I Am A Fixer

I am a fixer.  I’m not sure if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.  When I hear others’ problems, I can’t control the impulse to try to help.  It comes from a caring place….not a place of condescension or rudeness or any of those negative things.  It’s just that I don’t like people to hurt or complain or hold grudges.  All of that makes me feel uncomfortable.  Additionally, I love people.  I just do.  I especially love those close to me with whom I maintain personal relationships.  I don’t like to see my kids or husband or friends or anyone else I love wrestling with a conflict in their lives.  Therefore, my first inclination is to want to make things better and fix things.

However, it usually comes at a price.  I have learned that sometimes people don’t want a situation fixed.  They just want to be heard.  Sometimes, people are searching for an acknowledgement of their own problems rather than a solution to them.

This is totally counter intuitive to my very nature.  However, I worked through this tonight to withhold solutions.

Tonight E was quite upset about something.  Very, very upset.  Anger and frustration boiled from him.  I do not like to hear that type of emotion in his voice…..particularly when it is an issue that I know a year from now he will not recall.  I wanted so much to offer him a new way of looking at things….to put it into perspective.  I yearned to explain that these things he was mentioning were probably just his perspective on things and to walk him through other options.

But I didn’t.  I sat and listened and nodded while he unloaded.  When he was done, my only words were, “I’m so sorry that happened to you.  Is there anything I can do?  Would you like a hug?”  Because, mamas, sometimes even teenage boys need hugs from their parents.

He continued to talk about what was bothering him for a few more minutes, but then he was calm, rational, and ready to be around people.  It was one of the first times he was that upset and it didn’t end up with slamming doors, negative consequences, or more frustration.  And it was wonderful.  He was able to get everything off his chest that was bugging him while having his feelings validated.

That Time Kindness was an Innovative Teaching Strategy

So that’s it.  I’m again on the quest for all things new.  A college professor of mine posts links to really interesting articles often on his Facebook account.  Today, I saw one such article that immediately caught my attention.  It was a teacher’s account of conscientiously trying to create a culture of kindness in a classroom and a school.  Something as simple as writing post it notes to check on children when they are disengaged can show teachers care.  It mentioned how teachers often believe they are creating such a culture of kindness because they believe they are mandating and establishing rules requiring respect.  However, it is much deeper.

It was clear the writer believes creating a culture where kids feel valued, genuinely liked, and that others sincerely care, will result in more learning.  I agree.  However, wanting such a culture and establishing one is different.  It’s such a cliche to say, “students don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.”  But it is true.  However, it takes intentional actions to do this.  And being intentionally about building relationships while balancing paperwork, parent contacts, staff development, required meetings, and lesson planning is a tall order.  Going to try to do better at it.

You can read the article here:  http://www.edweek.org/tm/articles/2014/09/09/ctq-sherman-kindness.html?cmp=SOC-SHR-FB

Day I-Don’t-Even-Care — Not My Story

A terrible occasion has led me back to writing.  It’s not a first.  It’s a last.  

I want to tell you a story, but it’s not my story to tell.  It’s the story of someone I knew, and loved, and lost years ago.  It may be his story, but it’s my perspective on it.  Unfortunately, he’s no longer here to tell his story.  Although he passed today, the truth is we lost him years ago.

W and his siblings and I spent many summers together growing up.  So many stories I could share of these days.  Stories of laughter, stories of being annoyed, stories of doing the annoying, stories of child pranks.  W had infectious laughter.  He found humor in everything — crude jokes, grandfather’s one liners,  body functions, everything….. He didn’t seem to enjoy school very much but he was wildly talented.  He drew comic figures that would make Stan Lee jealous.  He had rugged good looks and attracted the ladies.  One time, as a teenager, we gave him grief as he emitted cologne the way the sun emits light while prepping for a date with Donna.  In college, my friends looked forward to visiting home with me hoping for a glance of him.  My 21st birthday we all went to an area sports bar and had a fun night of karaoke.  My college friends were more focused on W than on the song list.  He was an adrenaline junkie.  While people like me ran away from the idea of jumping out of planes, he counted down the day to each jump.  He was preparing for a career to train others in skydiving when the accident happened.  

And everything changed.

He always seemed to dance with danger, being an adrenaline junkie and all.  He literally laughed at things that made others squirm.  He had his faults — walking away from responsibilities that others held closely, but with such a fun-loving personality, it was easy to overlook the faults.  Until there was no option but to see the faults, the cracks, the addiction.  The adrenaline addiction because a morphine addiction.  Who knows?  It could have been an addiction to other substances, as well.  The man that once nearly bathed in cologne to impress the ladies no longer cared for his appearances….no longer groomed…..no longer bathed.  The man that once had a muscular build withered into a skeletal frame.  

The last time I saw him nearly a year ago, I hardly recognized him.  He was a shadow of the man I knew once upon a time.  No laughter, no smile in the eyes….it appeared as if he had aged at least five decades.  Yes, five decades.  

We had long lost touch.  I knew of the demons he was fighting…..and surrendering to.  It seemed so sad, but perhaps predictable.  But death…..that is the finale.  A clear finish.  No hope for change, for overcoming, for rehabilitation, for redemption.  Just the end.  A sad, not-at-all glamorous end with no happy ending….only pain.  Pain of final days, pain of loved ones left behind, pain.  I have often heard of the sadness and strangeness that exists when parents have to bury children, but in this case, not only parents, but grandparents will attend the memorial.  Addiction kills, but, unfortunately it kills well before a body stops breathing.  Tonight, hug your loved ones, and do not believe addiction is impossible in your family, in your home, in your social circle.  Do not buy into the lie that addiction is a secret meant to be kept in a closet and intended to bring shame.  Hug your loved ones, say “I love you”, call your family, reach out to overcome great divides in relationships, fill the voids in your life with relationships not substances.  Do not own the addictions of others.  Do not blame yourself when an addiction takes over another.  But own the sadness, the what-ifs, the loss of potential, of years, of relationships, of future that addiction leaves behind in its wake.  And share the story with others.