Love Languages

Love language or as I like to call it "Why Can't I Make you Hear Me?" - I recently discovered (and this may be no surprise to those closest to me) that my "love language" is affirmation. I know that I am loved when I hear words of affirmation.

When I think about the time I worked outside the home, I know that I worked my hardest and did my best when I heard words of encouragement and words of affirmation. At home, it's a little harder to hear words of affirmation because at this time in my life I am devoted to serving my family.  Little ones don't always give you words of affirmation. That is not to say that they don't give them at all, they do. But maybe not as often as I need them.

Growing up, my family wasn't big on words of affirmation.  I think my mom's love language is service. I remember asking my father why my mom rarely said, "I love you" or rarely gave hugs and kisses and he often said that when she cleaned my room, provided us with food to eat, and gave us clothes that she thought we would like that was how we were to know she loved us. That's hard to understand when you're little. Again, I think this is a cultural thing. I heard that when my mom went back to visit her family after 17 years of being gone, her mother didn't hug her. My grandmother just cried.

I realize that I need words of affirmation. I sometimes think my husband doesn't always give them to me because he doesn't want to placate me or say something just to make me feel good. He wants me to toughen up. But sometimes, I need to hear it. I need to know that I'm a good mom or a good wife. I think he thinks it's my "brand of crazy" and he isn't signing up for that. 

While words of affirmation will lift me up and I would to the end of the world for you, silence and snarkiness will make me curl up and crumble. I know. It's sad and I should be tougher than that. But I learned long ago that silence and the cold shoulder treatment are my kryptonite. I'm very sensitive to negative language and actions. And I'm fortunate that my husband has never used my kryptonite against me.

While making this self-discovery I realized that some of the communication issues I have with my parents is that we don't speak the same love language. They don't understand me and probably don't even realize that their words bring me up or tear me down. Or maybe they do. I don't know.Something that I'll have to learn to do is not to live on the words and actions of others. You would think at the age of 33 I would have learned this already. But my hurts are deep and I've had them a long time.  It will take some more time to move on. Can you redefine a love language?

One night while chatting about this topic my SIL asked me where I find my affirmation. To my embarrassment I didn't have an answer right away. She asked if I received it from my writing and I do. I write because it's my catharsis. I write because once I unload what's in my heart, I'm able to take a step and move on. This is my online diary, my brain dump,  my catharsis and you my dears, are along for the ride in my crazy roller coaster of emotions.  

My children can be and have been affirming. Boogs tells me he loves me everyday. Buggy loves spending time with me and asks if she makes me happy. Even Mr. Bananas sends me his love with a wide gummy smile.

Don't get me wrong. I have a wonderful life. My husband and my children are my loves and I know that they love me.  

This just has been a topic on my heart for a while. I wish that I communicated better with my parents and my brother. I wish I could decipher their love languages better and love them the way they need to be loved. I'm working on it with my brother and I believe he's doing the same with me.

1 John 4:7  Beloved, let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.

This is How She Says "I Love You" Part II

The other day a friend of mine shared this link with me on facebook. http://storycorps.org/listen/stories/theresa-nguyen-and-her-daughter-stephanie/?sms_ss=facebook

It succinctly describes my relationship with my own mother. Being half Filipino I didn't always understand my mom's thoughts and actions. Although I was born in the Philippines, I've been in the United States since I was two years old. I grew up in the American culture.  

My mom was not always a warm fuzzy and that was hard for me when I was growing up. As I've gotten older I've learned to recognize my mom's way of saying "I love you" even though she didn't always say it.  

For example while we were in Maine on vacation we came back to find our house had been cleaned and my son's room reorganized so that it could fit another bed in it. I had told my parents before we left for Maine that we were expecting Baby #3 (yes, I'm pregnant. I'm almost 15 weeks along!).  My mom knowing that we would put B & B together in the same room, went ahead and reorganized the room so that Buggy could join her brother and share a room for a few years.  

Just last weekend she wanted to go Back to School shopping for Boogie.  We hit several stores and bought BTS for Boogie and a pair of Ballet slippers for Buggy's upcoming dance lessons. She even bought me a few much needed maternity tops and dresses.  She also wanted to buy a new changing mattress for the baby.  She didn't have to buy these things for us. I can certainly afford to outfit my self and our kids, but my mom wanted to do something for us. While it was hard for me to swallow my pride and step aside, I also knew it was important for my mom to do this and feel like she can still provide for us.  For that I'm very grateful. I'm grateful for the way she takes cares of us and for how much loves her grandchildren.

I had a great time hanging out with her and just spending time with her. I think she had fun, too.  But when I brought it up the next day and thanked her she just said, "Oh, okay." It sounds cold, but I'm coming to the realization that it's just cultural. I wish she had said she had fun too, or that it was nice getting together. But all she said was, "Oh, okay."  That's just the way it is. Talking to several of my Asian friends, they say that their moms are the same way.  They show their love by doing things. 

The last part of the above interview between mother and daughter brought tears to my eyes. The mom is saying how the Asian culture is about showing love through actions and not words.  She also talks about how she is proud of her daughter even though she never tells her.  She even mentions that her husband "gets on her case" when she doesn't do it and she says, "but she knows that I'm proud of her."  Her daughter's response is that she always thought she was a disappointment.  The mom reassures her that she has always been proud of her.  Wow. It was if she was talking about my relationship with my mom.  

It's taken me 32 years, but I'm finally understanding that love is spoken and shared in many different ways.  My mom's big "I love you's" have always been through actions. Thanks, Mom. I love you, too!

See my prior post on this subject here.

This is How She Says "I Love You"

Growing up my mom was not overly affectionate.  She was uncomfortable with lots of hugs and kisses and didn't always say I love you.  She did (and does!) love her family very much, but she doesn't say it with words.  However, over the years, she's softened up.  I think having grandkids have made her loosen up and she is very affectionate with my two little ones. Just last night Boogie ran around the house asking her to be Mrs. Bear and there she was rolling around the floor with my two little ones pretending to be Mrs. Bear and chasing them.  They all had a blast.  It was great to see.  She constantly tells my little ones that she loves them very much. Great to hear.

As I mentioned in a previous post "I Will Be the One" my mom shows her love by doing things for the ones she loves.  We came back from our trip to Maine a day early. After 15 hours of traveling we were all dead tired.  It was midnight and the air outside was sticky and hot.  We walked in and I noticed that my foyer looked freshly swept and cleared.  My kitchen floor looked and felt cleaner than when I left it. The cabinets were newly organized and the counters freshly cleaned. When we dropped off the children in their beds, their rooms were neatly organized and freshly cleaned. The main steps and the hallway leading to all of the bedrooms were newly vacuumed. And finally, the bathrooms were cleaned.  My husband and I looked at each other and said, "Mom has been here." The house definitely had her signature look. Looked and felt CLEAN!  Don't get me wrong, I'm disorganized, not dirty. But before the trip, things were piling up as I tried to get ready for our vacation.  I left the house somewhat haphazard but not in total chaos (as per usual before a trip).

My mom knew that I had been stressed about getting ready for another trip and she knows that I have been very tired lately. (Still gotta get that checked out).  In order to give me a hand she came over while we were gone and helped to clean and organize my house.  That is how she says I love you and I heard it loud and clear.  I am very blessed and I wish that I had inherited even a tenth of her organization, spatial reasoning, and her ability to get things really clean.  

Thanks, Mom. I love you, too!

I Will Be The One

My mom is a little Filipino lady.  She has high standards, is quite efficient, has great spatial reasoning, and can be very demanding.  On the flip side, she is shy in new social settings, tends to keep to herself, and is happiest when she is doing something for others.

Growing up, my mom and I had a tumultuous relationship.  I felt like I could never meet her standards and that I always fell below in her expectations. Talk to my brother and you will hear the opposite. He told me that she always told him how proud of me she was/is.  The same goes for me, I don't think I ever heard what she thought of me, but I always heard how proud of my brother she was/is.  Its just her way.  She cried when she attended my graduation from college, but I don't think she ever verbally told me she was proud of me...she just told me to straighten my robe.  She's a tough cookie. But that's the way she grew up. No one expressed their feelings, but they showed that they loved you by doing things for you.

My mom's catch phrase is "I will be the one." I remember hearing it as a kid, and I still hear it as an adult.  My aunt (my dad's sister) remembers her saying it long before I was born.

Whenever dishes needed to be washed, clothes to be laundered, food to be cooked, house to be organized, things to be packed (as they inevitably needed to be as we moved every 3 years being part of a military family), my mom would say, "I will be the one."  And she was always the one.  It drove me nuts that no one was allowed to give her hand. She always did it and she always did it her way.  No other way was right or done well.  It's a very frustrating thing to have to deal with that all the time.

Over the years, I have learned that "I will be the one" means "I love you" from my mom.  She knew that she could things well and why trouble you with it, when she could do it herself, probably more easily and probably better. Let's face it, you've seen how I organize a house, she is definitely better!  I'm learning to back off when she says "I will be the one." It's her way of feeling useful and showing her love. I didn't understand it before, but now that I have my own family, I'm starting to understand her better.

Just recently my side of the family vacationed together.  One of the things that I noticed when we got to the condo was that they had a new dishwasher that was a little fancier and was a little harder to figure out. I figured it out and washed our dishes with no problems the 3 days before my parents arrived.  The condo also had a new high efficiency washer and dryer.  There were very specific directions posted over both machines. I figured it out, and washed and dried our clothes without any issues the 3 days before my parents arrived.

When my mom arrived she wanted to get to it.  For our first dinner together, she hopped up and began doing putting everything away and loaded the dishwasher. She paused, looked at the machine again, and asked my husband what to do. He said to ask me, because I'm the one who figured it out.  I taught her how to do it, and then told her, "I will be the one" and took care of the rest of the dishes. For a few days I was the one, until she figured it out on her own.  The same with the washer and dryer. She kept insisting on using the one detergent not recommended for the machine. It took a little explaining and finally I walked her down to the machines at the end of our hall.  She looked at me and said, "I don't know how to do this."  I told her, "I will be the one."  I loaded the machine with clothes, detergent, and coins, selected my settings and pushed start.  She watched me do it a few times over the course of the next few days and then she became "the one."

It's weird to be in this sort of role reversal where "I will be the one" referred to me and not to my mother.  For the first time in my life, my mom referred to me and asked me to help her (I'm sure not an easy thing to do for an independent and feisty Filipino woman).  I noticed as time went on, that I carried on the same character traits with my own family: when my husband asks me to find something (and my son said, "because you're good at it, Mommy"), when I clean up the dishes, pack our clothes before a trip and to go home, or to research something. I will be the one.

Move Over, Edvard Munch, W. J. is on the Scene

The other day my son and I walked into his bedroom to get him ready for his nap.  The scene that greeted me were huge beautiful crayon swirls on his walls next to his bed.  I think my jaw hit the ground. My son gave a nervous giggle and started jumping up and down. As my eyes traveled from one circle to another, I gasped. It was then that my son realized how bad it really was and just started crying. I think I gasped five separate times: 2 large circles, drawings on his dinosaur poster, crayon decorations on his border, and then the lines below the border.

My son's reaction was the wide open mouthed wail, red face, and he kept trying to shut my lips, because my mouth was still open in shock.  Because he was standing on his bed, my head was around chest height, he grabbed my head and pressed it to his chest begging me to not talk. Mind you, I hadn't said a word.  It was comical, the whole head to the chest thing was right out of a movie.  He just wailed pathetically.  I have to admit it took all I had to not laugh at him.  I know a little Magic Eraser will help take the crayon off the wall, at least I hope it does!

When I finally spoke I asked him when he did it. He said he couldn't remember. Since we were at a birthday party the day before and he didn't come home until the evening and he was fast asleep when he was placed in his bed we think he worked on his mural sometime the next morning or when he was supposed to be napping.  I told him he had to tell his father and he just melted.  Unbeknownst to him I knew that my husband would laugh and think it's great. He's been wondering why William hasn't attempted it yet.  Please know that my husband is very creative and is an artist himself (in his spare time).   I'm sure that he spent many a day as a young boy drawing where he wasn't supposed to.

I put on my best disappointed face and told him to get into bed for his nap.  He asked for his favorite stuffed animal, Chester, who was downstairs. I told him that I wasn't going to get it, but he was welcome to get it himself. My son wailed and flung the comforter over his head as he burrowed deep under the covers.  Again, I did not forbid him having Chester, but I wasn't going to get it for him. I think the guilt over the crayon mural made my son stay put.

Throughout this whole ordeal I never once raised my voice. I may have used a stern voice, but no yelling involved.  His punishment was to tell his father, clean the walls (which we'll do later this week), and no video games until the walls are clean. He's really into video games right now I thought this would add a little oomph to the punishment.  After his "quiet time" (because he didn't take a nap) he did ask if I was going to send him away and asked to where I was sending him. For the record, I never told him that I would send him away.

I found that the shocked face along with dramatic gasps was more effective than raising my voice and yelling at my son.  Thank you, thank you. As my SIL (sister-in-law) wrote on my FB status:  "It sounds like he has a well developed guilt complex, your disappointment and helping in the clean up may be punishment enough."  Ahhh, yes the guilt complex. Well-honed from learning it from my Asian mother. Guilt was an effective tool in punishing me and to this day I often feel guilty for doing something or not doing something.  I'm a sucker and you can almost get me to do just about anything because I will feel guilty if I don't.  Asian guilt is quite the tool.

I'm also reading a book: Raising the Perfect Child Through Guilt and Manipulation.  It's a tongue-in-cheek book written by comedian Elizabeth Beckwith about child rearing and is not to be taken seriously...sort of. HA!  It was given to me by a friend who's brother gave it to her saying this was how they were raised. She passed it on to me knowing a little bit about my background. It's funny, because it's true ;)

ps: I noticed the other day that my son's mural really looked more like Munch's work instead of Dali, Picasso, or Van Gogh. I noticed that one of the swirls, when looking at it from a certain angle, looked like a long head, with wide eyes and mouth, kind of like "The Scream" (is that right?) by Munch. You think he is trying to tell me something?