You could safely assume the answer to anything was going to be "No". Can I go to a friends' house? Can a friend come over? Can I see this movie? Can I have this item? Can I participate in this function? There was never a logical reason. If the house was a mess, school work wasn't done, dishes were in the sink, or it was a day ending in "Y", the answer was "No". However, just when you thought it was safe to assume that blanket "No", they would throw an absurd "Yes" into the equation. I swear it just to mess with us. Or one of us would watch for another sibling to be told "Yes" to something we had been denied before, springing out with an "AHA! I have caught you! Now you must say 'Yes' to me as well!"
As a result of this confusing upbringing of near-constant, illogical denials, I made a point when I left home as an almost-adult to say no to as little as possible in my life. Roller Coasters? Yes. Bungee Jumping? Bring it. New foods? I'll try anything once. That's not to say I didn't have preferences or resist some new experiences. It took a great deal of coercion (and possibly spousal abuse) to get me to read a comic book or listen to Weezer willingly. But I was the first one to volunteer to do a procedure in nursing school. Not because I was a know-it-all (although yes). And it isn't because I was fearless and confident (hellz to the no). It was because I was in the business of faking confidence until I acquired new skills and new experiences in my life, which until then was more or less a blank page.
Fast forward to my life as a wife and mother. My husband is an anxious person. Crowds, new experiences, and spiders make him ill. If he says yes to something new, it's because he's in a good mood, well fed, Mercury is not in retrograde, and he has probably had a beer or two.
Does he want to help out with this PTA thing? No. Could he drive to this person's house he has never met to pick something up? Maybe, but with much grouchy protest. Is there any way he could grab just TWO things from Costco? Forget it. Lilah takes after her father.
Do you want to try this new activity? Sounds boring. Can you read this word you've read 80 times before? Seems hard. Can you go to this new place that I promise will be fun and exciting? I'll go, but will probably whine and complain, and might require you to carry me around. I frequently get insanely frustrated with my family of Negative Nancies. I am still the opposite.
New committee being formed? Sign me up. Doesn't matter that I have no more free time to give up and I might have two meetings going on simultaneously. An event needs volunteers? I would rather just enjoy the event but Organizer Mom scares me, or Teacher I Love asked me. I'll do it. Meeting requires me to barely see my family, not eat dinner until 8, and the topics discussed will make me angry? I'll pencil you in. Unconsciously (I think), my busyness became a point of pride and I wore exhaustion like a badge of honor. By default then, what did that make my family? It made them fearful and weaker than I am, possibly lazy. I'm not afraid to say yes to things. I'm not afraid to push the limits of what I can handle. I'm not afraid to have new experiences that make me uncomfortable. I am living my Best Life Ever.
Something happened this past week that made me reevaluate a lot of things. Lilah started karate. I was in the midst of this stupid health scare that turned out to be nothing life threatening, but definitely gave me pause and culminated in a painful, stupid outpatient procedure. I didn't have a choice but to limit my activities and say "No" to a whole bunch of stuff. It was frustrating and stressful for me, which was telling. Or should have been.
Aaand Lilah started karate. Her pediatrician talked her into it because she thought Lilah needed more body confidence and core strength. I had called and talked to them ahead of time, explaining Lilah and what her challenges were. I was assured they had special needs kids who did well and they could handle her. The first day, Lilah chattered excitedly about it. When we got to the Dojo, she tentatively joined the other kids in their little jackets and belts. She was twirling with her hair, rocking on her heels, looking at the ceiling or floor. When they assigned numbered mats to each child, she forgot her number and came to ask me. I had missed the number myself and told her to ask the Sensei. Instead, she flipped out. She started to cry, asked to leave, hid behind me. The Sensei came over and talked to her, then suggested she watch with me until she felt more comfortable. Lilah nodded, still hidden behind me. She watched the other kids go through their exercises with interest and I could tell she wanted to join. Every time I suggested it, she whined and refused. I was getting frustrated and embarrassed. The Sensei came back and asked if she wanted to join in running a lap, because everyone can have fun running. Lilah hid again. I sighed and I'm sure was not the picture of Supportive Mother of a Special Needs Child you might have seen on Pinterest. Sensei asked Lilah if she'd feel better if Mom ran a lap to show her how much fun it was. I beamed "Not on your life, lady" with my entire being and shook my head emphatically no, hoping a nice distracting fire would break out. A few moments later, I was jogging a lap around the Dojo with a group of tiny giggling children in front of a row of smug (probably) smiling parents. I spotted my horrible, traitorous daughter, who had fallen on the floor laughing her ungrateful ass off. I finished and took my seat, hoping the earth would swallow me alive and leave Lilah motherless and filled with regret. Instead, the she-devil skipped off to join her class and participated with enthusiasm. After the class, we had the option of signing her up for once a week, twice a week, or not at all. I asked her, and she said she wanted to try once a week and move to twice a week if she felt ready. I sighed with frustration and reminded her of how much fun she'd (eventually) had during the class and she nodded. "Twice a week when I'm ready." She smiled peacefully at me and for a second, I was upset. If she'd liked it, after all that drama, why not jump in with both feet? Why not go all in? But she repeated "Once a week, Mama." And I said, "Okay, Lilah." I circled once a week and we got her signed up.
I spent some time reflecting after we got home. Why did I view Dano's and Lilah's way of life as weakness? Why was mine so much better? Which way led to more happiness and peace? Why was I so sure saying "No" was a bad thing? In the end, I was able to see them through different colored lenses, lenses not clouded by my own life experience. They weren't limiting themselves by saying no. They knew their limits. That wasn't weakness. It was self-confidence and common sense. And I had the inability to set limits, and spread myself dangerously thin to the point of harming my own health and household. I was learning slowly and painfully how to say "No". It wasn't walling myself off from experiences. It was knowing myself, and knowing my limits. I could still continue to push the more timid members of my family out of their comfort zones, but I wouldn't force them, view it as weakness, or get angry if they weren't ready to make the leap yet. And I could learn yet another thing from the child I was (supposedly) raising. I could learn the Art of No.
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