Tired

We went to the snow last weekend and shared a cabin with three other families. Trinidad rode his sled in all ways (even "snowboarding" over jumps, hands-free standing) from the crack of dawn until after dark. He barely came in to eat. During daylight hours, he did not enjoy the distraction of a mama asking questions. After that time, he was too exhausted to speak intelligibly and mostly snarled and made faces.

I got tired of being responded to in monosyllables at high decibles. I grew weary of his intense frown at every turn, eyebrows furrowed and silver eyes glaring up from half-closed lids.

"My sweet little Sith," I thought, with sinking heart. I don't like having such a thought about my child. Craving connection, I told him over and over how much I did not want to be spoken to in that tone of voice, at that decible, with those words.

And still, it continued. I gave myself a lot of empathy.

The weekend we had much looked forward to met some needs while others withered tragically. I longed for fun and connection with Trinidad. I had a talk with him between scowls. I offered empathy around his needs for focus and fun, and these conversations brought us both some understanding and relief. I also shared the intensity of my sadness, the unmet needs, and my worries that if we couldn't find ways to connect, I couldn't imagine investing so much in a trip like this in the future.

He heard that. He tried to turn around, but it was hard. He was exhausted in every way, even struggling to sleep. I saw these needs drastically unmet for him and again questioned the resources plunged into a trip that left so much wanting.

On the ride home, we talked about what we liked and did not like about the adventure. I only referred briefly to what we had talked about earlier, imagining that he would be tired of discussing it (we had a few ten to fifteen minute meta-conversations about it). Instead, he opened the topic again.

"Yeah, I remember -- we might not be able to go again," he said.

"Well, it's not about that, honey," I told him. "I don't want my frustration to be connected to whether or not we go again. I just feel so sad when we struggle to relate so much over a weekend. I do not like being spoken to and responded to in those ways [we were both clear which]. I would like to be spoken to with the same care and tone that I speak to you in. I want that mutuality. It's part of a respect that I want for both of us. In a trip like this, the challenge is more apparent because you're tired, and I'm more sensitive because we're in a group."

I really wanted to own this last part. "I feel embarrassed when you shout 'You hid my boots!' and make this face [scowl], because I want to be clear with myself and others that I care about the words I use and want to be spoken to with. I'd like to have discussions where we both take responsibility for our feelings and needs."

"Mom, I wonder if it's something else, too," he said. "I wonder if you'd really like it if we were communicating that way because you'd like other people to see how good you are at being a mom."

Well, I had some judgment come up about myself for a moment and gave myself empathy -- do I want people to value me so that I can value myself based on the pretty package of "good communication?"

"I'd really like for you to be authentic," I said. "I want you to say what's real for you, but take responsibility for it by saying how you feel and what you need rather than blaming me. I want to connect and to hear what's alive, even if I don't like it."

"No, mom," Trinidad said. "What I mean is that when other people come around, sometimes I'd like to show them how good I am at something -- like shooting a hoop or doing a magic trick."

"Wow," I said, and I meant it. "You mean that I'd like to show them a representative sample of what I do all day -- the connection we usually share?"

"Yeah," he said. "Is that it?"

I felt such relief when I fully heard this empathy guess. Why wouldn't I want to share this work that is vitally important to me with my community in the most distilled way I could -- by example? Why wouldn't I be disappointed if the snapshot of time we shared together was filled with a radical display of unmet needs rather than our usual rich dance of connection, challenge, and reconnection? It's not about wanting to be a "model NVC Mom" for the sake of "doing it right." That did not resonate, anyway, even though I had some confusion and worry that there could be something there. I value the acceptance that I generally feel about showing up as we are en famile. Instead, what Trin shed light on for me is a need for celebration and empathy; I am in awe at the depth and quality of connection (regardless of difficulty) that I experience in my day-to-day, and I'd like us all to be seen for that.

What Trin put his finger on was Murphy's Law itself: the minute someone is watching, the ball misses its mark. Over and over. Some hours, some days, some weekends, the Law prevails, and I tear my hair in frustration. I mourn.

And then, when I pick up the pieces and find unlikely support in the seeming source of my struggle, I remember that there are so many phases in this metamorphosis. So many forms that both of us will take, so much room for growing and finding our places with each other.

I am grateful that Trinidad offered his heart, his ear, his words of wisdom at a time when we both bottomed out. I am grateful for the connection I treasure, the clarity and the hope.

And still, I'm tired.