The Stories I Tell Myself

It's Marriage Monday over at Chrysalis, and today's topic is children.

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This "video" (it's really more like an illustrated podcast!) demonstrates the concept of "the stories I tell myself" with photos of my son and briefly explores the impact of "the stories I tell myself" on marriage.

The Stories I Tell Myself

Teamwork Lessons from a Toddler

It's Marriage Monday over at Chrysalis, and today's topic is children.


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While learning to walk, Jonathon had clung happily to our fingers, leaning on us for support. We had held him safely between us.

Now that he could walk on his own, however, he wanted nothing to do with either parent. If I carried him, he squirmed to get “down.” Once on terra firma, he scurried away as fast as his wobbly legs would carry him.

Terrified for his safety, I dashed after him, clamping my hand around his chubby fist. Then I endured ear-splitting screams of protest as he tried to free himself from my restrictive vice grip. (Oh, and the disapproving glances and tut-tut head-shakes of passers-by who assumed I was needlessly harsh with my adorable toddler!)

Several weeks into this new routine, Jonathon tried a new tactic. We were walking through the market – me fighting to focus on my shopping list as my tiny son was fighting to get loose from me – when suddenly he stopped struggling.

Now, I normally have s.l.o.w. reflexes. I’ll drop a bottle of soda, think to myself, “When this hits my foot, it’s sure gonna hurt!” yet be unable to move my foot to avoid the pain and eventual bruise.

Yet on this particular day, my physical reaction miraculously occurred even as my brain registered, “He’s stopped struggling. Something is about to happen.”

I gripped Jonathon’s hand tighter and, with lightening speed, rotated my wrist a half turn, moving my hand away from him. Sure enough, with a strategic gleam in his eyes, Jonathon opened his mouth and chomped his rasor-sharp baby teeth...into his own pudgy hand.

Shock, confusion, and dismay replaced defiance on his face. Pain registered, and he began to cry. I comforted him, and then we walked on, hand-in-hand without resistance.

I felt grateful Jonathon had experienced the natural consequence of his biting. He had bitten, and he had experienced the pain.

And then I thought: Daniel.

Jonathon will try this on Daniel.

I’ve got to tell him before Jonathon tries this on him!

That evening, before bed, I recounted the brief incident to my husband, concluding with the recommendation, “So if you feel him stop pulling to get away, don't think; just rotate your hand away from him.”

The very next morning, Daniel took Jonathon on a quick errand. He returned with a meek toddler and a knowing wink. After settling Jonathon down for his nap, he told me,

It happened just like you said! I was dragging him down the isle. He was fighting to get away from me the whole time, when suddenly he stopped. My brain was thinking, “All of these bananas are too ripe. Don’t they have any gree-” when suddenly it switched to, “Rotate your wrist!”

He chomped down SO hard! It took five minutes to stop his crying.

The whole time, what kept going through my mind was, “If he had bit my hand, I wouldn’t have thought. I just would have slapped him across the face as hard as I could.”

Daniel paused, shook his head at the thought, and resumed.

I’m really glad I was prepared.

Jonathon turned out to be a two-bite baby. Natural consequences nipped what could have been a nightmarish habit in the bud.

I still shudder to think what could have happened if I’d not told Daniel about my near-biting incident with Jonathon.

What if Jonathon had bitten him? What if Daniel had slapped our toddler across the face? With whom would I have sided? How would that have impacted our less-than-five-year-old marriage? How would Daniel’s image of himself as a father been altered? How would Daniel’s relationship to his son been changed?

Daniel and I learned some important lessons about teamwork that day:

1) Keep each other "in the loop."

2) Prevent situations that encourage "siding" with a child, against each other.

3) Refuse to play tug-of-war when there's a child between us.


We also learned how vital it was for us to keep clinging together. To keep leaning on each other – and on the One who has always safely held us – for support.

Unknown but Loved

It's Marriage Monday over at Chrysalis, and the topic is "communication." When I sat down to write my blog post, I'd planned to write about how my inner dialogue impacts our communication as a couple, but this is what came out instead!

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“Of all "the looks" my mother has given me through the years -- delight, exasperation, joy, frustration, pride -- I never imagined (and could not have possibly prepared for) the one she gave me yesterday: oblivion. Alzheimers has ruthlessly plundered my mother's memory, stealing even the name she so carefully chose for me.”

This was my Facebook status update one month ago today. I’d just visited my mother, who has been declining for several years.

When I arrived, something felt very “not right” about Mother’s response to me. It took several hours to realize that she had not seemed happy or even surprised to see me; she had not addressed me by name or asked me why I was there or how long I was saying.

My mother had not known me.

I’d spent 44 years bemoaning that she didn’t really understand me, “get” me, know me. Now she really doesn’t know me. My own mother has never known me. And now, she never will.

I’d wanted, needed, expected so much more from her. I’d spent 44 years trying to re-create her in the image of who I thought my mother should be. I’d secretly believed that she could become the kind of mother who knew me, who understood me, if she really wanted to. If she tried hard enough. If she changed enough.

But I failed to change her, so I’ve spent four decades feeling unknown, unloved.

Daniel and I celebrated 23 years yesterday. And I spent far too many of those years trying to re-create him in the image of who I thought my husband should be. I not-so-secretly insisted that he could become the kind of husband who knew me, who understood me, if he really wanted to. If he tried hard enough. If he changed enough.

Failing to change my husband, I felt unknown, unloved.

A friend, whose mother's memory is failing, posted this compassionate comment to my Facebook status: "My mother has been saying to me for several months, 'I don't know who you are, but I know I love you with all my heart.' "

I wept tears of hope while reading this, at first for my future relationship with my mother. Then I realized the powerful implications for all relationships.

How well do any of us know and understand each other?

At best, we know bits and pieces. We know what we can know; we understand what we can understand. We each do the best we can.

I finally understand, at a heart level, the futility of trying to change people. The best I can do now is to stop insisting that my loved ones know me – or more accurately, make me feel known and understood.

The best I can do now is recognize that even though my mother does not know me now, she has always loved me with all her heart.

I wish I could have done so sooner, much sooner. My chances to know and appreciate my mother for who she was — rather than for who she wasn't — are gone.

But I have more chances with Daniel, and I'm determined not to waste them.

The best I can do now is learn to communicate to him, in word and in deed, "I may never know fully who you are, but I do know I love you with all my heart!"