Articles by Jenny Runkel at Heartlight

The Grinch that Stole Mommy

jenny@screamfree.com (Jenny Runkel) — Tue, 16 Dec 2008 00:00:00 -0600

I hate the Christmas season. Ok, maybe hate is too strong a word. That's the problem with being a writer. Everyone pays really close attention to your words and if you're not careful, they come back to haunt you in one way or another. So which word really pinpoints my feelings about Christmas? Bitterness? Melancholy? Cynicism? Dread? Hmm ... that has a nice ring to it. Yes, I think that just might be it. I dread Christmas.

Sad, but true. I dread "the most wonderful time of the year." I should be traipsing around town spreading cheer and drinking Peppermint Lattes, but I just can't. To tell you the truth, I feel more like curling up into the fetal position and trying to sleep my way through the craziness. There is just something panic-inducing about the month of December. I have never sat down to try and outline what makes me so anxious whenever I hear Bing Crosby dreaming of a White Christmas, but with another yuletide quickly approaching, it's high time I did just that.

Maybe it's the catalogs that arrive before I've even finished sneaking the KitKats out of my kids' Halloween bags. Those things are relentless. The catalogs, I mean. They clog my mailbox daily, promising lifetime guarantees on "gift solutions that make life easier." Let's think about that for a moment. Does a chocolate fondue fountain really make my life easier? What about a hand-held gnome that repeats phrases you give it in a "gnome accent?" You know what would really make my life easier? Not getting any more catalogs!

Maybe it's the supermarkets. I went to the grocery store on November 1st last year to do my weekly shopping. I expected the Halloween candy to be on sale and I knew Thanksgiving trimmings would greet me at the door -- stacks of cranberry sauce, perhaps even rows of Indian corn. What I didn't expect was to be hit in the face by Christmas. Literally. A gigantic inflatable Santa smacked me in the head just as I walked down the greeting card aisle. On November 1st! The clerk hauling Jolly St. Nick to his appointed spot apologized profusely, saying that she didn't see me around the corner, but I know better. I saw the look on Santa's face as they headed down aisle 14 to meet up with the candy canes. He was definitely smirking.

Maybe it's the magazines lining the checkout counters. While I'm wrestling my kids away from the Skittles (and remembering that one of them hasn't had a dentist appointment in ages), I'm faced with photos of darling children in precious Christmas sweaters making their own ornaments and baking cookies while Mom is scrapbooking the moment as it happens. AUGH!!!!

And then it hits me. I don't really dread Christmas itself. It's the pressure of the Holidays that make me woozy. All the glitz and glitter that the stores and commercials try to sell us has left me feeling empty and small. Real holidays, at least the holidays I've experienced, usually involve hurt feelings and awkward conversations. The catalogs, stores, and magazines don't show you that side of things. They show the plastic side of Christmas.

It's not the decorations or shopping that make me crazy, it's the expectations that I've attached to those things. I've been listening to my inner "Should!" without even recognizing it. This voice tells me what I'm supposed to do, how I'm supposed to look, how my children are supposed to behave. Apparently, it doesn't stop there, though. It also tells me what the Holidays are supposed to be like. It tells me that I should bake cookies and put up Christmas lights. I should get the perfect gifts for my kids' teachers, crossing guards, and coaches -- not to mention friends and family. I should decorate the house and create a warm, cozy environment. I should write the perfect holiday letter and take the perfect holiday photo. I should catch up with all my long lost friends who send those same perfect letters and photos to me. I should record all these fantastic moments for eternity with pictures and videos. And I MUST do it all in precious Christmas sweaters.

I'm exhausted just thinking about it all. I am paralyzed by the sheer volume of things that need to be done. What am I doing to myself? To my family? This is Christmas, not the Mommy Olympics. Although sometimes it feels like it, there is no one watching my every move and waiting to give me a score. The loud echo of "The Should" doesn't have to govern my actions and attitudes

No more! I am a smart, successful woman. I have the power and ability to overcome the lure of "The Should" and start enjoying the winter wonderland along with the best of them. From now on, I will listen to a new voice in my head. One that is a little more gentle, a little more wise and a lot more sane. I will call this my Maya Angelou voice. She sits on a windowsill in my mind waiting to comfort me with a smile and a nod. When I feel the urge to deck something other than the halls, I will hear her say to me in her warm, buttery voice:

"It's ok to say no. You don't need to attend all those parties and volunteer for every activity."

"Put your feet up and take care of you for a change. When's the last time you had some peace and quiet?"

"You are not alone. Just about everyone gets stressed around the holidays."

"Be creative. There is not one right way to do everything. Revel in your unique approach."

"Work smarter, not harder. Figure out what you're not great at and let someone who is lend you a hand."

"Enjoy the little moments. You will one day miss the way your child furrows her brow when writing to Santa."

"Be gentle with yourself and with others. That is a gift worth giving."

My inner Angelou. She makes me feel better already. There's one problem with my plan: "The Should" won't go away easily. It's comfortable in my head. It's been there for a long time and if I'm not careful, it will choke out Maya at the first sign of stress. I've got to think up a way to take that annoyingly persistent whine out of my head before it ruins yet another Christmas.

An epiphany! I know what I will do. I will order the Talking Gnome. I can give "The Should" another home and this time, instead of sounding like me, it will have a "silly gnome accent." Maybe that Gnome really will make my life easier, after all.

Jenny Runkel is a writer with ScreamFree Living, Inc., a company she co-created with her husband, Hal. Through publishing, speaking, training, and their website, www.screamfree.com, Jenny, Hal and their team are committed to calming the world, one relationship at a time. Jenny has also been directly influencing and forming children and families for over ten years, having taught preschool, ministered to teenagers in church settings, and taught professionally in several high schools. Jenny currently teaches high school at Greater Atlanta Christian School. She and Hal have been married for 13 years and try to remain calm while parenting their two wonderful children: Hannah, 9, and Brandon, 7.

Website: Scream Free Parenting

Improv Parenting

jenny@screamfree.com (Jenny Runkel) — Thu, 30 Oct 2008 00:00:00 -0500

"Life is a stage and we are all players in it" (William Shakespeare).

If you think about it, parenting really is similar to theater. In the space of two hours, you can experience comedy, drama, tragedy, and maybe even a nude scene or two -- depending on the age of your child. There is, however, one critical difference: in parenting there is no script. Life sure would be easier if there were, but it just doesn't work that way. Try as you might, no scene you envision with your child will go exactly according to plan. That's because kids have an uncanny ability to shake things up, to bring about the element of surprise, to steal the scene right out from under you.

This brings to mind one of my favorite TV shows, "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" If you haven't seen it, you are really missing out. It is a show based on improvisational (or "improv") theater where the actors never quite know what will be thrown their way. The results are often hilarious and always unexpected. These professional actors make incredibly difficult tasks look easy up on stage. They are so creative, so calm, so talented. What you might not know is that they have all been well trained in the rules of improv acting. These rules allow them to access their creativity and turn any scene, no matter how strange or unexpected, into something great. So, with that in mind, I though it might be a good idea to take a look at a few of these rules and see how they might apply to what we do every day.

"Rules of Improv"

Keep the scene moving forward by saying "Yes, and ..." rather than saying "No!" The worst thing you can do in improv is to negate what someone brings to the scene. You are killing any chance of progressing the conversation. In parenting, this rule is particularly helpful for those times when your child is whiny or complaining.

When it's chore time and your little darling moans about how disgusting it is to clean the bathroom, there is simply no point in negating him. He is right after all -- cleaning the bathroom is unpleasant -- so say "yes, and". "Yes, honey, cleaning the bathroom is awful, and I think the toilets are the worst part." There's no gauntlet for your child to pick up. There's no battle to fight -- there is just a bathroom to clean ... as disgusting as it may be.

Always check your impulses and retain focus. Improv demands intense focus and concentration. We can't do that if we allow ourselves to get sidetracked. Kids are masters at hooking us in to arguments, and if we're not careful here, we'll end up functioning on their level of maturity. When you find yourself really wanting to lash out or throw your hands in the air, reign in your impulses. It's ok to want to go ballistic; it's just not ok to actually go ballistic. By staying focused on how you want to behave, you can quiet those impulses and allow your principles to say a few things.

Never enter a scene unless you are needed. Way too often, when our kids are complaining about something, we take that as our cue to jump in and fix the situation. We either "set them straight" and let them know just how easy they have it, or we lighten their load in order to shut them up ... I mean, help them out. But, just like in improv, that can kill the natural momentum of the scene.

Kids are just like us in some respects. Many times, they simply want to vent. Give them space and hang back a bit to see if they can work out the scene on their own. The same goes for sibling arguments. Encourage them to work things out without your intervention and they'll become much more self reliant in the process.

When in doubt, break the routine. If you find yourself in a position where you've tried to keep the scene moving and nothing seems to be working -- do something totally unexpected to shake things up.

If you're having the same battle with your daughter over getting dressed that you've had each morning for the past two weeks, I've got a newsflash for you: whatever you're doing isn't working. So do something totally out of character. Switch roles. Let her pick out your clothes and wear them, no matter what. Or better yet, you put on her clothes since they're not getting much use in her room. Trying something different even if it is silly -- maybe especially if it is silly -- is a great way to break the monotony. After all, a good case of the giggles makes everything seem a little easier.

Some of the greatest scenes in movies come out of improvisation. Those actors who specialize in this form make their fellow actors look better and they make it all look easy. But, just because they make it look easy doesn't mean that it is. As you can see, good improv takes hard work and self discipline. I'm pretty certain that the same is true of parenting. So, this week, give a few of these rules a shot and I think you'll have to agree with Joey Novick, comedian and improv teacher, that, "Spontaneity. Creativity. Increased intelligence. Emotional connections. Being in the moment. It is impossible for all these things not to be there when improvising."

Website: Scream Free Parenting

Opposite Day

jenny@screamfree.com (Jenny Runkel) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 00:00:00 -0600

From Scream Free Living, leading by taking responsibility for our behavior as parents, first.

The funny thing about irony is that it has a sense of humor. I should have known that the more I wrote about it, the harder it would come back to bite me. Well, it recently came to pay me a little visit and it wasn't very pretty. You see, I have not been very ScreamFree lately...

Transitioning to a new job wasn't as smooth as I'd imagined and writing was oftentimes easier to avoid than it was to do. I was being asked to do things that stretched me and for the first time in a long while, I felt disorganized and scattered at work. I was losing things and gulp ... missing deadlines. I would start the day feeling this intense need to control something ... anything ... and I didn't quite know what to do with myself.

So, instead of realizing that all of this was pretty common for starting a brand new career, I decided to do what all mature relationship experts do -- I panicked. Someone I know tells people to focus on themselves when they feel anxious, but in my infinite wisdom, I decided to do just the opposite. Instead of sitting with those feelings and working towards the problems at hand, I projected my own insecurities onto those closest to me.

I started to see things around the house that I hadn't noticed before. A breakfast dish here, a dirty sock there. An unfinished book report laying on the table; a less than stellar grade on a math assignment. Slowly, but surely, I convinced myself that my kids had a problem with responsibility. I obviously wasn't "on top of them" enough and with a newfound sense of purpose, I started taking matters into my own hands.

Now, I must take a moment here and make sure that you recognize the insanity of this kind of thinking. Sure, there is the occasional sibling smack down or exhaustion-induced tantrum when it comes to my kids, but overall, they are amazing. They have always been good students and they are not any dirtier than your average child. They are mostly very polite and they are almost always kind to others. But, I was way past this kind of logical thinking at this point.

With my helicopter blades churning, I started searching their backpacks for unfinished assignments. I hovered as they completed minor homework tasks and I "made suggestions" as to how to make right answers even better. I began resenting them for not offering to pitch in around the house and I resolved to get them in shape by making chore charts and watching over them carefully. At first, things seemed to be going well. The house was a bit cleaner and I could check off a few more things on my own to do list in the meantime. But slowly, like the air leaking out of a tire, the joy started leaking out of my home.

Homework became a battlefield. Where once my daughter proudly offered to show me her work, she was now hiding it from me. Where once my son used to do his daily assignments without being asked, I had to remind him more and more. And the more this happened, the more frustrated I became. My natural inclination was to pull them in even closer and increase my efforts, which (as I so often write) only made things worse. My kids were ignoring me, acting grumpy and rude, and soon, they started to dread having me around. I could hear it in their voices and I could see it in their eyes. I felt like Momzilla terrorizing my own home and leaving chaos in my wake.

After one particularly difficult evening, I found myself alone in the kitchen, hating who I had become. I was focusing all of my frustration, attention, and energy into my children. I was micromanaging their lives and completely ignoring my own with disastrous results. No one wanted to be near me ... not even me! I had become a bitter, walking, talking, self-absorbed neurotic. And then, like a sign from above, I heard something from the other room.

It was George Costanza and I swear he was speaking directly to me. Ok. Ok. He was on TV and he was talking about himself, but he could have just as easily been describing me. That alone is not a pleasant realization to have, but then again, I wasn't in a very pleasant state of mind. The episode in question was one I knew almost by heart, but never dreamed I could learn something from it. George is so disgusted with himself and his pathetic life that he decides to take drastic action. He figures that every choice he's made up to this point in his life has been the wrong one, so he determines to change his decision making process. He decides to do the opposite of every thought that comes into his head. His rationale: he can't possibly do any worse.

He ends up meeting a gorgeous woman and instead of putting on airs like usual, he says to her in his droll manner, "Hi. My name is George. I am rapidly balding. I am unemployed. And I live with my parents." She looks him up and down, then coyly responds, "Would you like to go out with me?"

If even George could turn things around simply by doing the opposite of what seemed natural to him, why couldn't I? So, I decided to play the old game of opposite day. When confronted with a situation that made me anxious, I would do the opposite of what I thought I should do. Scary proposition, to be sure. What would happen if I let go, even just a little bit? I didn't even want to think about the possibilities, but frankly, like George, I couldn't do any worse.

The next day, in all interactions with my children, I pretended that it was opposite day. In the morning, I wanted to nag them about hurrying up. Instead, I gave them hugs and remembered how their hair smelled like rain. To my surprise, they were ready five minutes early. After school, I wanted to rip open their bookbags and manage their homework. Instead, I made snacks and remembered just how good cookies and milk can be. Shockingly enough, after clearing away the crumbs, they both got out their homework and finished in record time.

What in the world happened? Basically, I got out of their way and I forced myself to be with them rather than over them or under them. With that one realization, everything changed. I was able to see that my kids weren't the problem after all. Quite the opposite, in fact. They were the ones often acting more maturely than me. And in that moment, I remembered how much I really like these incredibly smart, funny and capable small people who share my DNA. It saddened me to think of how many days had gone by where I hadn't even seen them. How many times had I considered them simply another part of my "to do" list? It finally hit me that in all of my efforts spent trying to teach other parents how to be ScreamFree, I had forgotten how to be so myself.

Like George's experiment, mine had some unexpected results. My kids picked up after themselves. They offered to help in the kitchen. They even went to bed on time! But the best thing about my opposite day was not in the ways that it changed them; the best thing about opposite day is that it changed me. It made me want to slow down when I am at home, think before I speak, and pay attention to the things that really matter. Not at all what I thought would happen by taking advice from my short, balding, unemployed TV friend. In fact, looking back, it was the complete opposite of what I had expected.

Not a bad lesson from a short, balding, unemployed man who lives with his parents.

Website: Scream Free Parenting

Mt. St. Kid

jenny@screamfree.com (Jenny Runkel) — Wed, 30 Aug 2006 00:00:00 -0500

Complete and total meltdown. Tears streaming, body thrashing, words spewing. It wasn't pretty, but at least it wasn't me. My almost seven-year-old son was throwing a tantrum that would give a two-year- old a run for his money. As much as I wanted to join Brandon in his tantrum, I am proud to say that I didn't ... but I was close.

Looking back on it, the scene had been building for days. Like a volcano emitting small warning blasts, my son had been bubbling for a week, seemingly just looking for a chance to erupt. I attributed it to exhaustion at first -- and part of that was true. Whose bright idea was it to drag us all to three baseball games, a tennis match, and a birthday party all in one week? Oh yeah, that would be me. Unfortunately, I can't blame Hal for this lack of judgment. He wasn't even here. Now that I think about it, maybe that was at the heart of the whole issue. Let me set the scene for you.

It was Friday evening, the end of a seemingly endless week. Hal was doing the book thing in Washington, D.C., and both of the kids had a friend over from school to spend the night. I had the evening all planned out. The children would play outside together, exploring the natural world and learning about cooperation. They would then willingly skip inside for a well-balanced meal, trot upstairs for a hot bath, and fall asleep from exhaustion.

It all began exactly according to plan. The girls were in a rousing game of kickball with several neighborhood children. The boys and I were playing catch and, for a time, all was well with the world. But then it was time to come inside. Three out of the four kids grumbled as they put up the balls and traipsed into the house. The fourth blatantly refused. He wasn't ready to put the glove away and begged for "just three more catches." At first I said no, but he was persistent and with each plea, he got louder and louder.

Now, I have a degree in history. I teach British Literature. I, of all people, should know that appeasement doesn't work. But admittedly, my fear of a child's meltdown clouded my judgment. Churchill turned over in his grave as I uttered the words, "OK, buddy, just three more catches, and then you have to go inside." I knew as they escaped my lips that those words were a mistake and were inspired more by laziness than conviction. I could feel the lava boiling and didn't want to deal with an eruption, so I threw the ball. Catch one. He fired it back into my glove. Maybe this wasn't such a bad choice. He was smiling, having fun, enjoying the outdoors. I threw the ball. Catch two. A real stinger came back at me as I was congratulating myself on a perfect evening. Soon, we'd be inside starting the rest of my well planned night. I tossed the third ball to Brandon.

This time he missed.

"You can't end on a bad one, Mom! Just one more!" Now, I am as big a sports nut as they come, and I loved his competitive spirit, but my integrity was on the line. I had already capitulated once and I knew that to do it again would only prolong the inevitable and make it that much worse. I knew I had to follow through this time and I knew it wouldn't be pretty.

"Sorry, Bud. We can throw more tomorrow; now it's time to go in." And then it began. The mother of all tantrums. As Brandon's poor unsuspecting friend watched wide-eyed, my son erupted. He screamed, he yelled, he tried to block me from entering the back door. I could feel the blood rushing to my face. How embarrassing!

Once inside, it only escalated. He became hysterical and couldn't stop crying. I really wanted to yell, "tag!" and have Hal swoop in from the living room to take over ... but I couldn't. I was the lone grown up amidst three confused kids and one inconsolable one. Maybe they wouldn't tell anyone if I just screamed like a banshee and ran away -- it was certainly more appealing than dealing with this embarrassing stunt. For a moment, I felt paralyzed by the scene. What was the "right thing" to do?

Then, for some odd reason, one of my favorite movies popped into my head: "The Matrix." I have the power, if I recognize that I do, to slow things down. I started to think of myself as Neo, the main character, and Brandon's ranting and raving as the deadly bullets. I did not have to let them get to me. That was a conscious choice. As I allowed that image to linger in my mind, something amazing happened. I was able to stop and really think about what was going on. It wasn't that my son was intentionally being disobedient just to make me angry. True, that was happening, but there was much more to it than that. He was missing his Daddy and was testing me to see if I was strong enough in his absence to make everything seem alright. Once I was able to take this into account, it was easier to handle the immediate situation with peace rather than pride.

Now was not the time for lectures; Brandon was incapable of hearing me at this point. He needed me to help him calm down—and seeing things in this new light helped me stay calm myself. With my newly-fashioned bullet-proof vest, I turned my attention to the whirling dervish that was currently throwing his toys all around his room. I calmly sent the other three kids into the game room to play, took a deep breath, and headed into the volcano.

I had never seen Brandon like this before. He literally could not control his temper and to be honest, it scared me a bit. I knew he needed something to snap him out of his state of mind, so I led him into the bathroom ("herded" would be more accurate) and proceeded to run a bath. He, of course, resisted --he was resisting anything I did at this point. I simply filled the bath and placed him in it -- clothes and all. He was so shocked that he sputtered and stammered for a moment and then, for the first time in about twenty minutes, the flailing stopped. He just sat there quietly. I helped him undress and bathe and neither of us spoke a word. After he was dressed, we walked back into his room, which looked like a bomb had exploded. He sat on his bed and looked around at the mess that he had created. He wanted to join the other kids, but before he was allowed to do so, he had to apologize to them for being so rude. I was quietly contemplating my lecture about taking "no" for an answer as I tucked the kids into bed that night. But then something miraculous happened.

As we got ready to say our prayers that night, we talked about the things that we were concerned about. Aging pets and minor scrapes started the conversation, but just as we were about to start praying, Brandon spoke. "I think I need to pray for me. I need to learn to take 'no' for an answer and not get so mad when I lose." Huh? The kid stole my thunder! I had my carefully-laid speech fully rehearsed. I sat back in amazement as the other three children then talked about how they struggle with the same thing and told of times that they got out of control. Suddenly, they were laughing about their own stubbornness and coming up with ideas about what might work instead. I couldn't help but smile at their candor and honesty.

We often joke that there's no such thing as "ScreamFree" kids. This is because kids are just going to be kids and it's our job, not theirs, to focus on ourselves, calm ourselves down, and grow ourselves up. But on this night, I was directly observing some "ScreamFree" kids.

The next morning was a flurry of cornflakes and cartoons, with little fanfare. After a while, I told the kids it was time to turn off the tv and get dressed. Brandon's familiar whine penetrated the air, "Mom, can we pleeeeeeease watch just one more show."

"Not now, Bud, it's been on long enough," I replied.

He drew in a long breath and started to furrow his brow. I strapped on my bulletproof vest, ready this time for any blows that may come my way.

"Remember last night, Brandon? Did throwing a fit get you what you wanted?" His face relaxed. He begrudgingly said, "No" and trod heavily upstairs with the others. Minutes later, the sounds of hide and seek were echoing down the halls.

As I sit here and reflect on that incident, I still question my decisions. I know that going back on my first "no" only made things worse in the end. And maybe the bathtub was a bit over the top. But I felt pretty good about it overall. I made it through without freaking out. My son learned that he can push my buttons all he wants and I'll still be there standing strong, even if Daddy isn't home -- in fact, especially when he isn't home. And I learned that there is nothing that my kids can throw at me that can make me crumple. That is always my choice.

Website: Scream Free Parenting