i have things in my life, in my children's lives, that i wish were not so much there. i wouldn't mind these things if there was less of them, but by their very nature they are invasive. and i ain't typing about morning glory here.
glowing screens are one of the culprits. the television. the computer. the little hand held "educational" toy. the cell phone. they all probably contain magnets and maybe that is why we are all drawn to them. during the cold days of winter there is always that warm blue light to curl up next to rather than painting or break dancing or a thousand other possibilities.
sometimes i have ugly thoughts about all of the glowing screens going away. far away. but the thing is- i like them. i just don't like them to be so much. i want them to be less. a side-margin, not the main topic.
i wonder if we are drawn to glowing screens for more than their internal magnets. my ancestors- and yours- sat under stars and listened to stories. or stared into a dancing fire and listen to songs. now we are spoon-fed stories- most nasty, depressing, life sucks so quickly we don't even know what we are taking in most of the time.
nothing like having a child to highlight this for you. when your kid starts telling you jokes from bad cartoons- ones that you watched with him- that you do not remember, well, then you really start to wonder about our spongy brains and what are we filling them up with? not stories of the seven sisters or the belt of orion.
and the glowing screen lust just blossoms. wii, dx, ipod...the want list just pushes me over the top at times. and those ugly thoughts creep in....a quick snip on a power cord, nice dip into the toilet. it wouldn't take much before all the screens would dim. burn out. fade away. aah.
however.
i like them, i do. recently i easily convinced the family that another glowing screen would be nice- a gps geocache thing. it looks like a cell phone and talks to satellites to give you hints to find some little treasures, of sorts. i heard about them- well, saw and heard, on a tv show- of course! i immediately imagined all kinds of outdoor adventures. i thought this glowing screen could pull us away from other glowing screens.
except the gps doesn't speak mac- and there were some bills to pay- so it went back to it's home. i mourned my fantasy a bit. i wanted a stamp to put in those little log books and i wanted to take a photo at every cache we found. alas, it was not meant to be.
guess we'd have to pull ourselves away on our own accord- which we did today- now that the sun is out and the rain is mostly gone. off we went to fort ebey. ben and i had been there years ago. i remembered the distinct sound of the waves rolling the rocks up and back. up and back. and the eerie cold cement hide outs where soldiers watched the waves for japanese ships, subs, planes in the post- pearl harbor age.
when we pulled up the wind was blowing the evergreen like a swing dance partner. the sun was bright though- and the waves sent up flashes of mirrored sky and frothy white. the crispness of the air was enough to make you move, a bit quick at first. we walked on the bluff trail. we fed cyrus pistachios while dodging pine cones from seren.
the water was right there- big like all of your fears and dreams and hopes- and it seemed that every view got better. it felt remote. i didn't see any toilets- not eve honeybuckets. there weren't many people out- so finding a secluded place to pee shouldn't have been too hard, but i can be picky.
finally there was a chain link fence- razor topped- around a shoreline sign. i know that makes no sense. i don't know what it's called. not a lighthouse- but the same "here's the land" purpose. there were three concrete narrow stairs down to a platform with a railing to keep you out of mid-air and the rocks below. we peered over the edge, and i noticed it was quite secluded. i looked over the side walls of the concrete platform- about three feet high. one side sloped up, holly bushes- ouch. the other side sloped down- i looked over the wall to see if there was room for me to snuggle up and squat. but instead of bare ground, twigs, leaves, cigarette butts there was a rusty metal box....like an old ammunition box.
i pulled up the box and saw the neon green sticker on the "official geocache." the guys gathered around as i opened up the box. inside was a stash of cheap plastic toys made in china and other odd things. a broken flashlight, a crumbled dollar bill, a tiger mask, one lego minifigure helmet. and of course, the log book. the entries started several years ago and the most recent was ten days before us.
we wrote in our name "tree frog tribe" and left three decking screws- they only thing of interest we had in our pockets collectively. then we packed it all back up (minus the lego helmet) and got back to the trees, the calling eagle, the bump and rise of the trail, dodging pine cones, and the creepy concrete bunkers.
i don't need a glowing screen to find adventure in the world. i'll just follow my bladder.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
orbits
i just got home from a women's group where we asked each other questions from a deck of cards. one of the questions was something to the effect of "what is one of your favorite memories from your childhood?" i thought about laughing first off. the way you laugh when you are a kid- how you are so deeply tickled by what happened or said that you couldn't come out of it if you wanted. i thought of times when i laughed hard and i thought about the memories that make me laugh now.
here's one for you.
but first some background info.
i am one of the first "latch key kids" which means my parents divorced when i was 2, the year was 1976, and my mom was a working single mom. i have one older brother- almost 4 years older than me. we saw our dad everyother weekend and on holidays which was not enough. we usually came home to an empty house because our mom was at work until the early evening.
i still remember the excitment and anxiety of waiting for mom to come home. exciting news to share with her or another disagreement for her to settle- our worlds revolved around her presence. she wore heels and nylons and sensible skirts with brilliant scarves. shoulder pads like chunks of cheesecake and exotic earrings.
as i write this i am struck all at once with the enormity of my presence in my children's lives. not the responsibilty of mothering or the chore of mothering or the exhausation of mothering...but the reality that the way i felt about my mom coming home is what my sons feel for me. they are my sons and i am their sun. they orbit me. if i cease to exist they believe they will also.
here comes the sun, little darling. it's all right.
so my brother and i wait for mom to come home. we don't have babysitters but we do have mildly concerned/nosey neighbors. we don't have cell phones but we do have metal identification bracelets which we do not wear. we make ourselves food like cinnamon toast and eat it on the couch. we don't argue about what to watch on tv because there are only four channels and only one has cartoons on it. then we hear the rumble of the mustang's engine in the driveway and then the ka-chunk of the heavy door crunching together followed by solid heeled steps up the porch.
the door swings open wide.
my mom stands there, sun light streaming in behind her, purse hanging from one arm, both hands clutched to her sides like she's got her hands on pistols in leather holsters.
"alright" she says in a western slur, "which one of you bastards painted the balls of my horse blue with green polka dots?" then she looks at my brother and says "was it you, bart?"
my brother, standing near the rocking chair, cooly replies, "i did it. and i'd do it again."
she aims her imaginary gun at his freckled face and takes aim as he dives for cover. while i grab a hairbrush as defense and scream out "i helped him!" mad pistol fight ensues, littered with creative insults. eventually she takes us both down. when i am hit with that whispering dreamt-up bullet, i slowly die. really slowly die. it takes me a full three minutes. mostly because i have to make sure i land on the couch, with a pillow nearby. there's lots of "you got me" and heart-clutching movements along with raspy breaths and then the final sigh. then leg twitching.
my mom did that just because she knew it would make us happy. i'm sure there are a hundred-thousand other things she did too, but this one stands out as something she thought up just for us- knowing we'd buy into it right away and would be giddy with how silly she was being.
i do a lot of things for my kids. but i want to do more of that kind of stuff. the stuff that years from now they'll be thinking about and just start to laugh until their heart feels warm like they just got hit with the first sun ray of spring. that feeling that for a few moments the sun stopped, noticed their upturned faces, and started orbiting around them.
here's one for you.
but first some background info.
i am one of the first "latch key kids" which means my parents divorced when i was 2, the year was 1976, and my mom was a working single mom. i have one older brother- almost 4 years older than me. we saw our dad everyother weekend and on holidays which was not enough. we usually came home to an empty house because our mom was at work until the early evening.
i still remember the excitment and anxiety of waiting for mom to come home. exciting news to share with her or another disagreement for her to settle- our worlds revolved around her presence. she wore heels and nylons and sensible skirts with brilliant scarves. shoulder pads like chunks of cheesecake and exotic earrings.
as i write this i am struck all at once with the enormity of my presence in my children's lives. not the responsibilty of mothering or the chore of mothering or the exhausation of mothering...but the reality that the way i felt about my mom coming home is what my sons feel for me. they are my sons and i am their sun. they orbit me. if i cease to exist they believe they will also.
here comes the sun, little darling. it's all right.
so my brother and i wait for mom to come home. we don't have babysitters but we do have mildly concerned/nosey neighbors. we don't have cell phones but we do have metal identification bracelets which we do not wear. we make ourselves food like cinnamon toast and eat it on the couch. we don't argue about what to watch on tv because there are only four channels and only one has cartoons on it. then we hear the rumble of the mustang's engine in the driveway and then the ka-chunk of the heavy door crunching together followed by solid heeled steps up the porch.
the door swings open wide.
my mom stands there, sun light streaming in behind her, purse hanging from one arm, both hands clutched to her sides like she's got her hands on pistols in leather holsters.
"alright" she says in a western slur, "which one of you bastards painted the balls of my horse blue with green polka dots?" then she looks at my brother and says "was it you, bart?"
my brother, standing near the rocking chair, cooly replies, "i did it. and i'd do it again."
she aims her imaginary gun at his freckled face and takes aim as he dives for cover. while i grab a hairbrush as defense and scream out "i helped him!" mad pistol fight ensues, littered with creative insults. eventually she takes us both down. when i am hit with that whispering dreamt-up bullet, i slowly die. really slowly die. it takes me a full three minutes. mostly because i have to make sure i land on the couch, with a pillow nearby. there's lots of "you got me" and heart-clutching movements along with raspy breaths and then the final sigh. then leg twitching.
my mom did that just because she knew it would make us happy. i'm sure there are a hundred-thousand other things she did too, but this one stands out as something she thought up just for us- knowing we'd buy into it right away and would be giddy with how silly she was being.
i do a lot of things for my kids. but i want to do more of that kind of stuff. the stuff that years from now they'll be thinking about and just start to laugh until their heart feels warm like they just got hit with the first sun ray of spring. that feeling that for a few moments the sun stopped, noticed their upturned faces, and started orbiting around them.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
connect
we have the biggest family bed around. a king with a twin pushed next to it. go ahead, roll your eyes if you need to. i do it too sometimes. family beds are great- except when they suck.
they suck when your toddler won't stop flipping blankets off of you. and the other child starts talking in his sleep in words clear enough to perk curiosity but not clear enough to render any comprehension. they suck when your back aches and you fear if you flip over someone will awake and want something- maybe. so you lay there trying to decide if it's better to be warm and in pain or forced to walk on the cold floor for a cup of milk that will not be touched until three days later when it has a yogurt-esque appearance- and when you flush it down the toilet the child will wail "my milk!" loud enough to cause the neighbors to flinch.
but then other times the children sleep so deeply they cannot be awaken to see the lunar eclipse they made you promise they could or watch the snow that is blanketing the yard with a playground of white or get in the car for the pre-dawn ride to the airport. their bodies are limp, gleaming with sweat and weigh fifty pounds more than they did at bedtime. you realize they could sleep through any number of traumatic events, as long as you don't tip-toe to the bathroom during it.
me, i can't sleep through anything now. now i awake with an electric start at the slightest shift in sheets with a fuzzy-but-frantic "wha?!" as i pull the closest child into me for protection from...nothing. i lay there in the dark, heart-thumping, trying to figure out if they woke up, or something fell of the wall- a screw giving way in the moonlight, or there was an earthquake or tsunami or...nothing. of course, going back to sleep at that point is tricky. fifty-fifty chance: making it back to slumberville or getting up to eat toast and watch a movie.
i remember the first time i slept away from seren when he was about 3 - for a out of town conference- and i slept like a rock in a deep cool stream covered in green moss. solid. i woke up like those princesses- eye fluttering, cheeks rosie, and ready to slay the dragon- all my princesses slay dragons.
two years into The Age of Cyrus i am yearning for the rock-solid slumber. i don't want dreams interrupted by cold chills on my back or teeth grinding. i want waking up without any sense or where i am or how long i have been asleep- where you look outside at the gray sky and cannot tell if it's dawn or dusk because you internal clock has been blissfully unaware of time for long enough that it also went to sleep. sometimes i want it so badly i scorn the whole concept of a family bed.
however.
there are moments- so many- that i never would have experienced had it not been for the family bed. the thousand of times i have been awe-struck and breathless by the beauty of my children asleep. the impossible lengths of their eyelashes as they lay still atop their flushed cheeks. the arch of their eyebrows at peace. the distance from me to their feet- which grows steadily farther and farther away.
even more so than this adoration of my boys are some things i cannot explain. for example, one morning i woke up from a dream which had a white dog in it. a dog i was not familiar with and, in truth, i remember nothing about the dream or the dog. the only reason i remember "white dog" was because as i woke up from my dream, my sleepy seren - then maybe 3 years old- began to chatter about a white dog. still a perplexing incident.
then when pregnant with cyrus i remember laying there and watching my belly twitch with his strong kicks- at the exact moment that seren, curled next to me, twitched in his sleep. for a few seconds they both did this, back and forth, like a dance. even now there are nights when they seem to be talking to each other in their dreams. one sighs and then the other. one grunts, mumbles and then the other replies. it's this connection that i witness, yet have no words to explain.
fortunately, i have to describe it though and they help me to remember this connection i share with these brown boys i birthed from my body into my bed, this enormously vast bed- a big family nest alive with soft feathers, poking sticks and chirping birds.
they suck when your toddler won't stop flipping blankets off of you. and the other child starts talking in his sleep in words clear enough to perk curiosity but not clear enough to render any comprehension. they suck when your back aches and you fear if you flip over someone will awake and want something- maybe. so you lay there trying to decide if it's better to be warm and in pain or forced to walk on the cold floor for a cup of milk that will not be touched until three days later when it has a yogurt-esque appearance- and when you flush it down the toilet the child will wail "my milk!" loud enough to cause the neighbors to flinch.
but then other times the children sleep so deeply they cannot be awaken to see the lunar eclipse they made you promise they could or watch the snow that is blanketing the yard with a playground of white or get in the car for the pre-dawn ride to the airport. their bodies are limp, gleaming with sweat and weigh fifty pounds more than they did at bedtime. you realize they could sleep through any number of traumatic events, as long as you don't tip-toe to the bathroom during it.
me, i can't sleep through anything now. now i awake with an electric start at the slightest shift in sheets with a fuzzy-but-frantic "wha?!" as i pull the closest child into me for protection from...nothing. i lay there in the dark, heart-thumping, trying to figure out if they woke up, or something fell of the wall- a screw giving way in the moonlight, or there was an earthquake or tsunami or...nothing. of course, going back to sleep at that point is tricky. fifty-fifty chance: making it back to slumberville or getting up to eat toast and watch a movie.
i remember the first time i slept away from seren when he was about 3 - for a out of town conference- and i slept like a rock in a deep cool stream covered in green moss. solid. i woke up like those princesses- eye fluttering, cheeks rosie, and ready to slay the dragon- all my princesses slay dragons.
two years into The Age of Cyrus i am yearning for the rock-solid slumber. i don't want dreams interrupted by cold chills on my back or teeth grinding. i want waking up without any sense or where i am or how long i have been asleep- where you look outside at the gray sky and cannot tell if it's dawn or dusk because you internal clock has been blissfully unaware of time for long enough that it also went to sleep. sometimes i want it so badly i scorn the whole concept of a family bed.
however.
there are moments- so many- that i never would have experienced had it not been for the family bed. the thousand of times i have been awe-struck and breathless by the beauty of my children asleep. the impossible lengths of their eyelashes as they lay still atop their flushed cheeks. the arch of their eyebrows at peace. the distance from me to their feet- which grows steadily farther and farther away.
even more so than this adoration of my boys are some things i cannot explain. for example, one morning i woke up from a dream which had a white dog in it. a dog i was not familiar with and, in truth, i remember nothing about the dream or the dog. the only reason i remember "white dog" was because as i woke up from my dream, my sleepy seren - then maybe 3 years old- began to chatter about a white dog. still a perplexing incident.
then when pregnant with cyrus i remember laying there and watching my belly twitch with his strong kicks- at the exact moment that seren, curled next to me, twitched in his sleep. for a few seconds they both did this, back and forth, like a dance. even now there are nights when they seem to be talking to each other in their dreams. one sighs and then the other. one grunts, mumbles and then the other replies. it's this connection that i witness, yet have no words to explain.
fortunately, i have to describe it though and they help me to remember this connection i share with these brown boys i birthed from my body into my bed, this enormously vast bed- a big family nest alive with soft feathers, poking sticks and chirping birds.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
loaf
some days are really hard. every step feels forced. every decision feels wrong. and i want nothing more than to sit still and silent until grace descends. then life feels better.
moms don't usually get to sit still and silent- not when we need to most. the toddler gets up early and wants milk and to watch tv. i fret over both of these wishes.
the older child proudly displays his latest artist creation- an underwater scene of a submarine battle. i try to sound supportive while inside i am shriveling at the latest evidence of my poor mothering skills.
shouldn't my children be baking bread next to me in the clean kitchen while we listen to classical music or at least an audio book with a happy ending?
seren begins to explain to me more about his drawing. there are apparently two sides and all of the subs have faces. some subs are labeled EET. while others sport the letters BFL. EET's ships are all steaming or maybe they are on fire- but they are underwater, so i'm not sure. seren tells me they are the good guys. not a good day to be a good guy.
i remember the advice a friend and fellow mom once gave me- talk to kids about whatever they want to talk about. so i ask what the letters stand for- what are the names of the good and bad guys? he shrugs. i offer some suggestions. "Every Electric Tiger?" he smiles. "Bad Farting Lions?" he laughs. 8 year old boys are an easy crowd.
still giddy, he replies. "no- how about Buffalo Fighting.....Loaf."
"loaf?" i'm not sure i heard him right. "loaf?"
"yeah" he says, his eyes twinkling and crinkling with humor.
i laugh.
grace has landed.
moms don't usually get to sit still and silent- not when we need to most. the toddler gets up early and wants milk and to watch tv. i fret over both of these wishes.
the older child proudly displays his latest artist creation- an underwater scene of a submarine battle. i try to sound supportive while inside i am shriveling at the latest evidence of my poor mothering skills.
shouldn't my children be baking bread next to me in the clean kitchen while we listen to classical music or at least an audio book with a happy ending?
seren begins to explain to me more about his drawing. there are apparently two sides and all of the subs have faces. some subs are labeled EET. while others sport the letters BFL. EET's ships are all steaming or maybe they are on fire- but they are underwater, so i'm not sure. seren tells me they are the good guys. not a good day to be a good guy.
i remember the advice a friend and fellow mom once gave me- talk to kids about whatever they want to talk about. so i ask what the letters stand for- what are the names of the good and bad guys? he shrugs. i offer some suggestions. "Every Electric Tiger?" he smiles. "Bad Farting Lions?" he laughs. 8 year old boys are an easy crowd.
still giddy, he replies. "no- how about Buffalo Fighting.....Loaf."
"loaf?" i'm not sure i heard him right. "loaf?"
"yeah" he says, his eyes twinkling and crinkling with humor.
i laugh.
grace has landed.
Friday, December 31, 2010
glaze
what a great word glaze is. when you say it out loud- go ahead- you can feel it's smoothness, the dull shine, the slipping, dripping of it.
so many ways to use glaze- so many ways a glaze can be. like the glaze on pottery which looks like chalky pepto-bismol when you put it on greenware. then fire hotter than we will ever feel and live to tell about it, transforms all those milky minerals to a gloss, swirls of colors, a hardened shell.
some donuts have glaze. sugar coated. fine covering of syrup that is dried a bit. it melts in your mouth. it coats your tongue. some avoid it. others hunt it down in every city along with hot, strong coffee.
when you deglaze a hot pan by throwing liquid in it creates a rich sauce, potent with all the flavors stuck on the bottom of your cast iron. spoon it over your steak and potatoes. dip some bread into it.
and then there's the state of mind: glaze. it may come upon you unannounced, uninvited or perhaps you seek it out through various means. but you know when you are there.
your shoulders slump and your eyes narrow. nothing can penetrate your glaze enough to cause any strong emotion. it's not oblivion, but they live on the same street. that place where we all go sometimes because it is possible to care too much, too often, too deeply.
and probably, it's a hard place to be for long. for some of us, it takes just as much- if not more- effort to not to care. to let things be. to glaze. then it does to try to help. to create. to at least contribute our own opinions from the sidelines or the couch or the co-pilot seat.
when i am glazing i struggle against it. that coating that holds me down- a place where all the flavors are too intense- i resist them all. i want to Do Something To Makes Things Better. and by better, i mean different. i just want a shift, a change. except when it's not the shift or change that i, specifically, was going for.
perhaps this glaze place can be a small refuge to just accept life, accept me, accept donuts, and salty food, and pieces of pottery that you work on for hours,days only to pull them out of a kiln completely destroyed.
except that they have a gorgeous glaze that catches the sun and spills back brilliance into your eyes.
so many ways to use glaze- so many ways a glaze can be. like the glaze on pottery which looks like chalky pepto-bismol when you put it on greenware. then fire hotter than we will ever feel and live to tell about it, transforms all those milky minerals to a gloss, swirls of colors, a hardened shell.
some donuts have glaze. sugar coated. fine covering of syrup that is dried a bit. it melts in your mouth. it coats your tongue. some avoid it. others hunt it down in every city along with hot, strong coffee.
when you deglaze a hot pan by throwing liquid in it creates a rich sauce, potent with all the flavors stuck on the bottom of your cast iron. spoon it over your steak and potatoes. dip some bread into it.
and then there's the state of mind: glaze. it may come upon you unannounced, uninvited or perhaps you seek it out through various means. but you know when you are there.
your shoulders slump and your eyes narrow. nothing can penetrate your glaze enough to cause any strong emotion. it's not oblivion, but they live on the same street. that place where we all go sometimes because it is possible to care too much, too often, too deeply.
and probably, it's a hard place to be for long. for some of us, it takes just as much- if not more- effort to not to care. to let things be. to glaze. then it does to try to help. to create. to at least contribute our own opinions from the sidelines or the couch or the co-pilot seat.
when i am glazing i struggle against it. that coating that holds me down- a place where all the flavors are too intense- i resist them all. i want to Do Something To Makes Things Better. and by better, i mean different. i just want a shift, a change. except when it's not the shift or change that i, specifically, was going for.
perhaps this glaze place can be a small refuge to just accept life, accept me, accept donuts, and salty food, and pieces of pottery that you work on for hours,days only to pull them out of a kiln completely destroyed.
except that they have a gorgeous glaze that catches the sun and spills back brilliance into your eyes.
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
reset
what's the first thing you do when your computer starts to act strange? you reboot it. you shut off the power source and watch the screen go dark with fingers crossed. maybe you count to 39 or sing the alphabet or light candles while chanting to infamous deities. then you turn the juice back on. you watch and wait, breath held, and <sigh> all is right with the world. the glitch is gone, the memory is intact, you can get back on facebook now.
this strategy has worked well for several electrical things in my life. there was the boom box that i was given when i turned 18 that suddenly became very finicky about playing CDs- a relatively new method of music merriment at the time- only to accept and play them again after about 5 months in a closet. it was like a retreat of sorts, maybe.
then there's the vent in the bathroom- which you may have read all about in another posting- that suddenly stopped one day. i pushed the switch on and off with renewed hope each time to no avail. and then the power company turned off our power for 20 minutes to work on the lines outside and -presto!- the fan worked again. maybe the electrical current got lost somewhere in the attic. i don't understand why this works but it does.
now the stove has begun to flash F-5 at me while beeping as i prepared hot meals. you may have also already read about my stove-fixing adventures. when i mentioned the F-5 code at a dinner party recently someone said "oh that happened to my parents. they unplugged it and it seemed to work fine after that." so that's what i did.
that got me thinking about this need so many things seem to have to be cut off, powered down, rebooted, reset, decompressed. including me. the thing is that as i have grown up and reproduced children i have forgotten my own codes and signals. i don't have a screen on my forehead that flashes any letters or numbers or any beeping...i don't even stop doing my essential tasks!...but it slowly becomes obvious that i am barely operational.
with my kids- it is very obvious and easy to reset: nap time. sometimes it might be food. or perhaps the need for a good belly laugh. these things probably would help me to reset too. the trouble is that i don't have anyone who says to me: nancylee, you need a nap now. i might say this to myself but then the louder part of my brain either recites a list of things to do or a list of nice distractions.
maybe it's because as a kid people always told me what i needed. and i went along with it. at first i didn't. i remember being somewhat "crabby" as they called me. and then- well, i guess i gave up. gave up on myself. as a kid you realize your limited power in the world. besides whining- what can we do?
now when one of my kid starts to show signs of needing a reset- i try to get them to come up with the answer. i give them prompts like "what do you think will help you to feel better?" or "did you drink enough water today?"
and other times i pull rank and state clearly "it is time to nap." more often than not this is met with a big grin fro my 2 year old. he loves nap time.
for me- in order to reset- i have to shut down through complete body exhaustion. i have to wear down my mind until it has no choice but to surrender to my body's whims. like when i was in labor. eventually my mind realized i could not think myself out of the pain and just floated away so my body could take over. but labor as a reset option is complicated, to say the least.
i think for me, and maybe for many other folks, we have to have some kind of resetting in our routines because we don't recognize the signs as we live our daily life. we can hold off on the tantrum when we see the property tax bill if we know that some day soon we are going to yoga or to church or fish or to a bar.
pick your poison. we usually do. it's true that as adults we seem to gravitate towards the reset buttons that aren't so good for us. or at least, i sometimes do this. perhaps this is a sign of waiting too long to reset. the weekly walk on the beach works nicely but it you go for months without it maybe it then turns into a bottle of gin.
the new year is when we reset the calendars and taxes and our resolve to live better, different, more fully. to me- i simply need to have a reset routine that i can stick to.
with a tantrum clause if need be.
this strategy has worked well for several electrical things in my life. there was the boom box that i was given when i turned 18 that suddenly became very finicky about playing CDs- a relatively new method of music merriment at the time- only to accept and play them again after about 5 months in a closet. it was like a retreat of sorts, maybe.
then there's the vent in the bathroom- which you may have read all about in another posting- that suddenly stopped one day. i pushed the switch on and off with renewed hope each time to no avail. and then the power company turned off our power for 20 minutes to work on the lines outside and -presto!- the fan worked again. maybe the electrical current got lost somewhere in the attic. i don't understand why this works but it does.
now the stove has begun to flash F-5 at me while beeping as i prepared hot meals. you may have also already read about my stove-fixing adventures. when i mentioned the F-5 code at a dinner party recently someone said "oh that happened to my parents. they unplugged it and it seemed to work fine after that." so that's what i did.
that got me thinking about this need so many things seem to have to be cut off, powered down, rebooted, reset, decompressed. including me. the thing is that as i have grown up and reproduced children i have forgotten my own codes and signals. i don't have a screen on my forehead that flashes any letters or numbers or any beeping...i don't even stop doing my essential tasks!...but it slowly becomes obvious that i am barely operational.
with my kids- it is very obvious and easy to reset: nap time. sometimes it might be food. or perhaps the need for a good belly laugh. these things probably would help me to reset too. the trouble is that i don't have anyone who says to me: nancylee, you need a nap now. i might say this to myself but then the louder part of my brain either recites a list of things to do or a list of nice distractions.
maybe it's because as a kid people always told me what i needed. and i went along with it. at first i didn't. i remember being somewhat "crabby" as they called me. and then- well, i guess i gave up. gave up on myself. as a kid you realize your limited power in the world. besides whining- what can we do?
now when one of my kid starts to show signs of needing a reset- i try to get them to come up with the answer. i give them prompts like "what do you think will help you to feel better?" or "did you drink enough water today?"
and other times i pull rank and state clearly "it is time to nap." more often than not this is met with a big grin fro my 2 year old. he loves nap time.
for me- in order to reset- i have to shut down through complete body exhaustion. i have to wear down my mind until it has no choice but to surrender to my body's whims. like when i was in labor. eventually my mind realized i could not think myself out of the pain and just floated away so my body could take over. but labor as a reset option is complicated, to say the least.
i think for me, and maybe for many other folks, we have to have some kind of resetting in our routines because we don't recognize the signs as we live our daily life. we can hold off on the tantrum when we see the property tax bill if we know that some day soon we are going to yoga or to church or fish or to a bar.
pick your poison. we usually do. it's true that as adults we seem to gravitate towards the reset buttons that aren't so good for us. or at least, i sometimes do this. perhaps this is a sign of waiting too long to reset. the weekly walk on the beach works nicely but it you go for months without it maybe it then turns into a bottle of gin.
the new year is when we reset the calendars and taxes and our resolve to live better, different, more fully. to me- i simply need to have a reset routine that i can stick to.
with a tantrum clause if need be.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
wrapping
i remember when my dad taught me to wrap a present. being an engineer, his focus was on using a correct amount of paper, creating tight corners, and appropriate use of tape. it was like learning the secret to a magic trick. the way a plain package became cloaked in mystery. like dressing up dolls but with more math skills.
i've had my deep moments of wrapping-love. folding the edges before applying the tape- horizontally, of course. aligning the pattern so that the seam is invisible amidst the flowers or frogs or reindeer. ribbons coiled about the box and then -zipppp! viola!- they are curly. like the hair i always wanted.
i've experimented with ways to wrap with less paper, using fabric or making my own wrapping paper out of newsprint rolls left over from the herald or from sunday comics themselves. i've used brown paper bags from grocery stores and old buttons.
and i enjoyed it all.
this year, seren decided to wrap a book for his brother. this was a book he picked from a shelf in his room. a book, seren does not particularly like but maybe he thought the 2 year old would. i saw it as a good thing.
he asked if he could wrap it and i spied him on the floor with scissors and tape near by. his wrapping method is like making a burrito. you get the biggest tortilla you can find, pile the stuff in the middle, fold all points around the center and secure as best you can. in this case- he would often end up with about three times as much paper as he needed. and about 4 times as much tape as needed. and a finished package that in no way resembled the original item- the corners distorted with layers of shiny red paper.
he proudly presented the wrap present for my approval.
"wow."
his brown eyes shined with pride.
"did you enjoy wrapping that?" i asked in my best impersonation of a loving, supportive mom who isn't overly focused on wrapping things correctly- the way her mechanical engineering father taught her.
"yeah! i'm the best wrapper!" he crooned as he put the present under the tree.
he wrapped several more gifts like this. i freely gave over gifts for him to wrap. i looked for things he could wrap.
each time he cut too-big pieces and rip off strips of tape long enough to disable all eight reindeer. and i held my tongue.
i was so proud.
of me.
of how i was holding my tongue and resisting the persistent urge to teach him how to do it my way. the way that gives crisp edges and swirly bows. how i was sacrificing for my child's needs. see, how well i was adjusting? see, how easily i gave up my needs for his?
then came the present that was to go to someone outside of the house. the present to travel. the present that had a really great, sturdy box. and all i wanted to do was decrease the amount of paper he used by about 14%. i made the smallest suggestion, followed by a friendly demonstration and "poof" the magic spell was broken.
he got that look. the look of "can't you just leave me alone to enjoy this small task? this task that ultimately does not really matter all-that-much because people just rip off the paper anyway!"
ok, maybe it was just a look of disappointment. actually- it was more a look of irritation. the look of "go away, mother."
so- i did. i said casually, "yeah, your doing great. i just thought i'd show you how i used to wrap presents. but you don't seem to need my help," as i slid into the kitchen to drown my shame in eggnog.
i peeked back in to see him working on the next present- his eyes focus on his task. not at all thinking about doing it "right"- just doing it his way.
i've had my deep moments of wrapping-love. folding the edges before applying the tape- horizontally, of course. aligning the pattern so that the seam is invisible amidst the flowers or frogs or reindeer. ribbons coiled about the box and then -zipppp! viola!- they are curly. like the hair i always wanted.
i've experimented with ways to wrap with less paper, using fabric or making my own wrapping paper out of newsprint rolls left over from the herald or from sunday comics themselves. i've used brown paper bags from grocery stores and old buttons.
and i enjoyed it all.
this year, seren decided to wrap a book for his brother. this was a book he picked from a shelf in his room. a book, seren does not particularly like but maybe he thought the 2 year old would. i saw it as a good thing.
he asked if he could wrap it and i spied him on the floor with scissors and tape near by. his wrapping method is like making a burrito. you get the biggest tortilla you can find, pile the stuff in the middle, fold all points around the center and secure as best you can. in this case- he would often end up with about three times as much paper as he needed. and about 4 times as much tape as needed. and a finished package that in no way resembled the original item- the corners distorted with layers of shiny red paper.
he proudly presented the wrap present for my approval.
"wow."
his brown eyes shined with pride.
"did you enjoy wrapping that?" i asked in my best impersonation of a loving, supportive mom who isn't overly focused on wrapping things correctly- the way her mechanical engineering father taught her.
"yeah! i'm the best wrapper!" he crooned as he put the present under the tree.
he wrapped several more gifts like this. i freely gave over gifts for him to wrap. i looked for things he could wrap.
each time he cut too-big pieces and rip off strips of tape long enough to disable all eight reindeer. and i held my tongue.
i was so proud.
of me.
of how i was holding my tongue and resisting the persistent urge to teach him how to do it my way. the way that gives crisp edges and swirly bows. how i was sacrificing for my child's needs. see, how well i was adjusting? see, how easily i gave up my needs for his?
then came the present that was to go to someone outside of the house. the present to travel. the present that had a really great, sturdy box. and all i wanted to do was decrease the amount of paper he used by about 14%. i made the smallest suggestion, followed by a friendly demonstration and "poof" the magic spell was broken.
he got that look. the look of "can't you just leave me alone to enjoy this small task? this task that ultimately does not really matter all-that-much because people just rip off the paper anyway!"
ok, maybe it was just a look of disappointment. actually- it was more a look of irritation. the look of "go away, mother."
so- i did. i said casually, "yeah, your doing great. i just thought i'd show you how i used to wrap presents. but you don't seem to need my help," as i slid into the kitchen to drown my shame in eggnog.
i peeked back in to see him working on the next present- his eyes focus on his task. not at all thinking about doing it "right"- just doing it his way.
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