magic carpet

Last night I dusted off A Light in the Attic and started reading some of my favorites to Seth.

When I was in elementary school, my favorite Shel Silverstein poem was called "Sick." It is the one about the little girl who gives a rambling list of illnesses in the hopes of staying home from school only to find in the last stanza that it is Saturday. So she decides, of course, to go out and play. This was my favorite because as a child I had a bit of a history of faking illnesses to get out of school so I could completely relate to that poem.

Now here I am, twenty something years later, reading about bears in refrigerators and pet hot dogs and all the other brilliant silliness that was churned out by Shel Silverstein. And in the middle of this book, a light did go off in the attic (as was certainly intended) and now I have a new favorite which I love because I am a thirty-two and at a crossroads so I can completely relate to this poem. Here it is:

MAGIC CARPET
by Shel Silverstein

You have a magic carpet
That will whiz you through the air
To Spain or Maine or Africa
If you just tell it where.
So will you let it take you
Where you've never been before,
Or will you buy some drapes to match
And use it
On your
Floor?

following the rules that I myself have made up for my son - part 2

A few weeks ago when we realized that my son was one of the worst behaved kids in his preschool class my husband and I did something I swore we’d never to do – we began to bribe him. But it’s actually worse than that, we began bribing him with food. A year ago I would have considered this really bad parenting (setting him up for very unhealthy perspective of food and all that). Now a little further along the road of parenthood I realize that bribery is sometimes a very good option. For what it’s worth, my son is only too happy to work for food. I often think of getting him a shirt that says as much but I think that might be taken the wrong way, even though it is the absolute truth. So we set a little goal, something like no time outs this week and we’ll take you to TCBY. This usually keeps him right on track but today he informed me that he forgot all about TCBY and did something that landed him in time out. “Well,” I said from the front seat of the car on the ride home, “you’re working on it. We’re all working on something.” And then he asked what I was working on. And I wanted to tell him that it would actually be quicker if I told him the areas of my life that didn’t need improvement but instead I told him that I was working on several things. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that they were all rules that I had made up for him to apply to his own life. And then I realized I would probably have more blog material.

No whining - that is the rule at our house. I deplore whining. It grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. We draw a pretty hard line for Seth on this one. Simply put, it is not an acceptable form of expression at our house…change that, it is not an acceptable form of expression at our house – for anyone but me.

I wish somehow I could have learned how not to whine when I was younger. Not that I am complaining, of course, but it’s awfully hard to change that habit after 30+ years. I’m not so much a social grumbler, more like a closet whiner or as I like to think of it, commentator. Mostly my areas of complaint center around myself and the things that impact me - the weather, the house, my son, my health, my horrible rain-soaked vacation. I like to think of my commentary as a sort of constructive verbal analysis that allows me to accept the disappointments of life but really it’s just plain whining. The reality is that I have been blessed with some very good things in my life. The expectation that my life should remain in some state of perpetual happiness is both naïve and ungrateful. I don’t desire my son to walk around with such a sense of entitlement, but unless I make a change, it’s bound to affect him. This is not the legacy I wish to pass on to the next generation.

So I’m working on it.

something I found along the way

Today my mind was in a million places all at once. I found it slightly maddening. I tried searching for some calm, a bit of simplicity in an overcomplicated world but peace was hiding, apparently, because I certainly couldn't find it. I tried the usual fixes - chocolate first, mindless internet surfing second. Although I did manage to escape reality for a bit as I watched the finale of Britan's Got Talent, alas, it was short lived (I am glad to see that Diversity won, Yay! They deserved it). At the peak of my desperation I decided to go for a run. Somewhere along the road the thought occurred to me that I was really being overwhelmed by non-essentials. A year from now I won't even remember being concerned about the things bombarding me today. In that way, I suppose, forgetfulness is a great blessing. So now I return with a beautiful sense of calm and the understanding that peace can be found - if you know where to look for it.

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.