following the rules that I myself have made up for my son

And right now while I am writing Shaun is doing something essential and helpful like folding laundry or learning how to make more money and I am doing what is inexplicably essential to me – writing.

Today I’m thinking about following rules. Specifically, following the rules that I myself have made up for my son.

The first year with Seth was easy. There were no rules then. They only became necessary when he started wrecking the house and otherwise behaving badly. And yes they were (and continue to be) challenging for him but what surprises me is how difficult some of them are for me. Take, for example, the early rules: No hitting, No biting, No throwing. No hitting was easy. I’m way too non-confrontational to have issues in that area. No biting, also easy. No throwing…well, that was a tough one.

Something like 98% of the time I am calm, patient, and generally tolerant of people and situations but there is the odd occasion when my temper gets the best of me and I do something that violates this “no throwing” rule. So there, I admit it, I throw things; I am a thing thrower. Actually the statement “throw things” is not entirely true. I’ve never thrown much in the plural sense. I would say instead that I throw a thing– thing being whatever tool, frying pan, or unattached object somehow connected with the distressing situation. I do take some comfort in the fact that I’ve never actually thrown any thing at a human target, say my husband (for which he is unknowingly grateful). I simply propel the thing in the general direction of “away from me.” And while I’ve never really been proud of this type of behavior, I did feel it provided some sort of positive stress relief and since no one was hurt in the process, it could be deemed as harmless, and perhaps even beneficial. Then along came one-year old Seth and the sudden realization that his two little eyes were watching me, learning from me and that is when I realized I had to change. If throwing was unacceptable for Seth then why was it acceptable for me?

They have a name for people who make up rules that they themselves don’t follow- they’re called hypocrites. And the fact is, I don’t want my son to grow up thinking I am a hypocrite. Okay he’s four now so he doesn’t actually have a good working definition of that word but when he gets one I don’t want it to be associated with me.

So that was the first step to following the rules that I myself made up for my son. It hasn’t been so very hard, not throwing things. I try to do what I’ve taught my son to do – take a break from the situation, do something different, take three deep breaths, etc. And it seems to be working – for both of us. I can’t remember the last time either of us let something fly. And I couldn’t be more proud of us.

time in a bottle

Since my son's fourth birthday I've witnessed this amazing transformation. The things he says, his new found independence, everything astounds me. On one hand, I welcome it because it is all so charming and amazing and, I must admit, a whole lot less demanding. There are no late night feedings or diapers or tantrums or any of the other not-so-fun stuff that accompanies the three and under crowd. But now comes the sudden realization of just how fleeting all of this is - like trying to catch sand with your outstretched hand. You watch it filter through your fingers as it is being poured out. You can't hope to contain more than a few grains of it, so you're left to watch as the rest of it slips away and is forgotten. I realize that now as I watch my baby transform into a very wonderful little boy.

the grand experiment (in my opinion)

I am three weeks into my grand experiment - the experiment to determine if I can bring myself to return to full-time employment. So far my stint has gone pretty well. Despite some minor inconveniences - inexplicably grumpy teachers, laryngitis, a nasty cough, and of course, pink eye (it had to be pink eye) – despite all of that, things are going very well.

It seems like I am complaining. I am not complaining. This job has actually been a great blessing. I’m doing my job and being paid well for it. So I have no reason to complain at all except for the pink eye. Unfortunately, I have been a pink eye magnet since kindergarten but I have never had strep throat, so that is a consolation.

Communicable diseases aside, this job is helping me in ways I had not imagined. Take for instance, time management. I have discovered that I do not completely stink at it. It’s just that I only tend to manage my time when I have less of it, oddly enough. I find that I don’t have nearly enough time to procrastinate these days. So it has come back to me, like riding a bicycle.

It has also given me this tremendous sense of gratitude for my life at home. Mostly, I miss seeing my son. I had the chance to stay home with him yesterday and it was sheer bliss (if you subtract several time-outs for the usual four-year-old behaviors). But it’s not just missing him. I miss the pace, the casual pace of life that we have together – shopping in the morning, picnics at lunchtime, the treadmill at naptime. Yes there are things not to miss - the mess, the laundry, but those things never cease.

So in five weeks I will return to life as I knew it before the grand experiment with something I’m not sure I ever had before – appreciation.

food for thought

Just thought I'd share the most wonderful gem I rediscovered after my third reading of Anne Lamott's Bird By Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life.

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life...I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carfully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."

Perhaps it will sink in this time.

making preparations

Tonight you will find me baking cakes for Seth’s fourth birthday party bash. This is ironic since I resigned from birthday party planning altogether after last year’s party. Alas, a year has gone by and I have once again taken over the invitation mailing, the food purchasing, the activity planning and the cake making. A wise and altogether realistic person would go easy on herself and buy the sheet cake from Publix but I find that completely uninspiring (and expensive) so now I will spend the better part of my Friday creating a largish cake with a tall skyscraper upon which the Spiderman candle I spent three days searching for will perch. I think Seth will need a ladder to blow out his candle. And that is OK. You only turn four once, why not celebrate with a very tall cake.

tubeless wonder

I am trying to negotiate this recovery period as deftly as possible. I am up and writing, which is a good sign. Writing always makes me feel a bit more alive so I am counting on that. I would have written sooner but whatever pain medication they had me on was causing some pretty strange hallucinations – there were the three dancing little pigs and these worms with barracuda teeth – and also I was having a hard time spelling and choosing words correctly. This is a very big reason why I do not do drugs.

I feel the sudden urge to get a little rest but I did want to tell you about the piggies so I have accomplished that today at least.

finding faith

Monday, January 5th is the day. Before yesterday, I had made up my mind to look forward to this surgery – to anticipate it even. Then, of course, Friday happened. Friday is the day that my doctor informed me that upon further inspection, my tube - the only one I have left, does not appear to be in good shape, leaving only a small chance that he will be able to clear it.

My mental response: No tube, no baby - at least not without a test tube and a whole lot of money. Sigh. Sigh again. Stomp feet. Wonder “Why in the heck I am going through with this nonsense?” (I mean, besides the fact that I’ve already paid the hospital $450). Try deep breathing exercises. Shed a few tears. Sigh. Sigh some more.

So now I am face-to-face with “the essential pain of life” – that is how a very good book I once read described it. It is the pain that comes when you realize there is no fairness in life; that life's circumstances occur in a realm outside of your control; that you cannot always possess whatever it is you think you want or need.

If I could, I would run away from the essential pain of life, or go hide in a closet, or eat a whole lot of chocolate until it leaves but that would do no good. It is completely inescapable. So there is nothing left to do but embrace it – to feel all of the normal human emotions that accompany it and then move beyond it to a place of peace. Peace that I find when I accept my inability to control this situation and entrust it all - my life and well-being, my future and all my hopes - to a God whose power and wisdom is far greater than my mind can comprehend.

Perhaps this is how we learn to live by faith.