Christmas, Rejections, Rock Medley and Conscious Parenting in Practice.

People often ask me how do I make it as a mother of three half-Polish, half-Dominican boys in Denmark, without cultural understanding and family support. Well, here’s a little story of how I am learning to make it in a new way, through conscious parenting…

Here’s how conscious parenting looks like in practice…

I go to the school for a Christmas Celebration where all families are invited during the school hours to join their children in different activities and participate in a Christmas concert. I haven’t been to this kind of event before, as it is during working hours. This year, however, not only I am my own boss and I get to choose when I work, but also my son Erik is going to perform in the concert, so I wouldn’t like to miss it.

He really wanted us to be there, but when I arrive, he doesn’t even want to talk to me. Every time I approach him, he just walks away in another direction. A part of me, feels like a child that is being continuously rejected. A child rejected by a friend in an environment where she doesn’t belong in the first place. A story of how I don’t belong here in Denmark wants to make the full-blown return out from the shadows.

A moment of choice:

Option 1: feel pity for myself.

Option 2: have my own back.

I give myself a bit of support: “You can do this”.

“You can be here for a couple of hours. Deep down you know that he wants you to be here, he wants to be seen. He just, for some reason, needs to keep his distance from you”.

A question comes:

• Is he ashamed of me? Is he actually ashamed of his Polish mum, who speaks Danish with a weird accent?

I look around at all the kids normally speaking to their parents. When I approach my son, he literally drags his chair away from me, closer to his friend and his mum. 

That hurts like a punch in my stomach. And a stab right in my heart.

A moment of choice:

Option 1: feel pity for myself

Option 2: look deeper inside myself: which wound has my child touched that brings such pain?

A memory comes back. I am around 13 years old and a few boys “decorate” the neighbourhood in huge sprayed letters: “My full name”… comes from a village”- in a nasty slang. This young teenager feels deeply ashamed about the fact that she lived in a village. Mostly she feels ashamed about having it painted in huge letters on her way to the school. Someone helps her spray those letters black, but the boys used oil paint that is still visible. Every day she walks to school, she’s reminded of her apparently shameful origins. So is everyone else who takes that road.

I send a lot of love and light to that young teenager.

——

I decide to sit down and listen to a little girl totally pulling it off with a drum set. I feel deeply touched by all those little people, acting on their talents, doing something they love doing.

I wonder, is there a little artist inside of me that feels unheard? Have I neglected a part of me by repeating for most of my life that I have no talents and that I am so average?

I feel like crying, but I do my best not to. That wouldn’t help me win over my kid that is already ashamed of his mum.

——

I find a useful task to keep myself occupied, I am going to make a line to get a waffle for Erik. I stand there for 20 minutes, bring him a waffle, he doesn’t even say thank you and just goes away from me. Very far away.

Finally, his turn comes to perform his part at the concert.

He’s really good. This little guy has so much passion, playing that electric guitar. Now, I seriously want to cry.

——

I love this little guy so much. He wants to be seen by me but at the same time, he’s probably ashamed. My heart is about to break down in pieces.

Being his mum is such a BIG job.

Most of the time. I feel the heaviness of this assignment and at the same time, I experience profound gratitude for this little guy pushing me to learn and grow all the time. Every single day. 

As I am watching him play, I realize I’d love my father to be here with us. He was a musician, an artist. He would have loved to play the guitar with his grandson. And he would be of great support to me.

I am wondering if he is somewhere out there watching my boy play his rock medley. 

Inside my own head, I am like:

“Seriously, dude, what’s that emotional shitstorm? What else are you going to bring on”?

Strong emotions are running through me. I feel them, I am present with them and I allow a few tears to run discretely. I decide to postpone the real cry to a little later.

When Erik is done, I ask him if he’d like me to stay more and do something with me. 

No is the answer.

I watch him sit next to yet another friend and his mom, and I leave.

I need to take care of all of my emotions. Now.

As I walk back home, I allow myself to cry, yet the tears are no longer ready to come. I go home, I make myself a cup of a really good coffee and I just flood myself with love and compassion. I can fully process my emotions now. I can allow them to run through me and transform them back into the loving.

——

I bring the little girl that feels rejected back into my heart.

I bring the little girl that is ashamed of her origins back into my heart.

I bring the little artist that feels unseen and unfulfilled back into my heart.

I bring the young woman who has lost her father, her rock, back into my heart.

I bring the mother, that sometimes finds it so overwhelming to be a mum, back into my heart.

I see each of them with eyes full of love and compassion.

Once each of them feels seen and loved, I fall back into peace.

And I proceed with a really good day.