In the Face of Violence, Answering THE Question

Six days after the school shooting in Florida it came.  The question I’ve been waiting to be asked.  The question I can’t fully answer myself.  I knew one of my children would ask it.  I knew I’d have to find a way to explain the unexplainable.  And, here it came.  Driving through town, my daughter spotted the lowered “sad flags” and asked: “Why would somebody do that, mom?  Why would somebody go into a school and kill so many people?”

Isn’t this the question we’ve all been trying to answer for decades?  Regardless of where you fall on all the hot topics and debates, when we boil it down, we’re all just wondering why someone would do it.

I make absolutely no claims to know the reasons or to understand the inner complexities of making such a choice.  I make no claims to understand all the societal complexities that enable such horrifying choices to be made.

What I do know, is that how I answered my KBear’s question sets the foundation for her worldview, for her understanding of other people, for how she will find comfort and security, for how she will treat people, and how she will understand why horrible things happen.

I also know that our kids don’t want to just be placated or for us to shy away from the complexities innate in these traumas.  They want truth, and they want to feel reassured that they will most likely be safe and okay.

I also know that mental illness rarely equates to violence.  I know that owning a gun doesn’t equate to murder.  I know that most people who play violent video games or watch violent movies or listen to violent lyrics do not plot a terrorist murder spree. 

And I know that happy, contented, and well people do not commit violent acts.  I know that people who feel connected and in community do not murder.

I know that all too often, children are seen through the filters of their behaviors.  I know that underneath troublesome behavior is some type of pain or fear or isolation or shame or trauma.  I know that suspending and expelling children does not effectively alter their behavior.  I know that children who need the most loving usually act in the most unlovable of ways.  I know that writing a child off as evil, a monster, or a bad kid does not heal or transform or prevent future misbehaviors.

I know we need more compassion.  I know that love trumps hate.  I know that darkness cannot drive out darkness, and I know that we need to be the change.

I believe that with early intervention and seeing the vulnerable child beneath the defiant preschooler, or the traumatized child beneath the meltdowns, or the lonely isolated child beneath the middle school defiance and opposition, we can transform pain and violence into healing and peace.

So, how did I answer my child’s question?

“I don’t really know, sweetie.  But, I know he must have been very lonely and sad or angry and instead of getting help, he made an awful and really hurtful choice.”

I know we need compassion.  Always compassion.  Especially compassion when it’s the most difficult.

Light @ the End of the Tunnel: Homeschooling Gifted

It has happened fairly regularly over the past several years.  My I’m-not-doing-enough-and-failing-my-kids-and-what-the-heck-was-I-thinking-when-I-decided-to-homeschool freakout.  Or my Other-kids-his-age-are-writing-their-name-and-I-haven’t-even-started-teaching-that-I’m-a-horrible-mom/teacher-and-my-kids-will-be-ruined-for-life freakout.  Or my I’m-not-doing-enough-to-nurture-his-gifts freakout.  The list could go on, but I think you get the point.

I know I’m not the only homeschooling parent to experience these freakouts.  It is so easy to compare the learning that we’re doing or the knowledge that my kids do or do not know to those kids in the public school system.  Which, yes, is silly because we intentionally chose to educate our kids differently for many reasons, one being the direction the American schools are going with pushing formal education earlier and earlier on our kids.  But, it’s the standard of the majority.  It’s the education system I grew up in.  It’s what I’ve known.  And so, when I’m spending my mornings reading Harry Potter aloud as my kids are playing with lego and magic cards, I sometimes feel I’m failing them and we’re not doing enough “academics.”

Thankfully, I’m starting to see the fruition of our pedagogy.  Our oldest is 12 and with the exception of 1 year at a private one-room schoolhouse, he’s been homeschooled.  We’ve been doing this homeschooling thing a few years.  Lots of time for lots of doubts and freakouts.  Lots of failed attempts at various types of learning.  And now . . . we’re finding our groove and I’m reassured with who my son currently is and who he is becoming.

Here’s the light at the end of the homeschooling tunnel:

The light is a 12 year old that is mostly comfortable in his own skin.

The light is a pre-teen who can stand his ground over things he cares about.

The light is a child who can read, compute, write, speak elementary Japanese, explain some aspects of physics, have deep philosophical conversations about literature and history and politics and social justice.

The light is a child who chooses what he wants to study and what activities he wants to be in because it’s what he wants, not because his classmates tell him he should want it.

The light is an 11 year old boy choosing to play the flute and now the 12 year old begging to learn to play the lute.

The light is the comments from the adults around him who are amazed at the person he’s becoming and the person he is.

The light is the father-in-law humbly stating, “You know I haven’t been a homeschool fan and really thought you were making the wrong decision.  I was wrong.  Based on how he’s turning out, homeschooling was absolutely the right decision.”

I know I’ve still got lots of years ahead of me.  I know that I still have the same self-doubt as I facilitate the learning of my littlest.  But, I see the light.

All you homeschooling parents:  It does work out.  It will work out.  And it is SO rewarding when you see it.  So on your freakout days, trust those men and women who’ve gone before us and those of us who are just a few steps further down the road, there will be light. 

Still difficult to see the light?  Check out more sources for inspiration in this month's GHF Bloghop!

A Light @ the End of the Tunnel: 2e

(2016)  It’s the morning of the Valentine’s day party.  My 7-year-old 2e daughter is getting ready for school.  She wakes up “flappy” and crabby and starts right in with yelling at me and vocalizing and screeching.  She needs constant directives and still fights every step of the way.  She refuses to go to school.  She flails and fights and scratches.  I somehow manage to get her to school, but we’re both crying and then have a day apart filled with regret and anger and disconnection.

(2018)  It’s the morning of the Valentine’s day party.  My 9-year-old 2e daughter is getting ready for school.  She’s beginning to feel a little “flappy” and I’m beginning to brace myself for a rocky morning.  Suddenly, I hear a “wah!”, feel a little head crash into my chest, and hear my daughter say, “Mom, I hate holidays.  Everything at school is different and I feel so icky on these days.”  We hug and regulate and plan and carry on.

(2015)  It’s a summer day.  My 7-year-old 2e daughter plays in the sprinklers.  After 10 minutes she is overstimulated and starts attacking her younger brother.  Her arms are around his neck and she’s not letting go and his skin is turning a shade of red then purple that is terrifying.  I manage to get him free and spend the next many hours trying to maintain safety.

(2017)  It’s a summer day.  My 9-year-old 2e daughter plays in the sprinklers.  After 10 minutes she starts to get bossier and yells more at her younger brother.  With a suggestion, she puts in earplugs and sits on my lap for just a few minutes while I give her pressure and shoulder rubs.  She goes back to play.

(2015)  It’s my 2e daughter’s 7 year old birthday party.  She is excited and then angry and then happy and then raging and then bored and then out of control.  We threaten to cancel the party numerous times.  She screeches and screams.  She pulls it together for the party.  She meltsdown after an hour and a half and all family slowly make a quiet and uncomfortable exit and we’re left to try to pick up the pieces.

(2017)  It’s my 2e daughter’s 9 year old birthday party.  She is excited.  She says she’s excited.  She decides to watch something alone in her room to have some quiet and be fully charged so she can tolerate all the activity of her party.  She is pleasant and hospitable to her guests for the whole party.  15 minutes after her last guest leaves, she has a mini-melt-down, is escorted to her room and calms after 15 minutes.

(2016)  It’s a Sunday.  We’ve been to church and my 2e 7 year old daughter leaves the church service by bolting out into the street, pulling at us and yanking us and refusing to listen to us.  We drive home with her screeching and unbuckling and hitting the entire 15 minute drive.  We get home and attempt to help her regulate, but we have 4 hours of non-stop meltdown and holds and being called horrible names and tears and I find myself collapsed on my knees in another room screaming out to any God or anyone who will listen that I just can’t do this anymore.

(2018)  It’s a Sunday.  We’ve been to church and my 2e 9 year old daughter leaves with her ear defenders and weighted vest securely on her body.  She is flappy and overstimulated.  We get home and she immediately rests alone in her room.  We eat.  She melts down.  We get her to her room.  She spends 15 minutes screaming and throwing things in her room and then it is quiet.  A few minutes later a piece of paper is slid under her doorway to me.  It is an apology and a love letter written in my child’s scribbly handwriting.  In it she asks for snuggles.   I go in and we snuggle and hug it out.  Actually hug it out and actually snuggle.

I don’t know what your 2e journey, or the rest of ours, will look like, but I know there’s hope.  It doesn’t feel like it in the midst of the overwhelm somedays, but there’s hope.  It took therapy and learning about our daughter’s wiring and us parents getting on the same page and grieving and bandaids and explaining to our sons and explaining to our daughter and tears and blood and sweat and arguments and love and compassion and new parenting styles, but there’s hope.

Need more hope & light?  Check out the other inspiring posts in this month's GHF bloghop.