If you haven’t read Grit by Angela Duckworth, be forewarned and encouraged: the book is long AND it is worth your time. The information is enthralling. Listening to the audio (read by the author) is even more fascinating.
One of my colleagues suggested I read it after I related the latest escapades in our quest to find the best care for our children’s special needs. Grit, according to Angela, is “perseverance and passion for long-term goals.”
When it comes to our adopted kiddos, any social worker, community service board member, child services team contributor, school administrator, teacher or member of the mental health community with whom I’ve interacted would agree that I tend toward dogged advocacy. Our first social worker told Hubby I’m “hypervigilant” (hence the blog name).
Their well-being is my Quest, if you will.
Our kids had such a traumatic start; Hubby and I are determined—as much as is within our power—to make the rest of their growing-up years decidedly un-traumatic. I have to tell you: spending almost every moment of my wake time (and sometimes my dreams as well) finding ways to sow seeds of future success is exhausting.
At my friend’s recommendation, I read Grit thinking it might give me some encouragement.
Perhaps some validation.
Maybe even a little focus.
What I didn’t expect: Angela talks about ways to develop Grit in our children.
Her explanation of Grit indicators enthralled me. Among other things, a huge predictor of future success is a child’s commitment to a challenging activity for a certain amount of time.
At the high school level, two years of involvement in the same activity (whether sport, club or organization) is a solid predictor of future success.
Chess club, lacrosse, football, student government, school newspaper: as long as the activity creates growth and challenges the child to learn more, improve or think more creatively, it counts. (One year of involvement predicted nothing, by the way. That second year matters.)
To grow Grit in their children (and themselves), Angela, her husband and her children all “Do Hard Things.” (As a nerd partial to ancient myth, I prefer the term”Grit Quest.” My paraphrase of quest: an adventurous search or pursuit to secure or achieve something. GQ for short. Gives more of a sense of the “bulldog determination to scale the highest limit of this mountain” ideology our family tends to embrace.)
1. Everyone does SOMEthing that requires practice (pursuit) to improve. Each family member must embrace a GQ.
“Everyone” includes parents—how can we expect the kids to do something difficult while we potato on the couch?
If you’ve followed this blog for long, you know that Hubby and I do fun things like teaching ourselves how to knock out and rebuild walls, replace the bathroom ceiling and restore cars. The kids’ counselor actually told us we needed to take time to relax, to show the kids that adulting isn’t all work. #1 will be no trouble.
2. Everyone chooses his or her own GQ. No one wants to work hard because someone else is making them.
We have a child who would prefer to do nothing at all, so #2 will be more difficult.. If we don’t choose something for her, she will sit in her room and converse with herself. We’ve come to a compromise: there will be a GQ and it will involve music; the kids can choose from the instruments we already have on hand (piano and guitar). They’ve each asked for music lessons (unwitting of the work required), so this technically follows Angela’s guideline.
Other GQ considerations are transportation and impact on family time. For instance, we’ve ruled out football (American) for now because practices every night and games on weekends would effectively preclude any other activities…for anyone, player or not. We’re open to any sports which enable the kids to play together without taking over the family schedule.
3. No quitting. At least, not on a difficult day nor due to bad attitude. Predetermine a timeline or stopping point.
Once they’ve fulfilled the terms of the agreement (e.g., eight weeks,”when you reach x level” or a sport season) they can pick a new instrument or try something else.
Angela Duckworth says, “if I’ve paid the tuition for your set of piano lessons, you’re going to take all those lessons and you are, as you promised your teacher, going to practice for those lessons.”
Sounds great, but #3 is a bit more tricky for us, as we’re still working on motivation.
For over a year, the kids took Karate (THEIR CHOICE). We told them they could quit once they received a green belt. Most of the class attained the first belt within the first three months. Over a year later, our little darlings finally managed to pass the first belt assessment. They simply refused to practice.
No consequences mattered. Rewards, consequences, the teacher calling them out in front of the entire class…nothing mattered to them.
This lack of response to negative consequence or positive reward has been an ongoing burr under my saddle. It’s a “normal” response from trauma kids.
I literally had to stand there and watch them, directing every move. Right, it’s only fifteen minutes a day…but when it took an hour to complete thirty minutes of homework and we had Scouts (one for each) twice a week and counseling twice a week and…and…and…it just became too much.
What I learned from that experience? Pick a shorter term goal. The idea of allowing them to quit when they hit green was this: by the time they got to green, they’d be so good, they wouldn’t want to quit. Both of them have athletic physiques and our boy has flexibility any ballerina would kill for. We knew if they found success, they’d want to continue.
Problem is, they fought so hard to be complacent, they missed out. Toward the end, they both started realizing goals in karate. Unfortunately, it was too late, because they were both approved for in-home counseling (7-10 hours per week). With school, there’s currently no time for karate.
But hey, once the summer starts, we will have all kinds of time to practice an instrument. (Yep, I plan to practice as well.)
In the meantime, I’m going to go listen to Grit one more time. There was a section about the Seattle Seahawks I didn’t fully catch the first time around, and I want to listen again.
If you take time to read it (or already have), weigh in below.
What do you think? Do you have grit? How do you know?
I have been PRAYING for time to write during the last few weeks. We’ve got a lot going on.
We decided to buy out the rest of the siblings and move to Dad’s place. This means
- We need to downsize, as the house is smaller (although we plan to add on)
- We must quickly finish all home improvement projects
- We have to have our current house market-ready ASAP before the Spring House Rush begins
Our Boy had the flu for four days. The expelling-a-demonic-force-from-your-gut version. This means
- He called me to his room every fifteen minutes to ask if he were dying
- He called me to his room every thirty minutes to confirm his time of death
- I got nothing done for a week (spent Friday recovering from no sleep)
Hubby and I spent an entire day rolling around in the crawl space under the house (looking like Mars explorers in Tyvek suits and respirators) to replace the insulation and vapor barrier. This means
- We did not walk upright for almost 8 hours
- I spent three days walking around like an old lady
- I finally realized I am no longer seventeen
Hubby got laid off after almost 20 year with the same firm. This means
- We have to figure out insurance
- We found out his insane work ethic and sense of humor have won him a ton of friends and supporters; he received literally hundreds of supportive texts, email messages and phone calls
- He suddenly has time to work on the house
I was sick three days ago, then had a fever relapse today. This means
- Hubby has been Mr. Mom (and he’s done a fabulous job)
- The kids have had to take more responsibility (and have done a fabulous job)
- I completely lost my voice and spent the entire day in a chair writing and looking at the river at my aunt’s house (voice loss: not so fabulous; river: fabulous)
So, here’s the good news: my prayer was answered and I had time to write today, because with a fever and the inability to talk, I can’t do much else. (Post scheduled for tomorrow.)
This is what you call “Forced Write-irement.”
More good news: Our Boy is fully recovered and is up to most of his old shenanigans, but he also got it in his head that the flu might have been punishment for his behavior the last few months, so he’s been watching himself.
This may be my fault. Every time he asked if he might be dying, he also asked, “WHHHHHHHHHYYYYYYYYY is this happening? What have I EVER DONE to DESERVE this????” At some point, running on three hours’ sleep, I maaaaaay have responded, “Well, think through the last eight weeks. How much of that was spent on good behavior?” He didn’t ask me about it again…
Even more good news: if all goes as planned, Hubby already has another job lined up, and they’re willing to wait a couple weeks on the start date, so he’ll have time to work on the house.
It’s been busy and I’m exhausted…but God is good.
ALL the time.
Oh, and did I mention I’m thinking about writing a non-fiction bit about working with trauma kids? In case I get bored.
So, I found the following poem in some of my scribbles from about three years ago:
Dirge of the Mama
Am I a horrible mother?
Tonight, my son—he lied.
I blew my top and I’ll admit
I gave him quite a fright.
Am I a horrible mother?
Tonight I lost my cool;
I did not hit—
I did not spank—
But by God, I wanted to.
I’m not a horrible mother
I want the best for you
One day, my son,
When your child lies to you.
I still feel this. Sooooooooooooooo often.
Tonight, I lost my cr*p.
Monday is Cub Scout night. Every single week, I hear gravel crunching under Hubby’s tires.
And I wait.
Unless he is 100% supervised, our boy always finds trouble. And every week, they burst through the back door in the middle of a reprimand.
Since Dad passed away, our guy has regressed to the impulsive equivalent of a five year old.
I understand from the many, many articles and books about childhood grief that this is normal, but seven weeks of the behavioral equivalent of Chinese Water Torture has chipped away my resolve to stay calm.
He almost made it through the evening this time.
But then, some pestering little kid he can’t stand ran by and hit him (probably explains the “can’t stand”).
Instead of coming to tell Hubby (which is what we tell him to do, every…stinking…time…), he ran after the kid, knocking people out of the way as he tracked his prey.
Hubby happened upon the scene in time to collar him.
We are exhausted.
We can’t leave him alone for five minutes unless he’s asleep.
It’s like we’re back to year one, minus the screaming (THANK GOD at least he’s not screaming. Yep, I can find a blessing anywhere. I’m pretty sure this means I’m mental).
I have another meeting tomorrow about whether the school will allow a one-to-one behavioral aide. I’m trying to get approval for an in-home counselor to help him cope. I am doing EVERYthing I can think of.
I know being at the end of the rope is not an excuse, but tonight, I’d just had it. I went all
It was either that or have an aneurysm, and I just don’t have time for that.
In less-than-quiet decibels, I explained to our boy that although I spend hours and hours and HOURS every week in meetings and filling out paperwork and researching and reading and trying to find solutions that will help them, he and his sister are NOT my top priority.
And I am
watching the kids disrespect, ignore and disobey my husband.
I went nose-to-nose with the kid.
Imagine this, but with longer hair (probably the spit is accurate):
YOU WILL OBEY, DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME SOLDIER?!
Not kidding. I went there.
By the time I was done, he was yelling, “SIR, YES, SIR! I MEAN—MA’AM!”
I don’t really know if it will make any difference.
I know the kid is grieving; we all are. Military Mama is probably not what he needs right now.
Why am I telling you this? Mostly because I’m still pretty upset, both about his behavior and about my reaction. Writing keeps me sane.
I’m telling you this because I think I come across as got-my-stuff-together a little too often, and that’s just not real life. I’m totally winging this.
Also, I want you to know that if you’re in the middle of
Joshua 1:9 is one of my favorite promises: Be Strong. Be Brave. You are NEVER ALONE.
Even in the moments we fail, God is still there.
Even when Military Mama takes over.
Stand strong. Be brave.
You can do this.
As a camp counselor and lifeguard, I was in the best shape of my life. Lithe and brown and sporting long, dark braids, I lived up to the nickname from campers: Aunt Pocahontas.
This was twenty years ago, mind you.
(Sometimes, this thought freaks me out. Twenty years is a lifetime, yet it seems like yesterday. Will the next twenty years go so fast?
Also, side note, twenty years ago, mothers and fathers trusted me to keep their tweens alive for an entire week. What were they thinking?)
Anyway, in spite of walking, running and swimming, I thought my derriere was still way too big.
Words from a much older lifeguard impacted my self-image more than I’m sure he ever knew. Looking back, I’m not really sure why I didn’t tell him to shut up, or even mention it to my supervisor. I guess I knew he meant no harm (and I still believe this).
Unfortunately, though, his words shaped my self image. Every time I ran by, he raised a hand in greeting.
Hey! Bubble Butt!
He had a mildly insulting nickname for everyone, much like Gilbert calling Anne “Carrots.”
And here I am, twenty years later, still remembering.
So I must remember, in the moments when my children are annoying, or aggravating, or do something downright stupid:
We all think words that cross the line. Right?
I’ll admit it.
I think words I should not say every time the boy decides he’d like to experiment (for instance, when I discovered his attempt to determine whether he could emulsify a huge, open container of oil and vinegar…in his BEDROOM).
Or when the girl pretends a comprehension disability much greater than the difficulty she actually has.
HOW could you be so STUPID?
DON’T be such an IDIOT.
These are the things I must not say. Because honestly, they’re not BEING these things.
I mean, yeah, if you want to get down to brass tacks, I do think it’s a dunce move for a kid with known motor-skills-issues to transport a liter and a half of stinky, sticky fluid into his room. But he’s not BEing stupid; his actions are simply unwise.
And I still have to watch my tongue.
Today, I listened to a new acquaintance talk about her mother, who evidently has nothing nice to say about her choices, her lifestyle. her clothes, her hair and her choice in men.
This acquaintance is in the midst of surgeries (two shoulder surgeries down, one neck surgery to go). She is effectively disabled for weeks after surgery and her insurance won’t pay for rehabilitative care. Instead of staying with her lone local family member, she talked the doctor into putting her into a rehab facility that serves homeless persons.
Because her mother’s words hurt so deeply, she would rather stay in that facility than with the one person in the world who should love her unconditionally.
One other thing: this woman is in her fifties, and her mother’s words still have this power.
I pray that I will never be that mother.
My frustration has, more than once, allowed unkind words to slip out.
Today, I renewed my vow to watch my tongue. To think better, kinder thoughts. To focus on the behavior rather than the personality.
Because what I say to them will exist forever in their minds.
In twenty years.
In forty years.
After I am dead, my words will live.
When they remember my words, I want them to feel encouraged. Uplifted. Inspired. Motivated to do better—without feeling belittled. Loved.
Twenty years from now, I don’t want them to look in the mirror and glare at what follows them. If they hear my voice in their heads, these are the messages I hope they hear:
I love you more than the sun and the moon.
I will love you—no matter WHAT you do.
I will never stop believing in you.
I hope Hubby hears those things, too.
I read these wise words about the power of what we say (and thought you might like to see them, too):
Ephesians 4:29 ESV
Let no corrupting talk come out of your mouths, but only such as is good for building up, as fits the occasion, that it may give grace to those who hear.
Proverbs 12:18 ESV
There is one whose rash words are like sword thrusts, but the tongue of the wise brings healing.
Matthew 15:18 ESV
But what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this defiles a person.
Matthew 12:36 ESV
I tell you, on the day of judgment people will give account for every careless word they speak,
Proverbs 16:24 ESV
Gracious words are like a honeycomb, sweetness to the soul and health to the body.
James 1:26 ESV
If anyone thinks he is religious and does not bridle his tongue but deceives his heart, this person’s religion is worthless.
“My daughter has gone from no dreams to big dreams.” That’s my favorite. (Looking for a great new blog to read? Check out this post from AdoptiveBlackMom.com!)
After spending all of 2016 trying to orchestrate Hope’s success, I slid into December exhausted and frustrated. My daughter was frustrated and exhausted. Our relationship felt no better than it did at the beginning of the year.
I feel like I threw out everything I knew and just said, “Eff it. How bad would it be if I just stopped?”
Here we are nearly 8 weeks later and a calm has fallen over our home. With the exception of the ongoing chatter about all things Kpop, Hope and I seem content, actually happy.
She’s a delight to be around
most of the time.
I’m not angry
much, so I’m guessing I’m easier to be around too.
We spend time together in the evenings and chat about all kinds of things including politics.
We started planning a grand trip abroad for spring break, and…
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Luckily, today was an in-home-counselor day for the girl, so she had several hours to explore the situation with her therapist. After dinner, the counselor suggested my daughter could share with me what they’d discussed.
She was obviously uncomfortable, so we pulled out a game of Uno and talked while we played. I always try to remain level-headed and objective when she talks about how she sees the world, but sometimes…
My daughter shared that she is jealous of her brother because he gets all the attention and she feels she is entitled to more of the attention because she is older. As the therapist helped her share her feelings (she provokes her brother to get him in trouble because she is jealous of him), it became evident that she’d colored a picture of herself as neglected and ignored, while Hubby and I showered our son with attention.
Photo by Adam Koford
First off, he’s been in hot water for the last several weeks due to trouble at school and ongoing infractions at home. The attention he’s getting is the kind I’m sure he’d prefer to skip.
Second, while he’s had early bedtime almost every night in the last three weeks, she’s had Hubby and me to herself for almost an hour every night. We ask her what she’d like to do and the answer is always, “Watch Girl Meets World.”
I shared this information with the counselor, then advised my girl, “if you’d prefer to play a game or just talk after your brother goes to bed, Daddy and I would be happy to do that. We only watch TV because that’s what you’ve been saying you’d like to do.”
She backpedaled quickly. “No, no, it’s okay, I like Girl Meets World. We can still watch.”
“So…” I say, “in what way do we give your brother more attention?”
She couldn’t answer.
“I think you’re right; he’s definitely had a lot of attention the last few weeks; we can start giving you the same attention. We’ll put you to bed early and make sure to get on your case as soon as you step a hair out of line.” (We’ve been on that boy like grease on a teen’s face: everywhere and all day long.)
And then I went for it.
“Let me tell you about one of my earliest memories. I was probably about two and a half, and my parents had some friends over for dinner. They put me to bed and went to the living room to play games or talk or whatever it was that adults did before HD cable.
I woke up maybe an hour later to hear them all laughing. I hopped out of bed and wandered into the living room to see my mother bouncing
my baby brother
on her knee. He was grinning and drooling all over his blue onesie. I couldn’t believe it. Obviously I was older. Why should HE get to stay up later than I did? I didn’t even drool.
Of course, I didn’t realize that babies need to eat every few hours. He probably woke up and needed a diaper change or something, then feeding, then had to be jostled back to sleep.
they had the nerve to put me
BACK TO BED.
I stayed mad at that drooly little bugger for years. He ruined my fun, got all the attention and nobody put him back to bed early.
All because I didn’t understand the way the world truly works…or that babies can’t wait.
So, here’s what I think. You’re mad at your brother for showing up and ruining your fun.”
Her face stretched in shock. “How could you KNOW that?!?”
“Because I was a 12 year old girl with a younger brother. And also, when you arrived, you told me some stories about things you enjoyed with your birth family.”
She wrinkled her nose. “I don’t remember.”
“Well, you might not have the memory anymore, but you certainly had it when you got here.”
“Sometimes little kids just make stuff up and think they remembered it,” she shrugged.
“Based on the amount of anger you had about it, I don’t think so. I think you are really angry at him and you take it out on him, but it’s not even real. He doesn’t ruin your fun and he doesn’t take your attention. You get just as much and maybe more attention. What’s making you so angry?”
She frowned. “My feelings.”
“Nope. Remember, Counselor Bob talked with you about how your thoughts create feelings and feelings create actions. You THINK you’re getting less than your brother. You THINK you deserve more because you’re the oldest. You THINK Daddy and I are being unfair. Are those thoughts true?”
Shrugging again, she said, “Maybe not.”
“I guarantee you, they’re not true thoughts. Another way to say that is
So what do you need to change so that your feelings will be different?”
I can tell she’s getting it. Reluctant, she sighs, “my…thoughts.”
We finish the game of UNO as she dissolves into hysterical giggles, throwing herself around and almost banging her face on the table’s edge several times. I admonish her to be careful, worried she might end up with a bloody nose. The therapist looks at me, eyes questioning.
“This is what we get when she has to discuss something uncomfortable.”
Or when her worldview lens gets cracked yet again.
One of these days, she’ll knock that spiderwebbed lens right out and see the world the way it really is.
I just know it.
This kid is obviously brilliant. Dyyyyyyyying of laughter. Shocked the boy hasn’t thought of this.
I love my kids. But there is no one in the world who will test my patience or make me question my sanity more than one of them. Well, maybe my husband, but I’ll save that for another post.
Over a year ago, my eldest took flight and moved out of the house to attend college 4 1/2 hours away. By way of attrition, my husband and I decided to play musical bedrooms with the two remaining children. Each child would get a larger room, and the move would open up the bedroom upstairs for a home office for my husband who was exclusively teleworking. Win-win, right? This was going to be no simple task, however; one does not simply switch rooms. There was new décor to plan and buy for, new paint for the walls, and then the actual move itself.
Over the course of the approximate six-month long project…
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