Overcoming Angry Outbursts

So in my last post about anger, I thought about how anger could be bad or good, and how the point is learning how to be angry the right way. This book we’re studying for our marriage class (Love Busters by Harley) says something more extreme: “there is no place for anger in marriage.” Angry outbursts should and can be completely eliminated in marriage.

He gives several reasons for why angry outbursts should never be tolerated: it never evens the score or solves problems. It withdraws units from the love bank and erodes your spouse’s feelings of love for you.  It is a form of abuse and control. It is a like a psychotic episode: you are irrational, you think your spouse is your worst enemy and deliberately trying to hurt you, your sense of the truth is distorted, and you often forget afterwards exactly what you did and said.

He describes the following steps for overcoming angry outbursts:

1. Acknowledge the fact that you, and you only, determine if you will have an angry outburst. No one “makes” you angry. Until you take full responsibility for your angry outbursts, you cannot learn to control them. You can avoid them if you choose. As soon as you give yourself any excuses for your outbursts (other people, how you were raised, etc), you will not overcome them.

2. Identify instances of your angry outbursts and their effects. Ask your spouse: how much unhappiness do my outbursts cause you? How often do they occur? What do I do/say during them? Which ways you are attacked causes you the most unhappiness? How have they changed in frequency or other ways over time?

3. Understand why your angry outbursts take place. Ask yourself: why do I lose my temper? What are the most important reasons why I have outbursts against my spouse? What do I typically do? What do I think hurts them the most? Do I feel better afterwards and why? Do I feel a score is evened? Do I ever try to control/avoid them; why and how? If I decided never to have another angry outburst, could I stop? Am I willing to; why and why not?

4. Try to avoid the conditions that make angry outbursts difficult to control. These could include physical conditions (time of day, hunger, fatigue), making too many sacrifices (generosity leads to resentment and anger; he says marriage should involve not sacrifices, but solutions about which both people are enthusiastically happy), having assumptions about unspoken understandings, patterns of communication such as demands or disparaging remarks, circumstances like bad traffic or stress at work. Ask: can we control any of these conditions?

5. Train yourself to control your temper when you cannot avoid frustrating situations. This means walking away, or, as the author urges, learning to relax. Practicing relaxing, by imagining something your spouse does that frustrates you, then relaxing after thinking about it—instead of feeling increasingly resentful, feeling more objective. Picturing yourself thinking of solutions without becoming angry. Training your physiologic response.

6. Measure your progress. Ask your spouse to keep track of the day, date, time, circumstances, description of your angry outbursts. Address each one immediately to avoid more in the future.

Thinking over all this helped me realize that deep down, I think I have a right to angry outbursts. I think I need them so Dave understands the depth of hurt that underlies a surface frustration, or so that he gets the intensity of my emotions. Often I see my outbursts as even being productive, because it helps me get it off my chest so I feel better afterwards, and it leads us to discuss some deep issue that we may not otherwise have.

But I’m realizing that my angry outbursts hurt him more than I realize. It erodes at our relationship and is actually counter-productive to problem-solving and negotiating, because I become temporarily irrational, and because it erodes at our basic sense of love and trust. I’m wrapping my mind around the fact that it is necessary, and possible, to make a commitment to never again having another angry outburst.

I think the key to handling anger well is to allow my initial feelings of anger to help get us to that place where we have deep discussions, listening to expressions of hurt, and problem-solving without having an angry outburst. My initial prompting of anger, my feelings of frustration, hurt, jealousy or whatever it is are legitimate. I have to trust that Dave will listen deeply and seriously when I tell him it is serious. I don’t have to have an angry outburst, and when I feel myself becoming angry, I can commit to mentally and physically choosing to relax instead, to walk away temporarily to calm down if I can.

So we’ve worked through those questions with each other, and I think we’re both going to commit to not having angry outbursts. When I’m in a situation where I feel increasing frustration and early anger (which pretty much seems like every night sometimes with the kids acting up), I think, okay, you are starting to get angry. You can choose not to let it burst out. You can choose not to step through that door. It’s not as bad as it feels right now. The world is not as bad as it looks right now. It is not all Dave’s fault, and he is not purposely trying to hurt me. It’s better for you not to say anything right now. You can calm down; you can walk away.

In some ways it’s rewiring how I react, relearning how I communicate. Sometimes I look at the kids, who burst into anger at the slightest provocation, who make selfish demands and lose sight of rationality, and I think, well, it’s born in us. It all has to be redeemed. God has redeemed me. He loves me and I live in grace as his child. I can learn to do this; I can walk in and work out my salvation in this way. He won’t give me more than I can handle in that moment. He will provide a way out for that temptation to have an outburst. I can do it, and he can do it in me.

Spouse as Scapegoat

“Nothing, not even your children, should prevent you from meeting each other’s intimate emotional needs, such as affection, conversation, recreational companionship, and sexual fulfillment. Don’t neglect this time together, because what your children need most from you is parents who love each other. And you will not be in love if you don’t meet each other’s intimate emotional needs.” -Harley, Love Busters

I haven’t had as much time to write lately, mostly because we are spending that spare hour or two we have each night doing the reading, worksheet questions, listening to CDs, and discussing that is part of this marriage class we are taking. The topic for this week is identifying, discussing, analyzing, and having a plan to overcome our biggest “love busters”—the author’s term for activity not related to an unfulfilled need that actively withdraws negative units from the love bank. He categorizes them into six things: annoying habits, angry outbursts, selfish demands, independent behavior, dishonesty, and disrespectful judgments.

A lot of the ones we struggle with involved issues surrounding childcare. It made me realize that, when it comes down to it, Dave often becomes my scapegoat for life struggles. When I get chronically sleep-deprived until it builds up and I hit a wall, the fatigue translates into an irrationally grandiose grumpy mood that affects him, or an angry outburst towards him. When I feel suffocated by my loss of self, I pursue some hobby and leave him trapped with childcare. When I feel unhappy about myself, I somehow find more fault with him. When the kids have pushed my buttons all day, I somehow get irritated at him. When I feel like I can’t get away from it all, I rail at him.

All those are negative units in the love bank. Combine that with less energy and time to make positive deposits by meeting emotional needs, and it’s no wonder that marriages dissolve when people have kids. They say the highest rate of divorce happens during the first year of marriage. The second highest rate occurs within the first year of having your first child. And studies show that happiness in marriage decreases as the number of children increase.

Part of this week is me realizing that all this stuff matters—all this working on stopping things I do that impact Dave negatively. He is not some invisible, eternally-loving and forever available entity in my life. He is a person, with limits, and how he sees me is going to be affected by his interactions with me. I need to commit to, and believe it possible, that I can eradicate these things in my life. That I can actually commit to never having another angry outburst, or simply stop an independent activity that he is not enthusiastic about, or simply not make a selfish demand. The world will not end if, say, I don’t get to shower at a time best for styling my hair for the day, or if I don’t answer all my emails, or if we have to hire an occasional housecleaner.

Part of all this is learning more about myself—having a better internal thermometer for gauging my own spiritual, emotional, and mental health. For knowing what circumstances, situations and behaviors trigger various emotions, so I can choose to react or cope more appropriately, before I get to a point where I feel like I’ve lost control or am acting a certain way without being aware why.

In the end, I care for my children by caring for my spouse. I care for myself when I care for my spouse. It’s easy to take our spouses for granted, especially when the more vocal demands of childcare or work are around, but as usual it’s the less demanding, less urgent thing that is more important.

The Little Things

One thing you learn pretty quickly living in little-kid world is that small things matter. Her headbands must be worn with the bow or flower on a particular side. Making sure Bunny has his blanket tucked in tight is more important than being on time for school. The blue sippy cup, purple spoon, and orange bowl go to Ellie; the green sippy cup, yellow spoon, and butterfly bowl go to Eric. He likes his sandwiches without the crust and his food no warmer than room temperature. She was really touched that I remembered to pack a Kleenex (not a napkin, mind you) into her lunch box.

Kids have this odd attention to detail that would be considered inconvenient at best and dysfunctional at worst in adult terms, but sometimes it can be a refreshing reminder to rethink what is most important. There are definitely plenty of quirky preferences I hope they grow out of, but when I get into their heads, I am reminded that to them what is relational and speaks love is always more important than some task or something more convenient, and that can be good. It is very important to show Nana, their stuffed dog, that we love her by making a house for her and tucking her in properly. It is very important to finish the drawing we are making as a gift for Daddy, even if it means dinner starts late. It is very important to closely examine each other’s (nonexistent) boo-boo’s immediately.

Rick Bass writes that whenever he is confronted with a difficult task or struggle, he thinks about glaciers. A glacier forms from the accumulation of snow that hardens into ice, over years, and once it starts moving, nothing can stop it. He writes that “glaciers get built or not built, simply, miraculously, because the earth is canting a single one-trillionth of a degree in this direction for a long period of time, rather than in that direction.” And then, “When I am alone in the woods, and the struggle seems insignificant or futile… I tell myself that little things matter—and I believe they do. I believe that even if your heart leans just a few degrees to the left or the right of center, that with enough resolve.. and enough time.. the ice will begin to form.. then one day—it must—the ice will begin to slide.”

Kids notice the little things. God notices the little things. The little things matter. The struggle I win over not saying out loud the selfish thought I have in my head. The determination to avoid the source of an unhealthy fantasy. Deciding to wake up with grace towards my kids instead of grumpiness. Listening to a patient for a few more moments instead of rushing out the door. Deciding I’m going to be vulnerable even though I’m scared. The little things are usually unseen, rarely lauded, often unscheduled, but I think they are where life happens. They are what life is. They are the difference between living life in asynchrony and living life with integrity; they are what make us who we are in the end.

Anecdote

Yesterday, we were all at the playroom table when Ellie got in a fit about something—I think it was my taking a sip of milk from her cup. I got her more milk, but she was standing there stomping her feet, whining, throwing a fit. I was taking a mental deep breath, readying myself for the “we speak kindly here” talk, internally gauging my irritation to see if I needed a few moments alone first, when Eric leaned over from the other side of the table towards Ellie and said, “nee3 shu4 hen3 guai1”—roughly, “you are good.” But really it means, “I still love you. You’re still a good person to me.” It’s what she always wants to hear when she gets really upset and knows she is acting up. She actually calmed down. I was so dang proud of him.

A little later on, she walked over to his side of the table and said, “you’re a good person, Eric.”

Joy And Wonder

Our nanny took this picture of them at the park. I wish I had a way of blowing it up to a larger size but it runs into the sidebar-- I love their smiles, the sun streaming through their hair, and the way they are together.

Sabbath

“How do we live so that the wonder and astonishment that so often comes to us unbidden and spontaneously isn’t dissipated in trivial pursuits?

“Albert Borgmann has given us the phrase ‘focal practice’ to guide us into an engagement with life—the way we ‘take up the world’ is his phrase—that doesn’t reduce the complexities into something meager, that doesn’t abstract them into something lifeless, that doesn’t manipulate them into something self-serving. A focal practice enables us to stay personally engaged and socially responsible in a culture that is increasingly depersonalized and alarmingly fragmented. The focal practice that enables us to take up with creation is Sabbath-keeping.  …

“Sabbath is a deliberate act of interference, an interruption of our work each week, a decree of no-work so that we are able to notice, to attend, to listen, to assimilate this comprehensive and majestic work of God, to orient our work in the work of God.  …

“ ‘Time,’ insisted Peter Forsyth, ‘is the sacrament of eternity.’ Sabbath is a workshop for the practice of eternity. … When we remember the Sabbath and rest on it we enter into and maintain the rhythm of creation. We keep time with God. Sabbath-keeping preserves and honors time as God’s gift of holy rest: it erects a weekly bastion against the commodification of time, against reducing time to money, reducing time to what we can get out of it, against leaving no time for God or beauty or anything that cannot be used or purchased. It is a defense against the hurry that desecrates time.” - Eugene Peterson, Christ Plays In Ten Thousand Places

The main frustrating thing about my meditative life these days is that I have to take it in sound bytes. I remember, when I first started blogging, I had entire days to do nothing but sit around and think (well, I was supposed to be studying). Now, I have little chunks of time: the thirty-minute commute to work, ten minutes here and there between seeing patients. Twenty minutes while nursing. An hour in the afternoon or at night, with the constant possibility of interruption by a crying baby or a kid that won’t stay in bed. Sometimes a good idea is just starting to take hold when I have to go make up a story with Lego’s, or wash more grapes, or mediate a dispute.

I’ve been enjoying the above book: it’s meaty enough to make me think, and satisfyingly lyrical. I like thinking about the Sabbath as a way to enter into the “rhythm of Creation,” as a way to participate in and enter into a world and existence bigger than the narrowness of our business. To understand that God is bigger than time, the way time has come to mean for all of us (time as money, as goals, as tasks; time as a means to get somewhere or keep from getting somewhere). To constantly redefine our perspective of work. To love our neighbor, allow for social justice (the Deuteronomy reason for the Sabbath command).

There are a lot of ways we can teach this to our kids. We sometimes have a quiet time, a break in the middle of the morning’s activities where the children can each lie quietly on blankets on the floor and think, or play quietly with toys. Ellie still lies in bed for her daily quiet time even though she doesn’t nap. We get into the habit of going to church and treating it as something we prepare for and enjoy. We can take Sundays as a time to do nothing but rest around the house, or plan some outing where we can enjoy the outdoors.

But this is hard too. It’s easy to rest from my out-of-home job. Three days a week, I see patients and operate, then I leave and come home. But how do you rest from the constant work of parenting? I guess in one sense, I take my Sabbaths in sound bytes. We get childcare so we can get away from the kids for a bit—and spending money, or relocating near parents, to do that is okay. I take bits here and there while the kids sleep or during the work commute. I have to create my Sabbaths, or they don’t happen.

But in another sense, don’t children point us to Creation, to wonder, to this idea of attentiveness and adoration, more than anything else? They are always asking to play—what is that, if not wonder in action? Or, as Peterson puts it, “the exuberance and freedom that mark life when it is lived beyond necessity, beyond mere survival.” They are always asking what’s that?—because they are looking; they see, and they wonder. They are always talking in exclamation marks—my favorite color! oh, buh-bee, so-cute-buh-bee!—because they adore.

So yes, parenting is work, and I never really get fully away from my work. I take my Sabbaths as I can, and I feel lucky we have as much support with childcare as we do, but the rest of the time, I let the spirit of the Sabbath inform my mothering-work as much as possible. Sometimes it’s just a messy, tiring trek from one nap to the next, but that sense of resting in creation, of mercy in community, is there too, and learning how to look for and cultivate it is probably as important in teaching my kids and myself about the Sabbath as anything else.

Writing To Your Kids

Great idea I had to pass along: you create email accounts for each of your kids. Over the years, you write them emails, send them photos, etc. Then when they turn eighteen, you give them the password to their accounts. 

The Love Bank

“What makes marriage work? The feeling of love. … I’ve never counseled a couple in love who wanted a divorce. But I’ve counseled many divorcing couples with excellent communication and problem-solving skills who claim to care for each other.” – Harley, His Needs, Her Needs: Building An Affair-Proof Marriage

Dave and I are taking a marriage class, based partly on the above book. The essential basis of the book is that what matters is feeling that you’re in love with your spouse: wanting a divorce or having an affair often have nothing to do with your religious or moral convictions, but more to do with whether your primary emotional needs are being met. Your spouse has an exclusive right to meet these needs for you. Affairs start when you look outside of your marriage to meet a primary emotional need.

This seems to go against a lot of what I’ve been taught before about marriage—most of our earlier marriage teaching (premarital counseling, Tim Keller’s ten-part sermon series) has emphasized the theological aspects of marriage: that marriage exists not for our happiness, but for our sanctification. That love is not a feeling, but a covenant.

I think this approach is still biblical because ultimately we are learning how to meet our spouse’s emotional needs, and if we mutually do that, we are submitting to each other, but it gets at it another way, in a more practical, feelings-based way. It says that all the theory and moral convictions in the world may not be enough to withstand the power of a basic emotional need not being met, so it is worth investing some time to understand what your spouse’s basic needs are, and relearning how to meet them, and how to enjoy meeting them when it’s not something you might naturally enjoy.

The associated concept is that of the love bank: essentially, that two people affect each other emotionally with almost every encounter. A positive affect is a deposit; a negative one a withdrawal. Put another way, anything you do either creates love or hate within your spouse.

A couple important corollaries that have helped us personally: no relationship can withstand an unlimited amount of withdrawals. I have to see that every time I passively fail to communicate in Dave’s love language, fail to meet a need he has for recreational companionship or affection or whatever his need may be: it is a withdrawal. Every time I actively snap at him, criticize him, argue with him, basically cause him a negative feeling: it is a withdrawal. Moreover, when he goes to play disc golf with someone else, that other person is putting a deposit in his love bank; not only am I losing out, someone else is gaining as a result. We tend to take our closest relationships for granted, but there is no such thing as a bottomless account—too many withdrawals will take their toll sooner or later.

Another thing: it’s a lot harder to accumulate positive deposits after marriage than before, simply because after marriage you are seeing all the bad as well as the good. It’s harder to get a net positive, compared to when you were dating.

Last thing: this love bank account comes precalibrated in a different way for everyone. We may differ in terms of what we see as a withdrawal or a deposit, and in terms of the magnitude of that withdrawal or deposit. It’s worth understanding those differences so we can make more high-impact, effective deposits, and minimize the withdrawals—because what ultimately matters is not what I perceive, but what he perceives, whether I agree with it or not. Understanding those differences means communicating about what our love languages are (verbal affirmation, physical touch, acts of service, gifts, quality time) or what our top emotional needs are (affection, sexual fulfillment, intimate conversation, recreational companionship, honesty and openness, physical attractiveness, financial support, domestic support, family commitment, admiration).

Celebrating

I don’t know if it was an Asian-culture thing or a family-culture thing, but we were never big on celebrations growing up. We had simple birthday parties up through high school, and some Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions, but didn’t make much of most other holidays. Holidays faded into non-existence during medical school and residency; if we got a holiday off—and we’re talking Christmas, not Jackson Lee Day—that was good enough. Dave grew up with fewer traditions than I did, so after we got married it’s been pretty natural to be low-key about holidays. Most of them seem overly commercialized to me. Neither of us have ever been the kind of people who get offended if we don’t get a birthday or thank-you card (and thus aren’t the best about remembering to send them either).

Then we had kids. Specifically, we have a kid in school. And school is all about the holidays. There are the endless rounds of birthday parties, which at a minimum have a major activity, a themed birthday cake, and a big favor bag. There is Halloween, when they all have to wear costumes for a parade. There is Christmas, where they dress up and see Santa. And Valentine’s Day? Forget pressure to get your significant something; there’s more pressure to get your kids valentines to exchange with all the other kids. We went the night before and the stores were nearly sold out. And apparently any holiday is an excuse for kids to give each other enormous amounts of candy.

So I’ve been forced to acknowledge holidays. But I’m also seeing other sides to it. Our friend and nanny uses the holidays to read themed books, do themed crafts, and teach them things like bible verses about love. We had a valentine tea party yesterday with another friend’s two children, featuring jello hearts, pink cookies, and valentine cards tucked into personalized felt envelopes. They are like family, and is was something to see all the kids laughing and shouting together with so much joy.

We have friends here who celebrate things: not as a cause for burden or obligation, or a reason to spend money out of guilt or social pressure, but as opportunity to pause in our lives and remember to be thankful. To enjoy community, to practice generosity. To establish traditions, to practice rituals. Celebrations can be helpful landmarks: ways to ground us amidst the passing of time, reminders to step outside of the everyday. They are really just what we make of them, and some years we may be too busy or tired to do much, but the beautiful thing about a growing family is that you can continually make new traditions. I’ve been collecting some ideas: making ornaments each year for the tree, taking a family photo at a certain time, starting a blank book in which the kids draw or write messages for mom and dad each year for mother’s and father’s day. It would be nice to create celebrations for the kids that teach them about what we’re commemorating, that introduce some magic and charm, that remind them to live out community, generosity, ritual and reflection. And those would probably be good reminders for me too.

Valentine's Kiss

Like A Weaned Child Is My Soul

 O LORD, my heart is not lifted up;

my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things

too great and too marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

like a weaned child with its mother;

like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the LORD

from this time forth and forevermore.

-Psalm 131

I am sitting here with this Psalm, and suddenly I am getting this flashback of all what it has been like to breastfeed three kids. You see someone breastfeed, just flip that baby under the cover and look it’s that easy—but it’s not. I start thinking about all the engorgement, the disabling pain in those first few weeks, then the slight discomfort every time a feed is delayed or skipped. The times it’s been hard to get them to latch, and I’m desperately jiggling them into every position I can muster and mashing my nipple into their mouths. The times it’s been hard to get them to wake up enough to feed, and I’m ticking their feet, rubbing their backs, pressing cold baby wipes against their faces.

I remember pumping, desperately trying to relax enough to get a let down, in that resident clinic room, hearing the charts go “plop, plop, plop” into the box outside the door and knowing patients are right outside waiting and complaining, hearing someone bang on the door, staring at the pile of charts on the table still waiting to be dictated, and just sitting there with the pump going. I remember pumping in bathrooms and showers, in the upstairs locker room at a grocery store, fumbling with tangled tubes, searching for outlets, trying not to waste a drop of milk while positioning bottles on edges of sinks and seats. I remember walking to that pumping room across the hospital with the hospital-grade machine in attempts to revive a dying milk supply.

I don’t have anything against formula; the older two were both on formula by various points. But I think about all what it has been and is like, and I would do it all again, if only for those times afterwards, when they latch off and just lie there and hang out with me afterwards. They have spoken, my body has adjusted and answered; it is a rhythm, a dance, a language we alone share. And afterwards, they are incredibly still. Their bodies just melt and curl into mine. At nights Elijah drifts to sleep this way, his closed eyes mashed into my chest and his limp arms tangling with mine. In the mornings he leans back and stares at me, smiles and shows off his three chins and does his gargly-speech. There is usually some farting and pooping too. I think, if he could, he would live his whole life right here, like this.

I often feel like I have to get stuff. I have to understand it, to figure it out, to analyze and parse. If I don’t, I get anxious, or frustrated. But today I am thinking about how humility is a gift. To know how far above me God is. To not need to know anything else, except that he is here with me. And he has fed me. And he loves me. And I can be completely vulnerable and completely safe. I’ve always thought, it’s a shame Elijah won’t remember these moments. But I will, and I think God has given them to me so I can understand a bit of what it is like to be with him.

The God I Think I Know

“His divine power has granted to us all things that pertain to life and godliness, through the knowledge of him who called us to his own glory and excellence.” 2 Peter 1:3

In residency, they talked a lot about this progression of learning, from unconscious incompetence (you don’t know what you don’t know), to conscious incompetence (you know what you don’t know), to conscious competence (you know what you know), to unconscious competence (you don’t know what you know; ie, you have learned the skill so well that you don’t have to think while doing it). It’s a helpful model for teaching. For example, it helps you understand why students aren’t madly scribbling down something you feel is really important—they probably don’t know yet how valuable it is. It reminds you that you may have to parse apart something you do so easily you don’t think about it, for the sake of teaching the skill to other people.

I’ve been thinking about learning, about God. Lately I’ve been struggling with the simple fact that I can know a lot about how to live, but I often can’t live it out. I know I ought to not fall into the same bad habits of complaining, or thinking selfishly, or letting a grumpy mood affect the whole family, but I can’t stop it. Or sometimes, if I try hard, I can stop it outwardly, but inwardly I’m still griping the whole time. It’s like I’m cycling around in the stage of conscious incompetence. At least I know what I ought to be doing, and that counts for something, but knowing what is wise and actually living wisely can be worlds apart.

In the end, we all come to this. I think for long periods of time I’m able to fool myself into thinking I’m doing pretty well on my own, that analyzing and reading and discussing it all is enough. But it is when I realize it’s not enough that I run into the fakeness of my concept of God. This God is the God that I think I know. That I gather from occasional, cerebral glimpses of the Bible. That I hear about second-hand from good sermons and books. That I appeal to in bursts of self-centered pleas. That I forget about for most of my day.

All along, I’m not sure I ever really knew and sought the real God, God for himself. I got good at operating in my own mind and will; how good did I get at listening to him, abiding in him, understanding him, and thus appropriating his real power in my life? Because my own mind and will can only take me so far. It might carry me through the third tantrum, but not the fourth. It might carry me through one sleepless night, but not two. And it can be that one bit of traffic, that one critical comment, that one grumpy day, that reveals what I really don’t know about God. His power is not something dispensed as from a vending machine, not a series of magical words muttered like a spell. It is an outworking in my life that is a result of my relationship with a real God I am getting to know.

It’s like the difference between my idealized version of Dave when I first met him, and the real Dave that I’ve gotten to know over the years. Or like the difference between my idealized vision of what having children would be like, and the real little people I’m living with. The real versions are sometimes shocking, often surprising, but altogether better, if only because they are real, and change and challenge me, not just fit into my concept of what I need or want. The suffering of marriage and certainly parenthood is more than I could have guessed, but the joys are greater too. And that must be so much more true of God, who is in fact perfect, and holy, and merciful, and loving, and faithful, in ways and depths which I cannot grasp in my puny, idealized, second-hand version of him. That fake version may do for a while, but it won’t really change me in the end.

Because I'm Going To Forget This Cuteness One Day

Eric has been talking up a storm lately, with variable accuracy. For “clean up” he says “nik-up.” For “sock monkey” he says “thock monkey.” For “octopus” he says “ocpotus” if he’s thinking very hard; if not, he just says “opposite” (“where the opposite?? WHERE, mommy?”). For “what’s this?” he says “wha-dis?”

I had almost forgotten that when Ellie was about his age, she would constantly ask “shu3 muh5?” (what’s that?), to the point where it drove me nuts. That, and ask me to sing the same song over and over and over, which also drove me nuts, especially during car rides. Then it struck me that this hasn’t happened with Eric. The two of them sit in the back row of the minivan, and the entire car ride, it’s “Eh-dee, wha-dis? Eh-dee, wha-dat?” and she patiently answers, “a bird.” “A truck.” And she also sings, all the time, at the top of her lungs, so he never ends up asking me for a song. It’s a nice thing about having more than one.

I Won't Compare My Kids If You Won't

“A child’s identity develops slowly as characteristics and temperament manifest themselves. Parents sometimes use their observations of these characteristics to label their child… God’s intention for your child’s future usefulness in the cause of Christ may be far beyond the seeming boundaries of his present temperament, gifts and interests. To restrict or misdirect your child’s future by categorizing him early in life can be a big mistake. Train your child to explore every potential of his or her personality, and appreciate the freedom to choose.” –Consequences of Labeling Children, BSF Home Training Lesson

We like to make sense of our world; we like to know how we’re doing. And for much of life, we are trained or encouraged to do that by comparing how we are doing relative to someone else. We dress according to trends; we are graded on a curve; even moralism is becoming relative. Parenting is something we are uniquely sensitive about—all of us care about whether we are being good parents—yet it’s hard to assess in any standardized way. So it’s no wonder that it’s particularly easy to compare ourselves as parents. To compare our kids to other kids. To compare siblings with each other.

It’s good to parent in context, in community, and that means drawing on observations of other parents and children to help us better understand and parent our own—but when observations become generalizations, or judgments, or envy, we head quickly down a slippery slope, whether we intend to or not.

One example of this that I’ve been mulling on lately is how easy it can be to label our children. I do think Ellie’s temperament is more like certain people in Dave’s family, and Eric’s is more like certain people in mine. This helps us understand that they may act out in different ways, may understand love and be motivated to change in different ways. If I’m frustrated by something I don’t understand about Ellie, often Dave can offer good insight, and vice versa about Eric. But it’s dangerous if we generalize too much about their emerging personalities and temperaments, if we compare them too much with other people or each other.

Our words as parents have creative power: what we speak over our children becomes how they perceive themselves, how they are. If we say, “she is so much like his mother,” I may be imputing all kinds of good and bad things about his mother, not to mention any personal history I may have about his mother, onto her. She may be like her in certain ways, but not like her in others. She may change. The ways she is like her may manifest differently, may be redeemed. I am robbing her of all of that potential by making generalizations and assumptions. I may be shutting off work that God can do in her life. I may be enabling generational curses without meaning to.

Our words also affect sibling dynamics. When I tell Eric he is cute, Ellie often asks, “am I cute too?” Why is this? Because our children hear what we don’t say as much as what we do. When we repeatedly praise one child more than another for a certain attribute (so artistic! so athletic! so smart! so pretty!), we need to remember that we are implying that their siblings are less artistic, or athletic, or smart. That is how they hear it, whether we mean it that way or not. All of us have probably had this happen to us in some form or another, and can probably attest that the self-perception it creates often carries into adulthood.

This is definitely something I can work on: being intentional about proffering similar praise to both kids. Not comparing my children with someone else’s in non-constructive ways, or regarding attributes they have no power to change. Not assuming that because I see a similarity between my child and someone else, they will turn out the same way or be similar in other ways. Constantly asking God to give me an open mind in discerning my child’s tendencies. Being careful in general how I choose my words, because what is spoken often does become what is true.

Being Angry Well

How can we be angry well? I don’t know if I’ve ever learned that in my life. I don’t think my parents ever intentionally taught me how to handle my anger—their main rule towards the matter was that parents should never fight in front of their kids. I do think that’s better than displaying destructive anger in front of your children, but the third and better alternative is to fight well in front of your kids. Do any parents do this? Have I ever seen anger modeled well? When it came to dealing with my own anger, I think the implicit message was that it was bad to be angry. I was told what I did and said in anger was very wrong, and that I needed to simply control myself, but wasn’t taught how. How do we teach our kids about how to handle anger?

I think there are two main reasons why being angry well is so difficult. The first is that anger by nature is so explosive and blinding that it’s hard to handle at all. It’s like holding a bomb, or walking on a high wire—one misstep, and things can blow up and go to pieces. You can say or do something that you can’t even bear to mention later. It’s no wonder we go out of our way to avoid it, and tell our kids to do the same.

But the second reason it’s so difficult to learn about and model how to handle anger well is that anger is by nature private and deep. We only get angry about the things we really care about. Anger is love in action; it is our defense against a threat to the things we care the most about. I think it was C.S. Lewis who said, “the opposite of love is not hatred; it is indifference.” Many people are good at hiding or repressing their anger, or they simply don’t get angry at all until you get close enough to threaten what they care about. I was pretty good at never getting angry until I got married, until I had kids. Then I realized exactly how bad I was at handling my anger.

If I could teach myself, and my kids, something about how to be angry well, I think it would be these three things:

Be angry for the right reason. When you become angry, ask yourself, what am I defending? And that will show you what you love. This is the hardest point, because most of the time, I find that what I am defending is my ego, my pride, my comfort—and in order to change my anger, I really have to change what I love. I have to rid myself of those idols. I have to be more absorbed in God’s character, his commands, to truly feel and believe and love righteousness. Because that is God’s anger; it is a righteous anger—anger at evil, at sin. Ephesians commands us to “be angry”—but it must be for the right reason.

Be slow to anger. God’s anger is not explosive; it is not absent—it is slow. The analogy used throughout the Old Testament (Numbers, Deuteronomy, Judges, Isaiah) is that it has to be “kindled” before it “burns.” It is held in contrast to his “abundant lovingkindness” (Numbers 14:18, Nehemiah 9:17). Proverbs says, “a fool’s anger is known at once” (12:16); “he who is slow to anger has great understanding” (14:29); “a gentle answer turns away wrath” (15:1). The Bible speaks of God “turning away” from his anger, as from a state, as a result of choice—his anger is not described as an uncontrollable emotion, as mine often is. It is something nursed slowly, with great care and intentionality, never quickly. And love, kindness, and the gentle word should always come more readily.

Don’t sin in anger. It’s easy to sin in anger, so easy that the Bible tells us to simply avoid anger at times (Ephesians 4:31, Colossians 3:8). So practically we have to set limits and guidelines for ourselves. Some good ones I’ve heard are never to mention the word “divorce,” never to throw anything or act out physically, never to argue in the car or at the dinner table, to let go of the anger before going to sleep even if the issue isn’t necessarily fixed. Even in the heat of the moment, we must constantly ask ourselves: is my anger causing me to sin?

So we must be angry for the right reason, by learning how to love righteousness instead of self. We must be angry in the right way, by learning to nurse our anger slowly with deliberation and care. And we must be wary and establish practical limits for our anger, so that we don’t sin. All of this is such an antithesis to how it feels natural to handle my anger—for selfish causes, as an emotion, with disregard for the consequences—that in the end I suppose I need to simply ask God to give me the insight and power I need to transform myself in this area. At least that’s someplace to start.

Parenting Moralism and Self-Fulfillment, or Parenting the Gospel?

“I looked back at the previous 10 years and realized I had spent 10 years trying to convince kids to behave Christianly without actually teaching them Christianity. And that was a pretty serious conviction. You can say, ‘Hey kids, be more forgiving because the Bible says so,’ or ‘Hey kids, be more kind because the Bible says so!’ But that isn’t Christianity, it’s morality… We’re drinking a cocktail that’s a mix of the Protestant work ethic, the American dream, and the gospel. And we’ve intertwined them so completely that we can’t tell them apart anymore. Our gospel has become a gospel of following your dreams and being good so God will make all your dreams come true. It’s the Oprah god.” –Veggie Tales creator Phil Vischer

I’ve noticed that lately, when we discipline Ellie for something, she bursts into tears and says over and over, “wao3 yio4 guai1!” (“I want to be good! I want to be good!”) And of course I think, well, if you want to be good, stop crying!

Then Dave and I realized how often we use the word “guai1” when we praise the kids or reinforce good behavior. I think it literally means “obedient,” though I use it more like “good.” It highlights the emphasis upon obedience in Chinese culture: good children are obedient. They have filial piety; they honor their parents by doing their duty. I don’t mean to be throwing all that onto Ellie—I’m just using a phrase that comes naturally in Mandarin—but it does impute that philosophy, and she’s internalized it somehow, because what she’s really saying is, “I want you to say I’m obedient, because it’s the same as saying I have your love and favor.”

Then my friend forwarded this blog post, and I thought about how easy it is for anyone to unintentionally parent towards moralism and the American Dream, instead of the gospel. Success is reaching your own goals and dreams. You should be able to control your own behavior. The point of life is to be happy and achieve a lot.

I listened to a great sermon by Tim Keller on the way home today in which he talks about the great tension between law and love: God saying, on one hand, you’ll be cursed for generations if you don’t fulfill the law, and on the other, I will never leave or abandon you. This is such an apparently unresolvable contradiction that nearly all Christians fall more on one side or the other—we believe we can live life our own way and God will always love us (self-fulfillment), or all we care about are following the rules (moralism).

This contradiction is resolved on the cross, and the more deeply we understand and apply that, the more deeply we grasp the gospel. Christ fulfilled all the conditions of the law, yet offers unconditional love. God made the terms of the covenant, yet he walked down the bloody aisle between the animal parts himself. In response, we care more deeply about following the law than before, because we know what it cost God, and we understand his hatred of sin; yet we never cripple ourselves with condemnation when we break the law, because we understand his mercy and grace.

What does it mean to parent the gospel? With a two and four year-old, you pretty much have to constantly reinforce boundaries and guidelines for behavior. But if I stop there, I’m teaching moralism. Teaching them the gospel means I also explain that our love and God’s love does not depend on their behavior. It means I remind them that we can’t do everything on our own but we can turn to God, who takes the badness of our mistakes from us and helps change our hearts. It means I try to take just as many moments to do that, as I do to reprimand their behavior.

In the end, my kids will understand the gospel as much as I understand and live the gospel. They will understand success as I understand and communicate success. And that’s the tough part. I can’t mime the gospel: I have to believe and live it. I can only offer grace as I’ve been given it; I can only love as I’ve experienced it. So I’m going to try to be more intentional about the words I use, about what I’m saying, but I’ve also got to ask God to transform my heart, to obey in love and be free in grace.

Hobbies

The tough thing about motherhood is remembering who you are. Not who you are in an existentialist sort of way, but who you are as in: I am someone who takes exercise classes. Who experiments with gourmet dessert recipes. Who works on Chopin’s ballade in F minor. Who goes to the mall and movie theater. Who reads magazines in bookstores. Who swims. Who makes up songs on the guitar. Who reads poetry.

Just because I have to plan in advance to go to the bathroom nowadays, much less naturally have time to do any of those things anymore, doesn’t mean I’m not still that same person. Just because in the past, I was too busy studying for a big test, or didn’t have access to a guitar or a pool, doesn’t mean I wasn’t still that same person. But often those things fade out of your life so gradually you don’t even realize they’re gone.

I’m sort of cracking open the door on some of those things. I bought a lovely bound sketchbook and have been filling it up with pencil drawings (bad ones of the kids, better ones of still life) and ink doodles. I’m working on that cable throw. I cracked open our Norton Anthology of poetry. I make some effort to write every day. I did an exercise video.

In a life filled with work and kids, where everything boils down to what is functional and necessary, it feels good to do a little something just for its own sake. It’s like using an atrophied muscle. It feels good in a healthy, restorative way, and it brings something of myself back that I’ve lost. I’m learning that it’s okay to donate some time and energy for these things. There is some part of me that is what I do, or that becomes what I do, and it feels good to remember.

He Has To Be The Loveliest Bald Person That I Know

Journal Excerpt

Speaking of stories, Ellie has a... slight... obsession with them. Her longest-standing obsession has been with the nativity story, which lasted about two years: enacting the story by stuffing balls down her shirt, calling Eric "Joseph" to the point where he would turn around if we said it. Maybe the story was so popular because it involved being very "tired" while pregnant and having to lie down for long periods of time. There was also usually the birth of a stuffed animal that required a lot of attentive care. I haven't had the heart yet to break it to Eric that he probably shouldn't be stuffing balls down his onesies and exclaiming, "going to have a baby!"

She's currently in a Peter Pan phase, instigated by her delight in getting to wear necklaces on her head in imitation of Tiger Lily's headband. Now she is Wendy. She made us call her Wendy all night, and call Eric John, and call Elijah Michael. Dave gets confused a lot ("no, Daddy, he's not Eric, he's JOHN!"). When we tucked them in, Eric said, goodnight Daddy-Captain-Hook.

For a while there I was making up bedtime stories, each night an installation in a saga that involved, by demand, sparkly princesses and rainbow horses, with the occasional injection of a moral story (persistence in reaching a goal, discovering inner beauty, befriending an outcast, learning to share). Unfortunately, her favorite plot development was pregnancy and birth, which led to an extremely convoluted family tree that she nevertheless kept eerily straight ("no mommy, Princess Violet's mother was Sparkly Rainbow and she gave birth to Little Violet!").

It really is marvelous, though, how expansive their imagination is. I could enact a story with rocks and they'd think it was amazing. I could tell them anything, paint any kind of picture with my words, and somewhere in their minds it is real. When we take a bath, they are mermaids, or fish at the aquarium at which I throw grapes which are really fish food. When we huddle under a blanket, we are a family of rabbits hiding out from a predator. When I drag them around the house on a blanket, they are the only survivors on a lifeboat in the ocean. It's probably one of my favorite things about this stage and one I'll surely miss when they grow up.