I was talking to my brother, Danny, on the phone today. He's part of a discussion group that involves a Buddhist-turned-Reformed-Christian (not sure what that is), a Rabbi,a Taoist, and a Wiccan, among others. Last month, they met to discuss this commencement address (amazing; please read it if you haven't already).
This month, the group is meeting to discuss their favorite song lyrics. I told him I wished I were there. I would love to be a part of a group like that: diverse and opinionated yet open to others' opinions. I get excited just at the thought. I'm always happy to have my own beliefs confirmed, of course, but I also feel rejuvenated by talking to people who are working from a different paradigm than I am--provided that even frank and honest discussion is respectful. However, my circle hasn't spread quite as far in Chicago as his has in southern Virginia.
If I were there, I told him I know what song I would choose: "Sean" by The Proclaimers.
Here's a YouTube video of them singing. (I may have posted it before, but it's a song worth hearing many times over.) The cd version is a lot more raucous and a bit faster. My kids call it "Hi-Ya!" because the yelling at that part on the cd is almost violent in its exuberance. I love it more than I can express.
The Proclaimers are Scottish twins, and one of them, Charlie, wrote this after the birth of his son.
To me, this is a song about living in the joy of the moment and just being amazed at what we have and are capable of doing. If we ever seek for God, He's in all of us. This recognition is what a miracle is, to me. The lyrics are short and simple:
Sean I’d say the best one came from tupelo, mississippi
I’ll tell you now that grown men cry and irish girls are pretty
Though fear and hurt and care can lead me to despair
I saw why I’m here the morning you appeared
Sean, I sat awhile on clouds to ask God if he’s living
I should have spent the time on knees in thanks for what he’s given
From parents smart and strong to both of us passed on
From kings is where you come, through daughters and through sons.
These lyrics also remind me of one of my favorite quotes from a book. The book is "Here If You Need Me" by Kate Braestrup. The author is a minister whose husband was killed in a car crash right as he was getting ready to go to divinity school himself. After he died, she felt she had to take up his cause, his "mantel" perhaps. She says she's an agnostic and finds God in the world anyway. It's a beautiful book--much, much truer and more resonating for me than "The Shack" (which, honestly, I couldn't stomach and gave up reading it after the first 50 pages of preach, preach, preach. It's one of the few books I've had such a visceral reaction to... that and "Love You Forever," which also turns my stomach). I think I prefer Braestrup's book and her approach because I'm more comfortable with people who want to believe, who struggle and sweat to believe, than with people who say they know. I can't relate to the latter and never have.
Here's the quote:
"A miracle is not defined by an event. A miracle is defined by gratitude. A grateful heart beats in a world of miracles. If I could only speak one prayer for you, my children, it would be that your hearts would not only beat but grow ever greater in gratitude, that your lives, however long they prove to be and no matter how they end, continue to bring you miracles in abundance."
Danny said he was sitting in on a Sunday School class not too long ago in which someone said that Heaven will be knowing all the answers to the questions we've been asking our entire lives. I hope that's not what it is.
I enjoy asking questions. I enjoy seeking for answers. Even when I skip ahead to find out how a story ends, I still read the book. I still finish the movie. Because it's the quest that excites me and not the result.
"Sean, I sat a while on clouds to ask God if he's living. I should have spent the time on knees in thanks for what he's given."
For the record, I have to say my heart constantly beats with gratitude--not because I know anything but because I don't care if I know anything. This moment amazes me. And that's more than enough.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
A cautionary tale
We went to the beach as a family Saturday and had what was just about the most perfect day ever. The weather was ideal. The beach was crowded but not obnoxiously so. The occasional cloud rolled over us so we weren't constantly being abused by the sun. The kids had a blast and only ticked three or four other beach-goers with (mostly) accidental sand baths. We had a nice dinner out afterward--peaceful while the kids chowed down after spending hours working up their appetites. And then we grabbed a $2.50 box of Nutty Buddies for the way home and everyone was happy.
Until I got home and realized I'd done a great job of putting sunscreen (spf 50) all over the kids and Ron and myself . . . except for my upper back. I have my first sunburn in years and it's not fun. After Ron slathered aloe vera on me, he called the kids into the room: "This is why we make you guys wear sunscreen when you go out. This is what happens when you don't."
Ah, yes... look at Mom. And don't make the mistake she did.
Then yesterday my arms started itching. I looked down and lo and behold, I apparently have sun poisoning. My arms, stomach, back, and thighs are covered with itchy bumps. Not pretty. Not fun. Not smart. Another family gathering: "Kids, come in here. Look at your mother's rash. This is also what can happen when you don't use sunscreen." A collective "Awwww" followed. "Poor mom."
When you have kids, you hope you'll be a good example to them. I don't know how often we think about whether we'll be a bad example. Chances are, though, that we will be equal parts of both, like it or not.
My favorite writing blog is Murderati. The posts are generally very personal, which is why I like it so much. Today's post by author Peri Noskin Taichert really got me thinking about all of this, about how my kids will look back and remember me, about how the scales will tilt: toward Mom as a cautionary tale or as an inspiration.
The post itself was about giving up, specifically, giving up on writing when discouragement weighs you down. I posted a comment, and here's what I said:
Maybe we just need to stop revising our goals upward. I wanted to finish a book. I finished the first draft and cried because I was just so darned proud of myself for finally doing what I've been swearing I'd do since I was 12. And I've continued to write, sure, hoping for publication and working toward it, but when I start to get discouraged, I look back instead of ahead: I finished it! I did it! I kept my promise to myself.
We raise our children to be proud of a game well played even if not won. We tell them, "You stuck in there for every single inning." We ask them, "Well did you try your best?" And when they say yes, we say, "Then that's enough. Good for you." But we forget to applaud our own accomplishments, even if they're not as grand as we want them to be each time. Few people out there--writers, musicians, or "even" professors and doctors--are exactly where they'd like to be. But when they were kids and dreamed of what they *wanted* to be, they didn't qualify that dream by saying, "I want to hit the bestseller list at least a dozen times. I want to go platinum in the first month. I want to get tenure after 4 years. I want to be a world-renowned surgeon." Yes, we grow up and realize we need to fill in a lot of blanks we left empty when planning our futures, but I still believe we also need to embrace every small success, allowing ourselves our moments of discouragement, but also allowing ourselves an occasional "well done."
My kids all know I write, Simon paying the most attention to my progress. He read the first several chapters of the book I'm working on now, and he keeps asking me when I'm going to be done with it. He knows this is my fourth book. He knows I don't have an agent. He knows I've gotten plenty of rejections on my queries and a few on requested partials and fulls. He knows I've stopped querying and am working on rewriting the first book (my current project). He knows I get excited about writing. He knows writing makes me happy, makes me frustrated, makes me discouraged. And hopefully he knows I don't take the rejections personally, and as more time passes, hopefully he'll know I'm not going to give up something I love this much.
Ron said several months ago that he wants me to make sure the kids, the older ones in particular, are aware I don't feel like I'm failing.
And I don't feel that way. Even if I never get published, I won't feel like I failed.
Kids watch everything we do. And I'm okay with being held up as a sunburned example of what not to do. But I also hope they'll look back at their childhoods, see my occasional good moments, and be able to say, "Mom didn't quit"--not so they'll admire me but so they will know they should always believe in themselves . . . time after time after time. Because I believe in them. It's a family tradition.
Until I got home and realized I'd done a great job of putting sunscreen (spf 50) all over the kids and Ron and myself . . . except for my upper back. I have my first sunburn in years and it's not fun. After Ron slathered aloe vera on me, he called the kids into the room: "This is why we make you guys wear sunscreen when you go out. This is what happens when you don't."
Ah, yes... look at Mom. And don't make the mistake she did.
Then yesterday my arms started itching. I looked down and lo and behold, I apparently have sun poisoning. My arms, stomach, back, and thighs are covered with itchy bumps. Not pretty. Not fun. Not smart. Another family gathering: "Kids, come in here. Look at your mother's rash. This is also what can happen when you don't use sunscreen." A collective "Awwww" followed. "Poor mom."
When you have kids, you hope you'll be a good example to them. I don't know how often we think about whether we'll be a bad example. Chances are, though, that we will be equal parts of both, like it or not.
My favorite writing blog is Murderati. The posts are generally very personal, which is why I like it so much. Today's post by author Peri Noskin Taichert really got me thinking about all of this, about how my kids will look back and remember me, about how the scales will tilt: toward Mom as a cautionary tale or as an inspiration.
The post itself was about giving up, specifically, giving up on writing when discouragement weighs you down. I posted a comment, and here's what I said:
Maybe we just need to stop revising our goals upward. I wanted to finish a book. I finished the first draft and cried because I was just so darned proud of myself for finally doing what I've been swearing I'd do since I was 12. And I've continued to write, sure, hoping for publication and working toward it, but when I start to get discouraged, I look back instead of ahead: I finished it! I did it! I kept my promise to myself.
We raise our children to be proud of a game well played even if not won. We tell them, "You stuck in there for every single inning." We ask them, "Well did you try your best?" And when they say yes, we say, "Then that's enough. Good for you." But we forget to applaud our own accomplishments, even if they're not as grand as we want them to be each time. Few people out there--writers, musicians, or "even" professors and doctors--are exactly where they'd like to be. But when they were kids and dreamed of what they *wanted* to be, they didn't qualify that dream by saying, "I want to hit the bestseller list at least a dozen times. I want to go platinum in the first month. I want to get tenure after 4 years. I want to be a world-renowned surgeon." Yes, we grow up and realize we need to fill in a lot of blanks we left empty when planning our futures, but I still believe we also need to embrace every small success, allowing ourselves our moments of discouragement, but also allowing ourselves an occasional "well done."
My kids all know I write, Simon paying the most attention to my progress. He read the first several chapters of the book I'm working on now, and he keeps asking me when I'm going to be done with it. He knows this is my fourth book. He knows I don't have an agent. He knows I've gotten plenty of rejections on my queries and a few on requested partials and fulls. He knows I've stopped querying and am working on rewriting the first book (my current project). He knows I get excited about writing. He knows writing makes me happy, makes me frustrated, makes me discouraged. And hopefully he knows I don't take the rejections personally, and as more time passes, hopefully he'll know I'm not going to give up something I love this much.
Ron said several months ago that he wants me to make sure the kids, the older ones in particular, are aware I don't feel like I'm failing.
And I don't feel that way. Even if I never get published, I won't feel like I failed.
Kids watch everything we do. And I'm okay with being held up as a sunburned example of what not to do. But I also hope they'll look back at their childhoods, see my occasional good moments, and be able to say, "Mom didn't quit"--not so they'll admire me but so they will know they should always believe in themselves . . . time after time after time. Because I believe in them. It's a family tradition.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
Labels
Ron and Simon left for Scout camp today. And I have to say, I don't like how empty the house feels with 1/3 of its usual occupants gone.
Several years ago, I was in a book group or some such setting where the host asked us to say something about ourselves that wasn't, "I'm so-and-so's mother" or "my husband's wife." I thought, "Well, of course, I can define myself just fine without them. I'm Bobbie. I . . . like to write. And read. And play the piano. I'm an editor. And I guess that's it." Then afterward, I thought, "What's wrong with defining myself according to my kids or even husband? What's wrong with calling myself a mother and a wife and then an editor or writer or reader or pianist?" I mean, my life is intentional. All of it is. I made conscious choices that landed me here, exactly where I want to be. I have a right to claim all the labels I want since I'm the one that wrote them in a black Sharpie, peeled the stickers off the paper, and pressed them against my chest.
Also around that time, I read "Year of Wonders" and remember clearly how the main character talked about becoming "too" attached to her child. Well-meaning friends warned her not to love the child completely until he turned 2, but she doesn't listen. Child mortality rates were still so high at this time that people knew there was a pretty good chance the baby you birthed and loved even for the first couple of years wasn't going to make it beyond the toddling stage. Although not much about the book was light and happy, this particular part really broke my heart. I wondered how and if parents really could separate themselves from their children like that. How do you not fall in love with your children from the moment they're a part of you?
I sat watching my younger three on a playground tonight and paid particular attention to the moms following their children around, playing chase with them, hide and seek, or just slowly circling the equipment to keep an eye on them. And I thought, "Oh, I'm so glad my kids are old enough to play without me having to do that." Then almost immediately, I thought, "Should I be glad? Should I be chasing Ivan around, even though he's perfectly happy without me right behind him?" Those thoughts carried over to "Am I not doting enough? Will they not remember me loving them enough? Do I work too much when they're at home? Should I sit down to do more crafts with them, take them to museums more often, have spontaneous parties for them? Am I a warm mother? A distant one? Cuddly? Prickly? Am I doing any of this right, and if not, is it too late to fix things?"
One of my motherhood fears has always been what comes after they're no longer living with me: Will I know how to function daily without a child at home? I've been afraid of becoming the mother who can't find anything to do except collect recipes to be used during their next visit home and plan every moment of our holidays together.
And is this why we, as mothers, are so often pushed to define ourselves outside of our children? But at what cost? Will alternative definitions of Me mean I have to learn to separate myself from Them?
There are some days more than others that I feel the imprint of the label. And I wear it proudly. Honest to God, I do. And it's a good thing that Sharpie is waterproof and permanent.
Several years ago, I was in a book group or some such setting where the host asked us to say something about ourselves that wasn't, "I'm so-and-so's mother" or "my husband's wife." I thought, "Well, of course, I can define myself just fine without them. I'm Bobbie. I . . . like to write. And read. And play the piano. I'm an editor. And I guess that's it." Then afterward, I thought, "What's wrong with defining myself according to my kids or even husband? What's wrong with calling myself a mother and a wife and then an editor or writer or reader or pianist?" I mean, my life is intentional. All of it is. I made conscious choices that landed me here, exactly where I want to be. I have a right to claim all the labels I want since I'm the one that wrote them in a black Sharpie, peeled the stickers off the paper, and pressed them against my chest.
Also around that time, I read "Year of Wonders" and remember clearly how the main character talked about becoming "too" attached to her child. Well-meaning friends warned her not to love the child completely until he turned 2, but she doesn't listen. Child mortality rates were still so high at this time that people knew there was a pretty good chance the baby you birthed and loved even for the first couple of years wasn't going to make it beyond the toddling stage. Although not much about the book was light and happy, this particular part really broke my heart. I wondered how and if parents really could separate themselves from their children like that. How do you not fall in love with your children from the moment they're a part of you?
I sat watching my younger three on a playground tonight and paid particular attention to the moms following their children around, playing chase with them, hide and seek, or just slowly circling the equipment to keep an eye on them. And I thought, "Oh, I'm so glad my kids are old enough to play without me having to do that." Then almost immediately, I thought, "Should I be glad? Should I be chasing Ivan around, even though he's perfectly happy without me right behind him?" Those thoughts carried over to "Am I not doting enough? Will they not remember me loving them enough? Do I work too much when they're at home? Should I sit down to do more crafts with them, take them to museums more often, have spontaneous parties for them? Am I a warm mother? A distant one? Cuddly? Prickly? Am I doing any of this right, and if not, is it too late to fix things?"
One of my motherhood fears has always been what comes after they're no longer living with me: Will I know how to function daily without a child at home? I've been afraid of becoming the mother who can't find anything to do except collect recipes to be used during their next visit home and plan every moment of our holidays together.
And is this why we, as mothers, are so often pushed to define ourselves outside of our children? But at what cost? Will alternative definitions of Me mean I have to learn to separate myself from Them?
There are some days more than others that I feel the imprint of the label. And I wear it proudly. Honest to God, I do. And it's a good thing that Sharpie is waterproof and permanent.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I hope you wake up happy
"Good night. I love you. Sleep well. Have nice dreams. I hope you wake up happy. Tell Mom (or Dad) that."
That's how every night ends with my kids. This bedtime mantra wasn't always so long, and the last part was tacked on after Ron OR I--instead of us both--became the one to tuck them in at night. But it's grown over the last few years to encompass everything they think they need to say to us before they fall asleep--everything they need to hear back from us even if only as, "You,too. I love you."
I was reading a friend's blog yesterday in which she says that she tries to wake up every morning full of joy for what lies ahead. For me, that attitude can be rather overly optimistic. I'm glad it works for her; I just haven't reached that peak myself yet. I don't find "joy" in errands to be run, dentist appointments to which I need to drag my kids (or myself), phone calls I need to make, bills to pay, and so forth. But most mornings, I do wake up happy. And that's enough for me to get out of bed and tackle, with or without finesse, my schedule.
Part of that schedule yesterday was hanging plastic flower garlands in Emma's room. I've been promising to do it since we moved here in August. It was a compromise, since what she really wanted was for me to repaint the room, complete with a garden mural on at least one wall. The room's current paint job was perfectly acceptable, however--not a scuff or scratch mark on it. Granted, it's a light, mossy green--not exactly girlie--but it didn't "need" a makeover. And I'm not an artist. Sure, I can picture what a mural on her wall could look like, but there was no way I was going to bring it to fruition either by my own hand or by putting money in someone else's. So we agreed to a new bedspread and to flower garlands draped along the chair rail that rests about 18 inches from the ceiling. Her birthday tea party last month was the push I needed to at least buy the (admittedly tacky) garlands so I could decorate the kitchen like a garden since it was too cold to be outside that day. And after four weeks of looking at them in my windows, I decided it was time to move them upstairs. Another trip to the dollar store gave me enough to make it all the way around her room, and with less finesse than my mind had pictured. Still, I finished it and used the leftover garlands to wrap around her bed's foot- and headboard.
When she got home from school, I sent her upstairs to take a look. I could hear her whispering in awe and figured she didn't notice the tacks showing or the lack of pattern in arranging the daisies and roses and whatever that other flower was supposed to be. She came back downstairs all grins, ate a quick snack, and asked if she could go back to her room to read. She was up there for most of the late afternoon.
The night before, she'd come into my room to wake me after she'd had a bad dream. She has lots of bad dreams and comes to wake me every time. I cuddle with her for a moment and then send her away with assurances that the dreams aren't real. So before bedtime last night, I told her that the flowers were there to take away the bad dreams, and that if she did have a nightmare, she needed to open her eyes, look around at her flowers, and realize nothing bad can happen in a garden room. She liked that idea. And this morning, she said she slept well, no bad dreams at all. Then she scurried off to school, full of joy for whatever lies ahead today.
We wish all sorts of things for our children, but mostly we wish them that kind of joy for the rest of their lives. A bedtime mantra may not be the magic words necessary for that joy, but if they believe it is then that's enough. As they get older, I'm recognizing that they also need reassurances. They need promises that the doors are locked and that the bad guys are far away. They need garden rooms and daisy-bedazzled headboards and space in Mom and Dad's bed for when the bad dreams do sneak through the petals. Simon has outgrown the need to repeat the phrase to us every night. Although once in a while, he'll say it before heading up to his room on the third floor, and I'm glad to see the little boy in him still on those nights. I don't have fantasies of my children needing me like this for the rest of their lives--quite the opposite. I have fantasies of them leaving home with enough stowed-away joy and confidence to tackle all their days ahead and to know that even when we're not tucking them in at night anymore, we're still saying, "I love you. Sleep well. Have nice dreams. I hope you wake up happy."
That's how every night ends with my kids. This bedtime mantra wasn't always so long, and the last part was tacked on after Ron OR I--instead of us both--became the one to tuck them in at night. But it's grown over the last few years to encompass everything they think they need to say to us before they fall asleep--everything they need to hear back from us even if only as, "You,too. I love you."
I was reading a friend's blog yesterday in which she says that she tries to wake up every morning full of joy for what lies ahead. For me, that attitude can be rather overly optimistic. I'm glad it works for her; I just haven't reached that peak myself yet. I don't find "joy" in errands to be run, dentist appointments to which I need to drag my kids (or myself), phone calls I need to make, bills to pay, and so forth. But most mornings, I do wake up happy. And that's enough for me to get out of bed and tackle, with or without finesse, my schedule.
Part of that schedule yesterday was hanging plastic flower garlands in Emma's room. I've been promising to do it since we moved here in August. It was a compromise, since what she really wanted was for me to repaint the room, complete with a garden mural on at least one wall. The room's current paint job was perfectly acceptable, however--not a scuff or scratch mark on it. Granted, it's a light, mossy green--not exactly girlie--but it didn't "need" a makeover. And I'm not an artist. Sure, I can picture what a mural on her wall could look like, but there was no way I was going to bring it to fruition either by my own hand or by putting money in someone else's. So we agreed to a new bedspread and to flower garlands draped along the chair rail that rests about 18 inches from the ceiling. Her birthday tea party last month was the push I needed to at least buy the (admittedly tacky) garlands so I could decorate the kitchen like a garden since it was too cold to be outside that day. And after four weeks of looking at them in my windows, I decided it was time to move them upstairs. Another trip to the dollar store gave me enough to make it all the way around her room, and with less finesse than my mind had pictured. Still, I finished it and used the leftover garlands to wrap around her bed's foot- and headboard.
When she got home from school, I sent her upstairs to take a look. I could hear her whispering in awe and figured she didn't notice the tacks showing or the lack of pattern in arranging the daisies and roses and whatever that other flower was supposed to be. She came back downstairs all grins, ate a quick snack, and asked if she could go back to her room to read. She was up there for most of the late afternoon.
The night before, she'd come into my room to wake me after she'd had a bad dream. She has lots of bad dreams and comes to wake me every time. I cuddle with her for a moment and then send her away with assurances that the dreams aren't real. So before bedtime last night, I told her that the flowers were there to take away the bad dreams, and that if she did have a nightmare, she needed to open her eyes, look around at her flowers, and realize nothing bad can happen in a garden room. She liked that idea. And this morning, she said she slept well, no bad dreams at all. Then she scurried off to school, full of joy for whatever lies ahead today.
We wish all sorts of things for our children, but mostly we wish them that kind of joy for the rest of their lives. A bedtime mantra may not be the magic words necessary for that joy, but if they believe it is then that's enough. As they get older, I'm recognizing that they also need reassurances. They need promises that the doors are locked and that the bad guys are far away. They need garden rooms and daisy-bedazzled headboards and space in Mom and Dad's bed for when the bad dreams do sneak through the petals. Simon has outgrown the need to repeat the phrase to us every night. Although once in a while, he'll say it before heading up to his room on the third floor, and I'm glad to see the little boy in him still on those nights. I don't have fantasies of my children needing me like this for the rest of their lives--quite the opposite. I have fantasies of them leaving home with enough stowed-away joy and confidence to tackle all their days ahead and to know that even when we're not tucking them in at night anymore, we're still saying, "I love you. Sleep well. Have nice dreams. I hope you wake up happy."
Monday, June 1, 2009
Decisions, decisions, decisions
Chores I dislike in order of greatest to least:
Grocery shopping
Organizing the numerous papers that come home from school
Changing sheets
Clearing the kitchen counters
Putting away laundry
Ironing
Cleaning the toilet
Most other household chores--vacuuming, dusting, sweeping--aren't really dislikes for me. In fact, I love sweeping. When I was a kid, I swept the kitchen and dining room with great satisfaction. I spent most of my inside time in bare feet, so any amount of grit on the floor bothered me. I loved the sight of a dustpan full of crumbs, a testament to my efforts to contribute to the upkeep of the house. If you ever call me on the phone these days, chances are I will sweep my kitchen at some point during our conversation. If we talk for more than a few minutes, I'll sweep the stairs, entryway, and dining area as well. And then I'll do the same thing when the next person calls.
But in case you didn't notice on that list, I would rather clean the toilet than grocery shop, I have several explanations for this: (1) Cleaning toilets takes next to no time at all, as long as you don't wait weeks between cleanings, and a trip to the grocery store can take up to an hour, including the drive there and back; (2) I generally have to take at least one child with me when I shop, which not only extends the time I'm there but also results in tears (mine or theirs--it varies), but I can clean the bathroom alone; (3) I always forget something important at the store and have to go back again in the next day or two, but once that toilet flushes, I'm done; and (4) I don't like making decisions.
Organic apples that are generally bruised and occasionally wormy? Or the pesticide-laden ones that, if you wash them well enough, taste better? How about bacon? Even though I know how smart pigs are and feel guilty for eating them? Yet I really do love bacon--its smell and texture and taste. And sausage isn't awful either. What about chicken? It's cheaper with the bone in, but I don't like the work involved in deboning and skinning those breasts. And I know they're treated horribly, too. Organic beef is the best bet, but it's expensive and I don't like it very much. But don't the kids? How much is too much though? I don't want to clog their arteries before they get out of middle school. Should I make that leap toward vegetarianism now, or are we not ready for that many beans? Are sugared cereals okay now and then, especially if I hide the Lucky Charms and keep them all to myself for my late-night snack? What about if I make the kids mix the Cocoa Krispies with the Rice Krispies? How much fiber do we need as a family? Or should we go on a hot-cereal-only spree to save money and teach kids how the pioneers ate? If we go that route, we have to have brown sugar, right (even if the pioneers didn't)? But dark or light? Then how many bags of those Ghiradelli chocolate chips on sale should I buy to go with all that brown sugar? And is now the time to switch to reusable bags, or can I buy just one more box of Ziploc?
I bring my own bags to the store, so at least the paper or plastic question is no longer an issue for me.
But cleaning the toilet? Not decisions to be made there at all--except, perhaps, how soon I can have the kids take over that chore so I can finish making out that grocery list.
Grocery shopping
Organizing the numerous papers that come home from school
Changing sheets
Clearing the kitchen counters
Putting away laundry
Ironing
Cleaning the toilet
Most other household chores--vacuuming, dusting, sweeping--aren't really dislikes for me. In fact, I love sweeping. When I was a kid, I swept the kitchen and dining room with great satisfaction. I spent most of my inside time in bare feet, so any amount of grit on the floor bothered me. I loved the sight of a dustpan full of crumbs, a testament to my efforts to contribute to the upkeep of the house. If you ever call me on the phone these days, chances are I will sweep my kitchen at some point during our conversation. If we talk for more than a few minutes, I'll sweep the stairs, entryway, and dining area as well. And then I'll do the same thing when the next person calls.
But in case you didn't notice on that list, I would rather clean the toilet than grocery shop, I have several explanations for this: (1) Cleaning toilets takes next to no time at all, as long as you don't wait weeks between cleanings, and a trip to the grocery store can take up to an hour, including the drive there and back; (2) I generally have to take at least one child with me when I shop, which not only extends the time I'm there but also results in tears (mine or theirs--it varies), but I can clean the bathroom alone; (3) I always forget something important at the store and have to go back again in the next day or two, but once that toilet flushes, I'm done; and (4) I don't like making decisions.
Organic apples that are generally bruised and occasionally wormy? Or the pesticide-laden ones that, if you wash them well enough, taste better? How about bacon? Even though I know how smart pigs are and feel guilty for eating them? Yet I really do love bacon--its smell and texture and taste. And sausage isn't awful either. What about chicken? It's cheaper with the bone in, but I don't like the work involved in deboning and skinning those breasts. And I know they're treated horribly, too. Organic beef is the best bet, but it's expensive and I don't like it very much. But don't the kids? How much is too much though? I don't want to clog their arteries before they get out of middle school. Should I make that leap toward vegetarianism now, or are we not ready for that many beans? Are sugared cereals okay now and then, especially if I hide the Lucky Charms and keep them all to myself for my late-night snack? What about if I make the kids mix the Cocoa Krispies with the Rice Krispies? How much fiber do we need as a family? Or should we go on a hot-cereal-only spree to save money and teach kids how the pioneers ate? If we go that route, we have to have brown sugar, right (even if the pioneers didn't)? But dark or light? Then how many bags of those Ghiradelli chocolate chips on sale should I buy to go with all that brown sugar? And is now the time to switch to reusable bags, or can I buy just one more box of Ziploc?
I bring my own bags to the store, so at least the paper or plastic question is no longer an issue for me.
But cleaning the toilet? Not decisions to be made there at all--except, perhaps, how soon I can have the kids take over that chore so I can finish making out that grocery list.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Best intentions
For a while there--a long while--I felt like I never finished anything I started. My biggest testament to this fact doesn't exist anymore. It was the outside cinderblock wall of the basement apartment my sister and I shared for a year or so after college. I decided it needed painting, so I went out and bought a gallon of brick-red paint, with every intention of improving the looks of the place. Instead, I got about halfway through and decided the weather was too hot for me to finish and that the improvement wouldn't be drastic enough, so why bother. After my sister and I moved out, the building sat there, mocking me, until it was bulldozed over to make room for a highway that was never even started, let alone finished. The ending seemed appropriate.
Ron and I have had our share of arguments during our 15 years of marriage, probably no more than most couples and likely a lot fewer than some. And a good share of those arguments have been over what I consider "done" versus what he considers "done." Our first real fight, as a matter of fact, was over a bookshelf I sanded for him to stain. I thought it was smooth enough and he didn't. He wasn't angry; he just couldn't believe I really thought I was done. I've since told him that he's a perfectionist, which is why he married me, and that I'm not, which is why I married him. (kidding, honey!)
My house is a testament to my willingness to let go, to not obsess over the details. Plastic flower decorations from Emma's party several weeks ago still adorn my kitchen windows. I have three overflowing baskets of laundry in the family room that I'll get to before I got to bed tonight. My refrigerator has out-of-date appointment cards on the outside and out-of-date produce in at least one of the drawers on the inside. An anti-clutter freak would begin hyperventilating just five minutes after entering my house. But it's home. It's at least as cluttered as my mind and therefore I feel it belongs to me.
Like my kids. A friend sent me a link to a "quiz" about her that her young son had taken. I tried some of the questions on my kids. Most of their answers varied quite a bit from each other, but the one all of them answered the same (although they didn't know each other's answers) was this: "What is something your mom says to you all the time?" I was hoping for, "I love you" as the answer. But I got, "Pick up your room," "Put your clothes away," Clean up your mess."
See, I try for perfection, and obviously more often than I realize. I intend for things to be just right, but sometimes they're better just as they are. Simon doesn't want to play the recorder ever again because after a year of being required to play it for his school's music class, he still doesn't "get" it so he said he gives up. Owen bites his nails and hasn't yet figured out how to take his dirty clothes from his bedroom to the laundry chute in the hall. Emma wore an oversized orange t-shirt, striped shorts, white socks, and pink sandals to school today. Ivan can't stand cleaning up his toys or markers or crayons by himself so flatly refuses to until someone at least sits with him while he does it. And I love every single rough spot I see on all of them.
I'll raise them all the way. I'll do my darnedest to make sure everyone of them makes it out of the house one day whole and prepared and happy. Still, I imagine they'll find or recall a few half-painted walls I should have finished for them first. I can only hope they will know I always had the best intentions, even if my execution of those intentions wasn't always perfectly smooth.
Ron and I have had our share of arguments during our 15 years of marriage, probably no more than most couples and likely a lot fewer than some. And a good share of those arguments have been over what I consider "done" versus what he considers "done." Our first real fight, as a matter of fact, was over a bookshelf I sanded for him to stain. I thought it was smooth enough and he didn't. He wasn't angry; he just couldn't believe I really thought I was done. I've since told him that he's a perfectionist, which is why he married me, and that I'm not, which is why I married him. (kidding, honey!)
My house is a testament to my willingness to let go, to not obsess over the details. Plastic flower decorations from Emma's party several weeks ago still adorn my kitchen windows. I have three overflowing baskets of laundry in the family room that I'll get to before I got to bed tonight. My refrigerator has out-of-date appointment cards on the outside and out-of-date produce in at least one of the drawers on the inside. An anti-clutter freak would begin hyperventilating just five minutes after entering my house. But it's home. It's at least as cluttered as my mind and therefore I feel it belongs to me.
Like my kids. A friend sent me a link to a "quiz" about her that her young son had taken. I tried some of the questions on my kids. Most of their answers varied quite a bit from each other, but the one all of them answered the same (although they didn't know each other's answers) was this: "What is something your mom says to you all the time?" I was hoping for, "I love you" as the answer. But I got, "Pick up your room," "Put your clothes away," Clean up your mess."
See, I try for perfection, and obviously more often than I realize. I intend for things to be just right, but sometimes they're better just as they are. Simon doesn't want to play the recorder ever again because after a year of being required to play it for his school's music class, he still doesn't "get" it so he said he gives up. Owen bites his nails and hasn't yet figured out how to take his dirty clothes from his bedroom to the laundry chute in the hall. Emma wore an oversized orange t-shirt, striped shorts, white socks, and pink sandals to school today. Ivan can't stand cleaning up his toys or markers or crayons by himself so flatly refuses to until someone at least sits with him while he does it. And I love every single rough spot I see on all of them.
I'll raise them all the way. I'll do my darnedest to make sure everyone of them makes it out of the house one day whole and prepared and happy. Still, I imagine they'll find or recall a few half-painted walls I should have finished for them first. I can only hope they will know I always had the best intentions, even if my execution of those intentions wasn't always perfectly smooth.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Slowing down
Last night, Ron and I went for a walk. I started out at a quick pace, and he laughed as he caught up with me. Ron's a full 10 inches taller than I am, so it's not often that I get ahead of him.
We were only gone for about half an hour, not wanting to leave Simon as the babysitter for long, especially so close to bedtime. We talked about his work, my work, the kids, the neighborhood, and looked at old houses I hadn't seen or noticed since we moved here. The weather was perfect for the walk, as I suspect a lot of the upcoming nights will be.
As a kid, I recall always having to jog to keep up with my father when we walked together, particularly on vacations to historical monuments, battlefields, and restored sites. He was purposeful in each step, always knowing exactly where he was going and always wanting to be there right that very moment. In spite of my efforts to keep up, he generally kept pace a few yards ahead of the rest of us, and that's how I see him in my memories of those vacations: from behind.
When Dad was dying, particularly at the very end, the last few weeks, he became more contemplative. Dad was always impulsive, but he was also thoughtful, as in full of thought, always thinking, always wondering, curious, interested, never bored. Once he accepted that death was near, he found a sense of peace for which I think we were all grateful. One of my siblings asked him what he was thinking about then. Dad said, "I'm just glad I get to be the first to go, the first to find out what's on that side." Still purposeful, still curious, still a few paces ahead of us all.
I turned 40 a few days ago. I know it's a milestone, but I don't feel 40, so it wasn't a big deal to me. It wasn't traumatic or even a little unsettling, and, for the most part, it hasn't even been cause for me to be particularly contemplative. It's just another year, not the end of my life.
This afternoon, an elderly couple passed in front of my screened-in porch where I've been working this afternoon. She was using a wheeled walker. He was gently resting his hand on her arm as they strolled, looking as though they felt they have all the time in the world left. Or perhaps little enough of it that hurrying seems a little excessive at this point. His hair was white. Hers was colored a dark reddish-brown. And they appeared to still have plenty to say to each other. And I thought, "That could be Ron and me in another 40 years." Or at least I hope it is.
Years ago, when Simon wasn't even 3 yet and Owen was a newborn, I took them to the library for story hour. On the way home, it began to rain. I had an umbrella, but when the rain turned into a downpour, I struggled to hold Simon, push the stroller, and keep the umbrella above us all. Finally, I gave up and put the umbrella away. As I did, a neighbor drove by and offered me a ride home. At that point, I was only about a block away from our house, and I said no thanks. I was laughing by then and realizing that rain was just rain and that I needed to slow down and just enjoy the moment, regardless of how wet we were all getting. It was the first time as a mother that I felt that way, and it was magnificent.
I'm in a hurry for a lot of things. I don't like being late to church or to concerts or movies or dinner at a friend's house. But I'm also perfectly fine with slowing down now and then.
I loved my father's hurry. I loved watching him so eager for the next thing that he rushed to get there. And while I know I take after him in many ways, I think I'll be doing my best these next 40 years or so to take my life a little slower. I don't want to miss a thing. I have ahead of me too many walks next to my husband and hand in hand with my kids.
We were only gone for about half an hour, not wanting to leave Simon as the babysitter for long, especially so close to bedtime. We talked about his work, my work, the kids, the neighborhood, and looked at old houses I hadn't seen or noticed since we moved here. The weather was perfect for the walk, as I suspect a lot of the upcoming nights will be.
As a kid, I recall always having to jog to keep up with my father when we walked together, particularly on vacations to historical monuments, battlefields, and restored sites. He was purposeful in each step, always knowing exactly where he was going and always wanting to be there right that very moment. In spite of my efforts to keep up, he generally kept pace a few yards ahead of the rest of us, and that's how I see him in my memories of those vacations: from behind.
When Dad was dying, particularly at the very end, the last few weeks, he became more contemplative. Dad was always impulsive, but he was also thoughtful, as in full of thought, always thinking, always wondering, curious, interested, never bored. Once he accepted that death was near, he found a sense of peace for which I think we were all grateful. One of my siblings asked him what he was thinking about then. Dad said, "I'm just glad I get to be the first to go, the first to find out what's on that side." Still purposeful, still curious, still a few paces ahead of us all.
I turned 40 a few days ago. I know it's a milestone, but I don't feel 40, so it wasn't a big deal to me. It wasn't traumatic or even a little unsettling, and, for the most part, it hasn't even been cause for me to be particularly contemplative. It's just another year, not the end of my life.
This afternoon, an elderly couple passed in front of my screened-in porch where I've been working this afternoon. She was using a wheeled walker. He was gently resting his hand on her arm as they strolled, looking as though they felt they have all the time in the world left. Or perhaps little enough of it that hurrying seems a little excessive at this point. His hair was white. Hers was colored a dark reddish-brown. And they appeared to still have plenty to say to each other. And I thought, "That could be Ron and me in another 40 years." Or at least I hope it is.
Years ago, when Simon wasn't even 3 yet and Owen was a newborn, I took them to the library for story hour. On the way home, it began to rain. I had an umbrella, but when the rain turned into a downpour, I struggled to hold Simon, push the stroller, and keep the umbrella above us all. Finally, I gave up and put the umbrella away. As I did, a neighbor drove by and offered me a ride home. At that point, I was only about a block away from our house, and I said no thanks. I was laughing by then and realizing that rain was just rain and that I needed to slow down and just enjoy the moment, regardless of how wet we were all getting. It was the first time as a mother that I felt that way, and it was magnificent.
I'm in a hurry for a lot of things. I don't like being late to church or to concerts or movies or dinner at a friend's house. But I'm also perfectly fine with slowing down now and then.
I loved my father's hurry. I loved watching him so eager for the next thing that he rushed to get there. And while I know I take after him in many ways, I think I'll be doing my best these next 40 years or so to take my life a little slower. I don't want to miss a thing. I have ahead of me too many walks next to my husband and hand in hand with my kids.
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