THIS is The Way You Should Be Parenting

That sounds ridiculous right??  That there's one way to do something so insanely complicated??  The idea that there actually are right answers??  And yet, we read those kinds of posts and articles all the time and hear it just as frequently.  This is the same...but pretty different too.  Let me explain...

I was feeding my 1yo dinner when she started to get really upset.  In a matter of minutes, she was screaming and real tears were pouring down her face.  I checked all of the usual suspects, but couldn't figure out what the problem was.  I scooped her out of her high chair and brought her into the bedroom to nurse and as she lay, her little body curled up on my arms, I wiped her tears off her cheeks, ran my fingers through her silky hair and quietly assured her that she was Ok.

Then it occurred to me: I wasn't supposed to say that she was Ok when she was upset.

Hadn't I read that a million times??  And I get it.  You don't want to invalidate or minimize your kids feelings and by telling them they're Ok when they are clearly not, you might be doing just that.  So I get that.  As a psychologist and a person, that makes sense to me.

But how many other things are we told?  We're not supposed to tell our kids they're smart or that they did a"good job" because we're rewarding an outcome instead of their effort.  We're not supposed to tell our children that they are cute or pretty because then they will learn to value their outsides more than their insides.  We shouldn't tell our kids that we're proud of them because now our children feel responsible for our "parental pride" (this was an actual statement...ugh).

And what about all of the other decisions that we are led to believe are life altering for our kids??  We should be working.  Or not working.  Breastfeeding.  Or not breastfeeding if it's too stressful (happy mommy, happy baby after all).  We should sleep train.  Or we shouldn't sleep train.  We shouldn't let our kids sleep in our bed...ever.  Or co-sleeping is the only way our children become securely attached.  So. Many. Rules.

So can I just call bullshit??

I mean, let's just call a spade a spade.  Are some choices technically better than others?  Yes.  Not many, but some are.  Research is able to make some of that muddy, treacherous water slightly more clear.  And yet...  Does any of it really matter in the long run?  I'm gonna go ahead and say not really.  None of that stuff is going to make THE difference about whether or not you raise a relatively happy, healthy, well-adjusted kid.

You know what does make a real difference?

The love behind all of those decisions.

Because here's the thing.  My baby isn't going to remember that I told that she's Ok when she was crying.  And that seems obvious because she's a baby.  But even my 3.5yo won't remember when I occasionally tell him he's Ok when he's crying.  Nor will they remember or care that they had fettuccine alfredo out of a bag tonight for dinner (It's frozen!!  And pre-packaged!!  And FATTY!!  The horror!!).  My oldest's life will not hinge on the decision of whether he should start kindergarten in 1.5 or 2.5 years.  Or that he was sent to school even though he had a double ear infection (relax, he was well medicated and in perfect spirits).  My youngest will be no better or worse off if she winds up taking a bottle past the recommended 15 months.  Or if she is nursed to sleep every single time I am home and available.  Here's what they will remember and what WILL make a difference.

The tenderness of my voice.

The kindness in my eyes.

The softness of my hand on their little cheeks.

The cuddles under mountains of covers.

The joy and thrill of being chased and tickled.

They won't remember the words I say to them and they certainly won't even know about .001% of the crazy, non-stop decisions that are constantly being made on their behalf, for the sake of their wellbeing.

But they will remember the love.  And that IS all that matters.

Does that make sense to you?  Do you agree?  Disagree?  I want to hear about it on my Facebook page!

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her or her staff, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

Broken Can Be Beautiful

Broken can be beautiful.

Does that sound strange to you?  Do you believe that it's actually true or that I'm just trying to spin something?

Initially, it sounded strange to me too, but it doesn't take more than a minute or two when I really think about what that means, for it to make perfect sense to me.  If you haven't already read my last post, read it here and then carry on with this one.  It'll all make more sense that way.

So let's be honest: brokenness does NOT always look or feel beautiful.  Sometimes that looks like we are a sobbing mess on the kitchen floor.  Sometimes that means that we're screaming at someone we love.  Sometimes that means we are pushing those away who want nothing more than to be close.  Sometimes we are so scared of getting hurt or someone actually seeing us that we stay isolated. Sometimes the depths of our despair is so powerful and heavy and dark that we feel like we can barely move under the weight of it.

I get that.  I've lived that.  I've been there.

But here's the thing: if we try to avoid suffering our whole lives, then we run around barely experiencing anything at all.  Life IS suffering.  At least some of the time, it just is.  There is no way around that.  Similarly, if we try to avoid showing anyone our true self, which is marred and scarred and flawed, then we run around barely knowing anyone...or letting anyone know US.

There are a lot of people who have known me for a long time....who were still shocked at my last post.  They never knew the extent to which mine and Meredith's battle against cancer affected me.  Affects me NOW.  Most people had no idea.  Why?

I don't talk about it.  Ever.

Talking about it serves as a reminder that it actually happened.  Talking about how it continues to affect me makes me feel crazy.  I'm not supposed to say that because I'm a psychologist and in my world, "crazy" is a dirty word.  I don't think other people are "crazy", ever, regardless of what they are struggling with or what they have been through.  I'm able to see other's problems very objectively and understand how they developed and see how they make perfect sense.

But that doesn't stop me from thinking that I'm crazy.

So I don't talk about it.  And to be fair, it's not like I'm dying to talk about it or thinking about it all the time.  I think about my identity as a cancer survivor on a pretty regular basis.  And I see Meredith's picture sitting on my nightstand every night before I go to bed.  But I don't think about our whole war and I certainly don't think about how the after-effects of that battle continue to play out in my life.  I don't think I could function very well if that was omni-present 24/7 (even though it kinda is).  But even when I have an intrusive image of something terrible happening to me or my kids and I know it connects back to Meredith, I tell almost no one.  My husband knows.  I just told one of my dearest friends last week as I was gearing up to write these posts.  But that's about it.

But how silly is that??  Feeling pain is only human!  Feeling upset after something upsetting has happened only makes good sense.  And the "upset" will show up differently in different people, but pain is pain is pain.

We cannot avoid suffering.  

And I don't think we should even want to.  Only when we experience deep despair can we truly experience profound joy.

Every day I get a chance to bear witness to people's flaws, quirks, struggles...to the parts of themselves that are broken.  And these struggles and their courage to talk about it is incredible.  Perfection bores me to tears.  Romance novels can shove it.  Disney movies - eff off.  I want the raw...the brutal truth...the good, the bad AND the ugly...the struggle.  THAT is amazing and inspiring and sometimes it is simply beautiful.

And maybe even my brokenness is too.

Inside My Childhood War

It was October 16, 1996.  I am 15 years old and sitting in an assembly at my high school chatting with my friends when the nurse finds me and tells me that my Mom is here and needs to talk to me.

Meredith is dead.

I hear my Mom’s words before I ever make it to the nurses station. Before I see her bloodshot, teary eyes. Before she actually says the words out loud and makes them real.

“Honey, Mere died this morning.”

Instantly, my world split open and I fall, swallowed up in the crevice. I don't remember anything else about that day after that moment.

I stumbled numbly - the shell of a person - through Meredith's wake, giving her eulogy, and then finally her funeral. When we were at the cemetery and it was time to leave, her coffin mere feet away, above ground for those final moments, the loss was so powerful, I literally doubled over in agony. A searing pain exploded from the pit of my stomach and chest that was so unbearable I thought I might die myself. Collapsed on the floor and completely inconsolable, grief wracking my body, tidal wave after tidal wave in an onslaught that seemed never-ending. I could not bring myself to leave her side.  It was some of the most traumatic pain I’ve ever experienced, my teenage self having no idea how to manage the intensity of those feelings.  

How does anyone bury a 15 year old?

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Meredith and I fought in a war against cancer together.  Our first tour of duty was in the Winter of our 7th grade year, when Meredith lost both her Mom and Grandmother to cancer within weeks of each other.  A few months after that, Meredith herself was diagnosed with a rare and severe bone cancer that took every ounce of her strength and courage, almost dying several times throughout her battle.  It wasn’t until the end of our 8th grade year that she finally started to recover.  After that we got a few months of reprieve, but in December of our freshmen year, we were deployed again when I was diagnosed with cancer.  A much less severe cancer than Mere’s (Hodgkin's Lymphoma to be exact), but cancer nonetheless and Meredith helped me until I was in remission in the middle of that Summer.  Our final tour commenced just a few weeks after my recovery before our sophomore year, when Meredith got sick again and this time succumbed to the disease.

For 3 years straight, all Meredith and I did was fight for our lives or help the other fight for hers.  

Our very young lives that were still silly and childlike despite our illnesses, were constantly peppered with facing our own, and each other’s, mortality; a white noise in the background that was impossible to get rid of and equally impossible to ignore.  We had the same oncologist at the same hospital.  We helped each other through hair loss, friendships lost (what teenager wants to deal with cancer??), and school dances missed.  Through chemotherapy, radiation and stints in the ICU.  Through wig-vs-bandana decisions (being bald in junior high and high school is NOT fun, for the record). We were the only ones capable of understanding what the other was going through.  And we both fought courageously.  

The problem is that my fellow soldier died...and I survived.  

Just saying those simple words all these years later still makes my eyes well up with tears that eventually spill over.  It’s unconscionable.  She shouldn’t have died.  She had been through so much already.  She never fell in love.  She never learned how to drive a car.  We were supposed to be roommates in college together.  She was going to be a veterinarian. It shouldn't have happened that way.

And why her and not me?  The survivor’s guilt I felt - correction, still feel - is the most illogical sounding concept, but haunts me endlessly nonetheless.  I have always lived for the both of us without even fully realizing that’s what I was doing.  Always striving to be the absolute best person I can be because I feel like I owe that to her.  She wasn’t able to become an adult, to go on and do the great things I know she was capable of doing.  So I need to do that for her.

And not just because she didn’t get to, but because I feel like I need to prove that I deserve to be here.  I push myself SO HARD because some deep, dark part of me feels like I need to earn my keep.  That if I let myself slide even for a second, death will come for me again and this time I will not evade it.  Or even if I do, someone I love will pay dearly...again.

I know that sounds ridiculous.  

But that’s exactly how it feels.

Most people can recognize that they are anxious because their stomach turns, they get a pounding headache, they catch their thoughts spiraling out of control.  Me?  During a particularly difficult week, I was driving on the Eisenhower to have a play date (and a Mommy date ;)) and had a horrible image of getting into an accident, my car flipping over multiple times with my babies and I inside.  Intrusive images of something terrible happening to me or the people I love - that’s how I know that my anxiety is up.  Those horrific images serve as a reminder to me that screwing up or simply falling short of my enormously high expectations means that I should be punished.

The point is this: there are times when I feel SO BROKEN.  Despite the almost 20 years that have passed, despite the therapy, despite the money I raised for cancer research in Mere's name (more on that later), despite loving relationships that affirm my goodness, despite amazing children that reflect my goodness, despite a career that I LOVE and excel at...this nagging feeling of not being enough persists.  Which makes me feel even more broken.  And at times, the feeling of brokenness is so intense and real and isolating, it can seem as though I am the only person on the planet who feels this way.  Yet I know from my role as a psychologist that I am not alone in this feeling.

And you aren’t either.

There are times when we all feel broken...we all feel unworthy...we all feel undeserving...we all feel like it’s an up-hill battle and we don’t have the energy/courage/will to keep climbing.  There are moments in our life when we ALL feel that way.  

To feel broken is simply to be a human who is still breathing.  And being a human who is still breathing is a truly wondrous thing.

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma and anxiety expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

Here's Why I Feel Comfortable Sharing My Story With You

Well..."comfortable" is the wrong word.  Even simply writing the title of this article makes me acutely UNcomfortable...like I'm violating a very significant law of the Universe.  I was trained, as most psychotherapists, that you do not disclose personal information about yourself to your clients.  This is "the rule" for lots of really good reasons, but mainly because it's not about the therapist.  It's about the client.  I 100% agree with that and I am nothing if not a rule follower so that's what I have done.

That being said, when the question of should therapists disclose personal information is posed, I think the answer is a bit more complicated.

In the therapy room, I am pretty tight-lipped about my life.  Again, for lots of very good reasons, but mainly because it's not about me.  And I believe that and that has worked really well.  That being said, I don't refuse to answer when someone asks if I'm married, how far along I am in a pregnancy, etc because those things are visible.  And I don't respond in a super vague, potentially awkward way when someone is simply making perfectly acceptable small talk.  I value being authentic more than I value 100% non-disclosure so in these incidents, I feel perfectly comfortable being brief and honest...and that has served me well too.

But what about here, blogging, which is representative of this digital world in general?  Which arguably has become almost as expansive and possibly important as the "real" world we actually live in?  Some might say the same rules apply...but I disagree.

Social media, specifically, and the internet in a more broad sense, has made everything so PUBLIC and accessible, which is exactly why it makes some people nervous.  People who are moe private squirm at the idea of their stuff being out there for all the world to see.  While other people LOVE having an audience whenever they want one.  And then there's everything and everyone in between.

While I'm not an exceptionally private person, the idea of how having your "stuff" out there can feel scary absolutely resonates with me.  Raw honesty - whether it's a blog post, a sensitive picture or a Facebook status - makes us feel very vulnerable.  I experienced this vulnerability all of the time during this last year that I've been writing online.  But really, I've disclosed very little of substance.

I write about my struggles with parenting.  But that's everyone on the planet - certainly not a revelation.  I've written about how I can experience anxiety.  Again, that doesn't feel like anything extraordinary.  I've written about how I am a cancer survivor, which is dipping my toe in the water of disclosure a bit more, but still...I take pride in that.  And it's certainly not a secret given my active role in the cancer community.  My point is that none of what I have disclosed feels like much of a risk.  Not really.  I haven't taken any risks of this nature because I still have it in the back of my head that I shouldn't do that.  I still worry too much about what my colleagues will think.

But I'm done with that.

I spend most of my days encouraging people to be their authentic selves.  To worry less about what others think of them.  To embrace every experience they've ever gone through and figure out how to learn from it.  To not sequester certain experiences or parts of themselves to underground dungeons, never to be seen or heard from again.

And yet, that's what I've been doing on this blog.

Living my life - WRITING about my life - as if I don't have a past.  Or at least pretending like certain aspects of my past aren't still a part of me.  Or that this isn't the place for them.  But that's just not true.  And I'm done pretending like that's the case.

So from here on out, I'm just going to be honest about my life.  Not just for the sake of being honest - I don't want this blog to be the Colleen show.  But if I think that somebody can possibly learn something, or be inspired, or question their own behavior, as a result, then I'm going to be forthcoming and straightforward about my experiences.

Now why on earth does that sound like such a big deal??

What do you think?  If you read something deeply personal about your therapist online, would it make you feel more connected to them?  Uncomfortable?  Something else entirely?  I want to know!  Fill me in on my Faceback page.

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/

To Lose Our Shit...Or Not. That is the Question.

I did it!!  I finally did it!!  I responded the way that I wanted to - parented in a way that I feel good about - when my child was acting like a monster.  It's a freakin' Christmas miracle.  Let me set this up for you...

So I don't know what hell was up my 3.5 year old's butt this morning, but the moment he started speaking, I knew it was going to be bad at some point.

First the dramatic breathing.  Mamas, you know what I'm talking about.  It's a combination of a sigh, a groan and a whine all at once with a little fake hyperventilation thrown in there just for good fun.  Whenever that's the first sound I hear out of his room, I can practically hear the imaginary bomb start to frantically tick.

Then the slow, fake cry.  "Mommy...(crying sound, crying sound without any actual tears or actual distress)...I'm still tiiiirrrrreeed".

We're into full blown whining now.

And at this point, it doesn't really matter what I do, but I try anyway.  I try talking quietly, in a soothing voice, letting him know that he can stay in a bed a few minutes longer and wake up slowly....

"NO!!"

Hmmm.  Ok.  "Buddy, that's not very nice, but it sounds like you are pretty sleepy so I'll just let you take a minute.  Maybe a little space will help".

"I don't WANT space!?!?"

"Would a hug help?"

"No!"

Ok so I'm done for a hot second.  I'll let him mellow.  Maybe he'll pull himself together in a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later he is still in his room laying in bed and none of my attempts to diffuse have been successful.  Well I won't give you the rest of the story as a play-by-play, but suffice it to say that it got ugly despite my best attempts to work through it rather than provoke a full blown melt down.

He screamed, he threw his precious lovey (which makes me INSANE!!), he refused to eat (initially) even though that almost always makes him feel better.  I mean...he just pushed every button imaginable.  And typically, after he's been at this level of shenanigans for this long (we're going on 30 minutes of it folks), I would've lost my shit in some way.  I would've engaged in some power struggle.  I would've broken down and yelled.  I would've punished, which just would've escalated the situation and made it worse.

But then I remembered...

I remembered that children cannot calm themselves in the middle of a meltdown.

I remembered that the only way children learn to soothe themselves is by experiencing other people soothing them.

I remembered that he didn't WANT to feel this way - behave this way - he simply didn't know how to do anything else.

I remembered that he wasn't giving me a hard time (well...), but rather he was HAVING a hard time.

I remembered that he was only 3.5 years old and something was really wrong that he didn't have the brain power/faculties to articulate.

But most importantly, I remembered that I was his Mommy.  And he needed me.  And if he couldn't count on me during a dark time, who could he ever expect to count on??

So I sat with him on the kitchen floor and hugged him and kissed him and cuddled him.  I let him curl up on my lap as though my knobby legs were a couch.  I told him that I loved him endlessly.  I stroked his beautiful hair and face.  And I had the pleasure of watching the stress, sadness and anger drain out of him, like some poison that was slowly being extracted.  I watched his breathing slow.  I watched his skin turn from bright red to alabaster again.  I watched the tears stop forming and falling.

And pretty soon my little bug was back.

Now, to be clear, I am under no delusion that simply because I was able to do this today does that mean that I will never have a moment of parenting that makes me feel guilty.  I know I will yell again.  I know I will punish at the wrong time, in the wrong way, for the wrong reasons.  I know my patience will falter.  Because I am human.  And he needs my humanness too so I'm gonna try not to beat myself up too much for that either.

But today?  Today was just glorious.

What's your biggest parenting win lately?  Had a revelation about how you affect your kid's behavior?  Tell me about it on my Facebook page!

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Dr. Colleen Cira is a Licensed Clinical Psychologist, trauma expert, clinical supervisor, writer, speaker, wife and Mommy of two little ones.  She has a practice in Chicago's Loop and Oak Park.  To schedule an appointment with her, please visit: http://www.cirapsyd.com/