do you believe in magic?

I’ve dreaded having “the talk” with Ellen since the day she was born. How will I tell her the truth without taking away her innocence, without filling her with doubt and cynicism? How can I spare her the grief that often accompanies truth?

How will I ever be able to tell her about Santa? (Just in case you thought “the talk” referred to the sex and babies thing – that is something that we actually looked forward to, and, so far, it’s unfolding pretty well).

A few weeks ago Ellen and I were lying in bed and talking about friends. We were sharing the same pillow and both staring straight up at the ceiling when she turned toward me and blurted, “Are you the tooth fairy?”

I froze. Total paralysis set in.

“Mom, I really need to know. I really need you to tell me the truth. Hanna’s mom told her that she’s the tooth fairy. Please tell me. I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know.”

I shot straight up. “Ellen, do you hear your dad calling me?”

She scrunched her face up. “I don’t hear anything at all.”

I jumped out of bed and told her I’d be right back. As I was racing out of the room, Ellen called after me, “Come back! Are you trying to avoid me?”

I didn’t break stride. I walked ran into Steve’s study. “It’s here! It’s time! She wants to know! I think this is it!”

I wish I could say that Steve looked alarmed, but this is not an entirely unique scenerio in our house. He simply shuffled his feet to turn his leather work chair in my direction, raised his head and said, “Time for what, baby?”

I quickly recapped my conversation with Ellen. Steve drew a long breath and shook his head. I was overcome with a sense of dread. “Brené, it’s time. We always said we’d tell her the truth when she sincerely asked.”

My mind was flooded with tiny clips of her asking the same question, but rather than really wanting to know, it was obvious that she was desperate for us to defend her beliefs.

This was different and Steve and I both knew it.

I slowly returned to the room and crawled back into bed with Ellen. Within seconds we were both lying on our sides, propped up on our elbows, with our faces inches away from one another. I quietly said, “I wanted to talk to your dad about our conversation. It means a lot to both of us.” Her eyes filled with tears and she sunk down. “You are the tooth fairy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, your dad and I are the tooth fairy.” She rolled off of her elbow and put her face directly into the pillow. A few seconds later, she lifted her head enough to grab a breath and held it over the pillow as she whispered, “Is Santa Claus real? Are parents Santa too?”

I felt deeply conflicted. To simply tell Ellen that we’re Santa would be as dishonest as telling her that Santa is real. For me, it was so much more complicated than that. Yes, we’re Santa, yet Steve and I are believers. We were both raised by parents who believed in magic and made plenty of it when we were growing up. We are just totally goofy, big-hearted, unapologetic believers.

I looked into Ellen’s eyes and instantly realized that there was no reason to make it less complicated than it is. “Elle, your dad and I are Santa, but that doesn’t mean that there’s no magic in Christmas. We believe in magic. We believe in Christmas spirit. We believe in things we can’t see.”

An ounce of hope returned to her face.

I told her about the special kind of magic that fills the hearts of parents and inspires them to write swirly notes in gold pen and sign the Tooth Fairy’s name. I told her about the magic that compels us to decorate the house before the Thanksgiving plates are washed and to stuff stockings and build bikes at 3am. I told her about the magic of thousands of twinkle lights and decorating trees and singing songs. We talked about the magic of celebrating five Christmases in five days (she has four sets of grandparents).

By this time we were both sitting criss-cross-apple-sauce with our knees touching and our hands in a messy stack. She looked me straight in the eye and said, “But why? Why do parents do all of this?”

I smiled, “So you can believe in magic. So you can believe in things you can’t see. So, you can pass along the magic in your life.”

“But why tell me now, Mom?”

I said the first thing that came to my mind, “Because your heart is full of magic now. You’re ready.” I told her that parents who want to pass down magic are the best judge of when their kids are ready, and that’s why we let parents have this conversation.

Ellen cried small, quiet tears. “I believe in magic. I really do. My heart is full and I’m ready. This is so hard, but I believe.”

This morning we had an amazing conversation about God, faith, and magic. Before I could even get my head around the fact that we were actually talking about these things, she said, “Magic is harder to see and believe in than God. We can see God because God is love.” This time I was fighting back tears.

All of our efforts to avoid passing down the confusing Charlton Heston and George Burns images of God were working. Every week the children's sermon at our church is a different version of "God is love" - nothing more complicated, nothing more simple. She's listening.

We decided that faith might be believing in God and love even when it is hard – even when bad things are happening and it’s hard to see and feel God and love.”

Ellen said, “Then faith and magic are different.”

“Yes, I think you’re right. I think they are very different.”

Then, in all of her 9-year old wisdom, Ellen said, “It’s trickier with Christmas and Easter because you’ve got Santa, the Easter Bunny and Jesus.”

I chuckled. “Yes, it’s trickier when there’s overlap.”

Ellen replied, “The tooth fairly is easier. That’s pure magic. Unless, of course, you knock your tooth out eating a communion wafer.”

Our family wishes you magic this holiday season!

Special thanks to Farrah Braniff, my friendtogopher (good friend and family photographer) for these awesome holiday shots. Check out her gorgeous new blog here!

mama bear, mama bear, what do you see?

I see myself looking back at me.

When I'm talking to groups of parents about my research, there's always lots of laughing AND there are always three or four moments when things get very, very quiet. One of the quieter moments settles in when I talk about the power of seeing ourselves (or our partners) in our children. There is great joy in those moments, but it can also be very difficult when we see the parts of ourselves that we struggle with (or against) emerge in our children.

If we feel shame about a certain behavior or appearance issue and we catch a glimpse of it in our child, we're very vulnerable to feeling more inadequate and even shaming them about it.

If we know that we have an anger or sensitivity issue that can cause problems, we are often alarmed when we see it in our sons or daughters. 

In many ways, 20+ years has turned me and Steve into one funky, hybrid person. When we first got married, I liked the "sleeping temperature" to be 68 degrees. He liked 72. Now we both like 70. For many years, we liked different TV shows, now we like the same ones. That's how it goes.

But, when it comes to our tempers, we're very different. It takes a lot to make Steve really mad, but once he's mad it can take a while before he's "normal" again. He's quick to forgive, but it takes a while to recover.

Me? I can stomp around, yell, and be really pissy, then feel great and be ready to grab a movie and some Thai food. If Steve looks at me weird, I'm always like, "What? It's over. I think you're all cute again." He really loves it when I say, "Oh, I had the rest of the fight in my head. I was right. You apologized. It's over."

If that's not bad enough, I was also raised by an attorney. I can turn an argument into a hostile witness interrogation faster than you can say, "Jack McCoy." While these are lovely traits, I'm pretty sure that both of these things drive him crazy.

I've never understood how my "anger/arguement style" could possibly be irritating. Until now. Enter Charlie. He is a sweet, loving little guy. He's very compassionate, funny, and smart as a whip. He's also 3 - year of the power struggle. Combine this age with my anger/arguement style and here you go:

Charlie: I want to drive by the fire station.

Me: Sure thing, sweet boy. We'll be there in about 10 minutes.

Charlie: Tanks. (my favorite little word pronunciation right now).

Me: Hey Charlie, please stop pushing mamma's seat with your feet.

Charlie keeps pushing, pushing, pushing and I keep asking, asking asking. I'm resisting all of the training that tempts me to say, "Don't make me pull this car over." I don't say it because what would I do with the car pulled over?

Me: Charlie, I don't want to ask you again. You need to make good choices. If you choose to keep pushing my seat, we're not going to drive by the fire station.

Charlie kicks the seat as hard as he can and giggles.

Me: Charlie, I'm sorry, but we're not going by the fire station. You aren't making good choices (my voice is raised a bit and I'm frustrated).

Charlie: You hurt my feelings! 

Me: I'm sorry, but you need to think about your choices.

Charlie: You need to think about your choices. You should blow out your angry words, not use them on friends. Let's both say sorry and start over.

At this point I'm dazed and confused and questioning the entire Montessori concept.

Me: I'm not going to say "I'm sorry." I asked you to stop kicking my seat because it hurts my body when you do that.

Charlie: Momma, it's OK to say sorry. Everyone makes bad choices. You know I still love you when you're making bad choices.

I'm thinking - "Are you kidding me?"

We drive past the turn for the fire station. He screams. I drag him in the house (I'm still confused and getting increasingly tired). He screams more. Five minutes pass.

Charlie: You want to build the biggest fort in all of life?

Me: Sure. Are you ready to make good choices?

Charlie: (In an earnest voice - not being sarcastic at all) Charlie is ready. Is momma ready to make good choices now?

A couple of days later we're in the car again. This time, he's been really hard while I'm trying to get him ready and I'm super frustrated.

Charlie: Are you really angry, mama?

Me: I'm frustrated Charlie.

Charlie: Let's start over. "Hi Mama."

Me: Charlie, I need a couple of minutes of quiet time so I can blow out my angry. It's really hard to go in the car to have fun when you're not helpful getting dressed.

About 7-8 minutes passes.

Me: Charlie, I feel better. Do you want to talk about our day? I really want us to have fun.

Charlie: Nope. I'm in MY quiet time now. Please don't talk to me.

God bless Steve (and Ellen who is a lot more like Steve). Not only are there two of us now, but it kinda cracks me up (if it's not making me crazy).

Please make me feel better and tell me about all those wonderful, crazy-making things that make you think, "Oh no. It's me."

love thursday and longhorns!

A friend of mine sent me an email this week and it had this amazing quote as part of her signature. I've been really overwhelmed with work for the past few weeks and I can't tell you how helpful it was to read this:

It is not joy that makes us grateful; it is gratitude that makes us joyful.

--Brother David Steindl-Rast

I've been searching for joy rather than practicing gratitude. I can always find gratitude when I stop and really see my kids and Steve, and when I make time for creativity (photography, making little movies, listening to music, etc.).

I'm celebrating Love Thursday with this sweet little video that I made. I took these pictures of Charlie on our front porch and the music is "The Eyes of Texas" by the University of Texas Longhorn Marching Band (of course).

I'm so grateful for this little Longhorn! Hook 'em!

Update on 11.2.2008 by Brené Brown

To Laurel, Renae, and the other Red Raider fans:

OMG! That was good football. Congrats to Texas Tech! To those of you wondering about their comments or this follow-up . . . welcome to Texas. We take our football seriously and our tea over ice.