The Volcano in My House

When I coach leaders and teach them about the different ‘parts’ of themselves, they often ask me how to share what they have learnt with their kids.

There are books available that teach kids about the different ‘parts’ inside of them and inside of their parents. But I have not yet come across one that I love.

And, I have had several people suggest I write one.

So, I recently decided put pen to paper and write a sh#tty first draft of the book I wish I had to read to my kids when they were little about the ‘parts’ that dwell inside of us. My 8-year-son Zach is helping me with it.

Our working title is “The Volcano in My House”.

Image credit: Micrsoft Bing (Prompt: “little volcano with a face sitting on a couch next to a small boy watercolour”)

The Volcano in My House

There’s a volcano that lives in my house.
Quite often it erupts.

Sometimes it splatters hot, burning lava all over me and my little brother Eddie.
Sometimes there’s just a lot of black, heavy smoke.

The eruptions aren’t the volcano’s fault.
It wasn’t born to erupt.
It’s just their job.
But knowing this doesn’t make it any easier.

I know the volcano doesn’t exactly love its job.
But exploding is what it feels it must do to stay safe.
It can’t remember doing anything else.
And it’s very good at it.

Living with a volcano is not easy.
The hardest part is not knowing when the next eruption will come.
Sometimes, my tummy feels cold and tight.
Just thinking about all that hot lava and black smoke.

I do my very best to keep the peace.
Sometimes it works, and sometimes it doesn’t.

I can make myself very small and very quiet, like a turtle in it’s shell.

Other times, I try do all the things that need doing, like a busy, crafty meercat.

When I need to, I hide under my special soft green blanket and wish the world away.

Or, I pretend that I am invisible, made of clear glass that you can see right through.

Sometimes, I squash my feelings deep down inside.
Pressing the lid down tight on that big can of wriggling worms.

Once, I covered the kitchen floor with my own hot lava.
But that just made things worse.

Being really, really good seems to work best.
I’m the master at being super good.

But deep down, sometimes, I just feel like crying.

I sense that underneath all that heat and bluster, the volcano is sad too.

And needs a good old cry.

And if that were to happen, I’d know exactly what to do.

I’d wrap my little arms around them and I’d whisper “It’s OK.”

I’d tell them that it’s not their fault, and that I know they’re tired.

I’d remind them that even the hottest volcano’s can cool down.

I’d help them see that the volcano is not who they really are.
That it’s just one part of them.

Then together, we’d find it a much better job to do.

And we could both be more ourselves.