more I explain, the more I realize that I need to be talking to myself.<br />
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What are my issues with my parenting? What are my issues with how much time I spend with my kid? How am I dealing with my stress (do I even register that I am stressed?)? Who are my allies? Who are the friends and family that can ignore my dirty carpet and my occasional lateness and understand that I am attempting a really intense experiment on being human? Do I talk to my kid (no matter how young!) and try to make the moments count or explain when I'm not able to bend to every whim?<br />
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I have been known to be defensive to a voice that only exists in my head. No one has come up to my face (I dare 'em) and told me I'm not working hard at parenting by being at work. Walk a mile in these scuffed up, 3 year old shoes, my friend.<br />
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So if no *real* person is accusing me, then what am I responding to?<br />
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We are so quick to project our own demons out and then write crazy articles about it. And then a bunch of people "like" our thoughts or comments or they respond with criticism. I guess I don't see how this is helping the culture of parenting and child-rearing.<br />
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I tell new parents who are sleep-deprived and out of their minds (sometimes literally) that in the end, your family is the microcosm of the culture around you. I have awesome friends and family, who I believe don't judge me and if they do and they ask me, we'll have a real conversation about our choices. I don't need to be validated anymore (I go to therapy for that) and it has helped me enjoy my time with my family.<br />
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The most important people I need to communicate with about my parenting choices is my family. They are the people I am working for. Always. They tell me (directly or indirectly) what is working. We listen to each other. I leave work early for them. I wake up at ungodly hours for them. I go to work everyday so that we can pay down our debt, afford healthcare and groceries, and not cry myself to sleep at night. That's <strike>good</strike> amazing parenting in my book.<br />
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And finally, it's none of my business how other folks see themselves. If they are trying desperately trying to tell me that they work as hard as I do, I suspect that they are talking to themselves. I never said they didn't. I know articles are generalizing but that seems to be hurting us more than helping us. I know there's NOT ONE THING that can be compared between how my family works and how other families work. So when an article of a stay at home parent wants to tell me how much more stressful their job is, I can't read it. We can't compare our experiences, our stresses, our resiliency, our resources or our communities. So why even write those articles? What are we really asking for? Someone to see us (likely)? Someone to validate our choices? Public consideration? Then let's talk about it THAT way. Let's ask questions, let's lift ourselves up (by sharing amazing personal stories of how we are living life!), and let's assume we're doing the best we can (even if we don't agree with what "best" is).<br />
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To adapt Ghandi's famous quote, let's actually be the village we want in the world.<br />
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<br />Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8403320287056140244.post-16203993836341835072015-07-04T14:22:00.001-07:002015-07-04T14:30:03.897-07:00Layers of letting go<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">If you've been following along, or if you know me personally, you know that I am not exactly the cleanest person. You also know that the messes of little hands, feet and mouths give me a sort of anxiety that I can't explain (or just find hard to admit).<br />It was getting to the point where I would simply not sit down with K at mealtimes, lest his oatmeal-covered hands grab me in that "I'm two and I want to touch you and cause you great anxiety!" way. And witnessing his hands grazing every part of his clothing, the table, our couch, etc. was actually really stressing me out. Not cool for anyone.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I was taking these deep breaths (audible), and closing my eyes, attempting to remain somewhat calm and nearly succeeding a fraction of the time. The other times I would become pretty rageful. Yep, that's me. Getting mad at a two year old for doing what two year olds do. Ack.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />So I took it to a professional.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />I mentioned that I was having these intensely strong feelings regarding mess and the disrespect of (my) belongings. I would always be telling K to be careful and gentle and to not mess stuff up. Don't rip pages. Don't step on that. Don't pull that. Don't. Don't. Don't.<br />That's a lot of rules for a two year old. And frankly, because I know my kid, I was anticipating his every move and pre-emptively trying to curb the behavior. The natural, normal behavior. Big Sigh.<br />My therapist suggested that when I felt the feelings to just take a breath (and no, not the huge dramatic ones I had been taking...).</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />This didn't really work.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br />What's more, is that I was actually feeling really upset with myself, knowing that we do not have ANY furniture that can't be replaced, we don't have extremely nice, museum-quality things to break, and it was just oatmeal..not permanent marker or raw beet juice. What was my problem? Did I think I was going to have a perfectly clean kid? What gave me that idea? <a href="http://itsliketheyknowus.tumblr.com/" target="_blank">(All that white couch advertising)</a></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">So now I'm angry with K and angrier with me for being angry at K (yikes!). This is not going well.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">After several weeks of sort of touching on this and then not wanting to get into it in therapy, I had a session where I started out saying I know I need to deal with it. So we probed. I got into those memories of my childhood where I didn't feel my space was respected. I didn't have a clean room as a child. I didn't feel seen. I didn't really feel like my family knew the real me. That may not actually be the case, I'll remind you, but it may have just been how I felt. Or maybe they did see me and didn't know what to do with me. That's a distinct possibility.<br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I imagine that when a child doesn't feel seen, heard, known, etc. that that child does a sort of self-parenting. Wherein they become introspective (literally: <span style="line-height: 22px;">characterized by </span><a class="dbox-xref dbox-roman" href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/introspection" style="box-sizing: border-box; display: inline; line-height: 22px; text-decoration: none;"><span style="color: black;">introspection</span></a><span style="line-height: 22px;">, the act or process of looking into oneself.) </span><span style="line-height: 22px;">I think I actually took over the seeing, hearing, and knowing of me from my parents. Well, with one gone and another raising three other children and navigating a world without her spouse, I get it. But back then, I didn't get it, so I did a lot of self-soothing. After traumatic events, kids often have a higher self step in for the self-preservation moments. That higher self worked overtime to help me cope with both child sexual abuse and loss of a parent. I was doing a lot of self-care and coping.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">And I realized that I've been doing it for over 30 years, and doing it the same way the whole time. I'm territorial. With people, food, space, attention, etc. I want my fair share. All. the. time.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Hmm...</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">So ever since I have started parenting myself, I have done this protective stuff...even when the threat of these things went all the way away. I have never starved. I have never been forgotten (like in that deep soul way, that kids fear). I have a whole house and several rooms for JUST my stuff. So what gives? Why am I still parenting myself this way? Why do I still fear these needs not being met? The simplest answer is because I just never looked at it very deeply before. It's worked for so long, why rock the boat? I mean, I know myself *really* well and that has really served me. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">When I travel, (those that have had the pleasure/nightmare of this experience can well attest) I am all about controlling the things I am protective about. I want to make sure that we are eating enough. That we are sleeping enough. That we aren't working too hard, getting lost, standing out, being forgotten, making people angry, losing our well-deserved seat in the shade, etc. In a primal way I have lost my shit when any of these things were threatened. Like a small, scared child.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22px;">There's a new kid in town that needs parenting.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22px;">Oh. You mean, a child (that I made, by the way...he's not a surprise!) who simply needs care (since he hasn't been old enough yet to do the self-care thing...). </span><span style="line-height: 22px;">Right. That makes sense. It then dawns on me that when I see my actual kid make a mess, I am witnessing a child ignore the care I (this benevolent parent) am trying to provide. Keeping things clean meant I wouldn't lose my precious belongings to lack of care. Not wasting food meant that I would be able to eat my fill. My child doesn't think about wasting because HE THINKS THERE IS PLENTY. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Holy shit. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">He isn't afraid of things breaking, because he doesn't know "not having." Tears well up as I write this, because somewhere inside of me I can touch on the part that thinks if I take care of it (my dad? my body? my brain?) I'll get to keep it (perfect/alive/healthy/innocent) forever. So I better teach that crazy lesson to my kid. And my kid better listen. There it is again. It's like a sibling is looking at my kid and saying, "Hey you! If you think you can come in here, make a mess, disrespect this parent, waste shit, and take over, you have another thing coming!" My inner child is basically having sibling rivalry with my actual child. So this is what having two looks like. But the thing is <b>I'm no longer a child. </b></span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 22px;">Bless my inner kid. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;">She has fought hard for a long time. She is my anxiety, my control, my rationale, my risk-aversion. She has played it safe, she has helped me survive my own possibly fatal or very harmful (some stats say that suicide after child sexual abuse is much higher in teens) life. She has kept me away from situations that are statistically common among <a href="http://www.cdc.gov/violenceprevention/acestudy/" target="_blank">people like me</a>. That little warrior has even constructed a world for me where I feel somewhat normal and at times, I even forget I ever had anything bad happen to me. She has done all of that. She has helped me not feel too resentful. She has helped me have a sense of humor and she has been my resiliency. Or at least, she has partnered with my higher self to maintain resiliency. She's done good. Damn good.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Here's the kicker:</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Wh-what?!? Another child, out to displace my inner child in the <strike>self-</strike>care realm? </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">Another shock to my system.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">I am a full-fledged adult, with skills, therapeutic professionals, a bank account, and a loving community of <b>other adults</b>. I do not need to keep parenting myself in this outdated way. I don't need to compete with my child. I don't need to force him to learn about waste, mess, respect, etc. I just need to help him get needs met so he doesn't have to parent himself because I'm too self-involved to help. I don't mean that I can't care for myself...or that caring for myself is bad (self-involved is simply that...), it's just that I need to update the software. Self-care looks different now for me as an adult. I need adult time. I need creative time. I need to feel useful. So I need to do those things. I <b>don't</b> have to worry about food and space. And now I can help K learn about being seen, heard, fed, understood, etc. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">This whole realization blew. my. mind. I sort of don't know how to do much else, other than care for these basic needs and this inner child has been running the show for a long time. She hasn't let me pursue big dreams because of the threat that I may become broke and have no food all of a sudden. Or, if I do pursue my dreams, she may be worried that no one will understand me/her/us. Or that if I do become successful, I will stand out TOO much, and possibly get hurt. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">But now I feel that letting go urge comin' on...I need to lay that inner kid, that amazing child warrior, to rest. She needs to be fired from keeping my needs met (cause the adult me can do that now). She needs to become softer, more playful, happier. She needs her <strike>life</strike> childhood back. The one she gave up to keep me alive. Bless that little girl, at 5 or 6, that kept my shit together for so long. </span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 22px;">I don't want to parent my kid from my trauma or the desire to avoid trauma. I see how that ends up. Not well. I want to be on my kid's journey, sensing that there IS enough. Strangely, he has no problem with my big dreams. He's not afraid of me becoming successful. He doesn't care one iota at this point. He just wants a parent to see him, play with him, know him. That's <b>my</b> job. I get to do that. I'm able to do that. And maybe if he doesn't have to be his own warrior, he can have time and space to be who he really is, and to fulfill his purpose. That's my hope anyway.</span><span style="line-height: 22px;"><br /></span></span></span><br />
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Becca Campbellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08879412390992782946noreply@blogger.com0