I love my little home. I do. Sometimes I look at it and see all its ordinary smallness, how it needs pictures on the walls and curtains on the basement windows, the baseboards and trim that could be painted to freshen up the look of the kitchen and adjoining living room, and the way the front door opens right into the living room (I hate that!) and think of all the things that I didn’t think about when buying this house but that will be on my list when I buy my next one. Sometimes I see the things I am not completely satisfied with but most of the time I see the things I love - this little house which is the perfect size for B and I and which keeps us safe and warm. I see one of my grandmother’s "camp blankets" on the back of my couch and feel the love. I look around the living room, lit at this late hour only by a single lamp, and see the love. And as I sit on my love seat in this little house that I bought for my son and I, I think of just how much I want him to know the love and my love for him.

I’ve just finished reading Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn (link in the sidebar under Book Reads) and I can’t recommend it highly enough. I picked a Mary Sheedy Kurcinka book from my small personal library to take to work tonight but I think I’m going to put it down and re-read Alfie Kohn’s book instead. It’s a book that makes an awful lot of sense. It’s how I want to parent my son. I want him to feel loved unconditionally. I may say that I love my son regardless of anything he says or does, that my love is not dependent on his actions or thoughts or words or anything else and I may mean it and believe it, however it is not the message that I believe or intend to give that matters, it is how B recieves it. How often in our relationships with people in general do we say, "But that’s not how I meant it"? Regardless, the damage is often done despite what we think is a misunderstanding or something that got "lost in translation."

There was no victory in getting him away from the machines or away from the wall with his marker. Tears are never a victory. I feel like a shit. Even more so because the above scenario is not a completely rare one in this house. Someplace recently I read that we should always try to remember our child(ren) as the babies they were such a short time ago. They are no less vulnerable and fragile now then they were back then.