Someone who learned about my blog anew yesterday asked me who I give gold stars to, and why.
"For good deeds?" she suggested.
"No," I said, "just in moments when I see that people are trying."
I thought more about it, though, after she walked away. I mean, I think everyone is trying in one way or another and, yet, I don't give out stars to everyone. Why not? What stops me from pulling out the stars for every Jack, Jim and Josephine that looks like they might need one? Aside from the fact that I think handing them out en masse weakens their affect, I also realized that my reasoning for remembering to pull out a star in conversations with certain people is often entirely selfish, simply about what I received from the exchange.
Thinking back on the stars I remember giving most, the bulk of them have been awarded in moments when someone makes me laugh. If I get a good guffaw from what someone says, really throw back my head and give it the full expressional brunt of my amusement, I will almost always think to reach for a gold star. I love to laugh, can't laugh often enough. I am so grateful when someone helps me get there. A gold star is their reward.
Digging deeper, though, I have to stop to think about why I laugh when someone says something. Seeing my children begin to be extremely funny and understand even subtle humor, I realize it is not an easy thing to understand, it is complicated, nonsensical even much of the time. But, as my husband often says after he laughs about something, quoting Homer Simpson, "it's funny 'cause it's true!"
I guess if I were to have to pick the reason I laugh the most, it's because someone says something that rings so true, that I've thought about a million times but never managed to put into words or been brave enough to say out loud, honestly and with conviction. Take an exchange I had with a friend the other day. We were sitting, having coffee, chatting about what was new, including his wife. She is, not unlike myself or any of the women I know, always in search of what she can do to try to feel better, about her job, about her self, and yes, about her marriage. He looked tired about the eyes as he talked about her efforts, pushing out his lips and shaking his head in mock defeat.
"Look," he said, somewhat angrily, "we men worry about shit too, but we just don't talk about it all the time!"
"Why not?" I asked."Maybe that's the problem...maybe you need to express yourself more, maybe that would make her feel better," I suggested.
"Oh, sure," he said, fully animated now, gesturing wildly, with slight maliciousness but a smile, "I'm going to open my mouth? Why would I do that? I just know, then, that the second half of the conversation is going to turn completely toward what I have done wrong, why it's all my fault!"
I burst out, causing a stir at the booths around us, head straight back. It was funny because it was so, so true. My husband, once a highly talkative man, has become mute often in the face of my wrath, knowing that a single false word could trigger me toward what he could have done differently, what he did or didn't do. What's worse, though, is that I make him talk, force him against his will to engage because, much as I have been accused of monologuing, I actually don't like one-way conversations when I'm trying to communicate with other people. So then he contributes something and it's nearly always wrong, not what I would have him say at all. I realize all this and yet...and yet...Sad. I don't know why women do this, why men put up with it. In our defense though, ladies, we often have valid points, I'm just not sure we do ourselves any great service by making them all the time. Constant criticism of husbands, as with children, can only serve to make a bad situation worse.
A little kindness and understanding keeps the lines of communication open. The reverse is also true. A friend of mine at the gym is always, always complaining about his wife. He does a stand-up routine in which he paints her as the pathetic housewife: She doesn't work, she doesn't cook, she doesn't clean, she doesn't even share his bed. She's useless, he says. In this case, it's not so funny, 'cause it's true.
Why stay married I often ask? Not that it's any of my business, but he seeks me out to tell me about it, so I figure I have the right to ask.
"For the kid," he says.
"Right, I'm sure you guys hating each other is really good for the kid," I said.
"Well, what am I supposed to do, go to the poor house? It's a financial decision..."
I shook my head. Something's gotta give, I thought. And, then, it occurred to me.
"Come with me," I said, gesturing to him to follow me as I walked over to the cubby to get my bag. I pulled out two of the biggest gold stars in the pack, slapping one on him and giving him another, for his wife.
"Give this to her, please," I said.
He scoffed. "What has she done? She doesn't deserve this, she's useless," he said.
"And she will continue to be if you keep calling her useless. The two of you need to get it together, stop being so mean to each other! I am not going to talk to you again unless you tell me you gave it to her, and with grace!" I said, walking away. "I know you can do it."
I'm not so delusional as to think a gold star could solve a tough marital situation in and of itself, but it might be a step toward showing faith in efforts expended, a step toward reinstating hope. I'll keep my fingers crossed, and I'll keep giving out gold stars, just in case they could help.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Explaining Orgasm
My doctor got a gold star this week. Not just because it was long overdue, because I attribute my first son's life to her confident prediction, a seeming prescription, that I would get pregnant in the fall of 2001 no problem. But, also, because she is trying, hard, to be open with her own kids.
I went to her Midtown mid-rise about the strain in my voice, but came away, as usual, with more than just medical advice. She seems, in the cumulative hour max I've probably spent with her in my life, a calm and non-judgmental sort, just the kind of person, ahead of me in years and experience, that I like to poll on some of the bigger of my life questions.
She asked how old my kids were and I asked about hers. She has two girls who are now, she offered, with surprise in her voice, already 12 and 13.
"Wow," I said, and then hit her with the first thing that popped in my head when I think of parenting adolescents. "Do you talk openly with them about things?"
A look crossed her face. I had obviously struck a nerve. She shook her head in frustration as she felt my glands, looked down my throat.
"You know, I try, but they don't want to hear it from me, it's embarrassing for them," she said. "Even when we're watching Gilmore Girls together, which we do 'cause all of us like it, they'll be upset that I talk about someone kissing."
I nodded. I know. My kids are the same. "They don't really want to think about their parents as people," I said.
"Right, especially people who have sex," she said and we laughed.
I told her that my 8-year-old was very inquisitive, asked a lot of very detailed questions about sex, ones that I sometimes found it hard to answer, like when he said, "OK, I get it that semen carries the sperm into the woman's vagina to get together with the egg, but how, exactly does the semen come out of the penis???"
That one had been a stumper, I said, "'cause I'm not sure he's ready, or I'm ready, to talk about orgasms."
She had stopped examining me at this point to focus straight on these non-medical concerns of mine and, it turns out, hers.
"Oh," she said, "I have this great book for kids on orgasms, that talks, really, about what it's like, explains the sort of contractions the body makes...it's great."
"How did your kids take it?" I asked.
Sheepishly, she acknowledged, truthfully, "I never gave it to them. It's sitting on my bookshelf."
I laughed,"So you read it?"
"Pretty much," she said, putting her stethoscope back in her ears, back to business, "I guess I have to try harder..."
I gave her a star for her efforts on my behalf and on behalf of her kids and gave her my card to check out the blog. She took it happily, like a prescription.
"Maybe it will help me..." she said hopefully. I would love to think I could return the favor.
I continued my polling on the subject of talking openly, talking about orgasm, with a friend I likewise respect and trust, a woman with bold, beautiful white-girl dreadlocks she pulls off gracefully. I am so jealous.
As I repeated the story about my doctor and the book, how hard it is to talk about orgasm, she interrupted me to tell me what she told her own nearly-8-year-old son.
"I told him 'it's like the biggest, wildest sneeze,'" she said, demonstrating how, in fact, she had physically shown him the gyrations of such a "sneeze." I cracked up.
"That's awesome!" I said. But she wasn't finished.
"And, then, I told him, 'it's followed by a stream of warm Coca-Cola...' and he said, 'Ummmm...' " She closed her eyes to show how the description alone had made him feel yummy, made him understand how such a thing might feel good. Or maybe he was just imagining Coca-Cola and liked it, but, either way, the link to orgasm was positive, as it should be.
"Then," I laughed, "he locked himself in the bathroom for three days and...No,not really,not yet. But soon." Scary.
I was reminded by her story of what my own mother said to me about childbirth, how she explained it in a way I could understand. She always said it was like "taking the longest, hardest bowel moment of your life." Nice. Certainly visceral. Two kids later, I wouldn't wholly disagree. And it had made me feel better then and through the years as I got closer to having children to relate something so strange and scary to a just slightly more intense version of something I did regularly, if I was lucky. Gold star for you, Mom.
Talking about this stuff is incredibly hard. We are so puritanical ourselves, so ashamed of even the most natural of acts, that even handing off a book can be hard. But the alternative, I always think, is so much worse. I hate to think of my kids learning about really important things from other clueless kids at school. The ones who act like they know, who "teach" all the other kids things are usually, it seems, the ones who go off half-cocked, no pun intended.
I was reminded by these conversations to beseech my own children at breakfast yesterday, as they ate their waffles and cereal and fruit with no thoughts, I imagine, of orgasm, "You know you can ask me anything, right?"
As usual, I got a great round, in unison, of "Whatever, Mom!" It is the favorite response to whenever I have crossed the line beyond where their little brains want to go. I do think they know, though. I've told them often enough, like a mantra. But whether they'll do it or not at the important moments is another question. I better be paying attention, close attention. Just in case they forget to ask, I better be ready to tell. Yikes. Anybody have a gold star?
I went to her Midtown mid-rise about the strain in my voice, but came away, as usual, with more than just medical advice. She seems, in the cumulative hour max I've probably spent with her in my life, a calm and non-judgmental sort, just the kind of person, ahead of me in years and experience, that I like to poll on some of the bigger of my life questions.
She asked how old my kids were and I asked about hers. She has two girls who are now, she offered, with surprise in her voice, already 12 and 13.
"Wow," I said, and then hit her with the first thing that popped in my head when I think of parenting adolescents. "Do you talk openly with them about things?"
A look crossed her face. I had obviously struck a nerve. She shook her head in frustration as she felt my glands, looked down my throat.
"You know, I try, but they don't want to hear it from me, it's embarrassing for them," she said. "Even when we're watching Gilmore Girls together, which we do 'cause all of us like it, they'll be upset that I talk about someone kissing."
I nodded. I know. My kids are the same. "They don't really want to think about their parents as people," I said.
"Right, especially people who have sex," she said and we laughed.
I told her that my 8-year-old was very inquisitive, asked a lot of very detailed questions about sex, ones that I sometimes found it hard to answer, like when he said, "OK, I get it that semen carries the sperm into the woman's vagina to get together with the egg, but how, exactly does the semen come out of the penis???"
That one had been a stumper, I said, "'cause I'm not sure he's ready, or I'm ready, to talk about orgasms."
She had stopped examining me at this point to focus straight on these non-medical concerns of mine and, it turns out, hers.
"Oh," she said, "I have this great book for kids on orgasms, that talks, really, about what it's like, explains the sort of contractions the body makes...it's great."
"How did your kids take it?" I asked.
Sheepishly, she acknowledged, truthfully, "I never gave it to them. It's sitting on my bookshelf."
I laughed,"So you read it?"
"Pretty much," she said, putting her stethoscope back in her ears, back to business, "I guess I have to try harder..."
I gave her a star for her efforts on my behalf and on behalf of her kids and gave her my card to check out the blog. She took it happily, like a prescription.
"Maybe it will help me..." she said hopefully. I would love to think I could return the favor.
I continued my polling on the subject of talking openly, talking about orgasm, with a friend I likewise respect and trust, a woman with bold, beautiful white-girl dreadlocks she pulls off gracefully. I am so jealous.
As I repeated the story about my doctor and the book, how hard it is to talk about orgasm, she interrupted me to tell me what she told her own nearly-8-year-old son.
"I told him 'it's like the biggest, wildest sneeze,'" she said, demonstrating how, in fact, she had physically shown him the gyrations of such a "sneeze." I cracked up.
"That's awesome!" I said. But she wasn't finished.
"And, then, I told him, 'it's followed by a stream of warm Coca-Cola...' and he said, 'Ummmm...' " She closed her eyes to show how the description alone had made him feel yummy, made him understand how such a thing might feel good. Or maybe he was just imagining Coca-Cola and liked it, but, either way, the link to orgasm was positive, as it should be.
"Then," I laughed, "he locked himself in the bathroom for three days and...No,not really,not yet. But soon." Scary.
I was reminded by her story of what my own mother said to me about childbirth, how she explained it in a way I could understand. She always said it was like "taking the longest, hardest bowel moment of your life." Nice. Certainly visceral. Two kids later, I wouldn't wholly disagree. And it had made me feel better then and through the years as I got closer to having children to relate something so strange and scary to a just slightly more intense version of something I did regularly, if I was lucky. Gold star for you, Mom.
Talking about this stuff is incredibly hard. We are so puritanical ourselves, so ashamed of even the most natural of acts, that even handing off a book can be hard. But the alternative, I always think, is so much worse. I hate to think of my kids learning about really important things from other clueless kids at school. The ones who act like they know, who "teach" all the other kids things are usually, it seems, the ones who go off half-cocked, no pun intended.
I was reminded by these conversations to beseech my own children at breakfast yesterday, as they ate their waffles and cereal and fruit with no thoughts, I imagine, of orgasm, "You know you can ask me anything, right?"
As usual, I got a great round, in unison, of "Whatever, Mom!" It is the favorite response to whenever I have crossed the line beyond where their little brains want to go. I do think they know, though. I've told them often enough, like a mantra. But whether they'll do it or not at the important moments is another question. I better be paying attention, close attention. Just in case they forget to ask, I better be ready to tell. Yikes. Anybody have a gold star?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Optical Delusion
A good friend looked at me in surprise recently after I told a story, and shook her head.
"You're delusional..." she said, as if it had just occurred to her, as if in the last few years since I've known her, she might have thought otherwise.
I laughed. "Of course I am," I said. "You didn't know that?"
Delusion has been on my mind since then, what it means, if I'm more or less delusional than most, if it's a problem. Reality is subjective, isn't it? Even a video camera or a tape recorder can only account for what is said and done, not what is thought. That thought recorder I want isn't on the market, not yet. And we all come at things from our own self, don't we? 'Selfish' and 'self-centered' have become pejorative terms, but that strikes me as strange since, of course, by our very nature we have ourselves to worry about most. To want what we want regardless of others' realities is, I suppose, always a delusion.
The idea of my delusion and selfishness haunts me most on Yom Kippur, the holiest most neurotic day of the year for Jews who opt in to the Day of Atonement. We are told to ask for forgiveness from others, to forgive, but as I sit in temple, wracking and sorting, I can never figure who is to blame in any of the situations I think to conjure. I can always both defend my actions and see the other side, I just can't figure out who is right. Then, I realize, right is different for everybody, and we should all just be able to say, "I'm sorry for having hurt you, I didn't mean to," and move on.
But it's not that easy. With husbands, children, family and friends, we most often say things or act based on who we are, and someone else's condemnation or disagreement makes us feel bad about who we are. Easier, then, to be angry at them rather than yourself, 'cause you can always get rid of them, not so easy to get rid of yourself. Even drinking or drugs don't do the trick as it turns out.
As she always does so beautifully, the rabbi provoked thought on how to think about this subject just before setting us to meditate on our transgressions. She invoked Albert Einstein, arguably one of the smartest Jews ever, a guy who, if living, would definitely get a stream of gold stars. Mr. Einstein, it turns out, explained my delusion, even made it universal. This is what he said:
A human being is a part of the whole, called by us, "Universe," a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest -- a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.
This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.
Nice. True. Hard. As I sat, crushed in a pew between other delusional prisoners trying to pray to a better path, it made so much sense. Of course we need to get outside ourselves as the center of the universe and embrace others. But how do we know what others want, what they think, when they so often stay silent, or speak without really communicating, when they don't tell us until it's too late? As a long-time journalist and as an inquisitive person, I know to ask questions, but still, often, even if I remember to step outside myself and ask, I know I'm not getting the true answer. I resort, then, without a true perspective of the other, to come from my own perspective, a strategy that so often gets me into trouble. There seems no winning.
A psychiatrist I saw for a bit in a crisis looked at me with sad, sympathetic eyes one day as I got up to leave. I can't remember what particular comment of mine prompted it, but she said to me, hand to her chin in proper psychiatric stance, "Do you think everyone thinks like you do?"
I laughed and thought about it for a minute before answering. "You know, I guess I do. I just think sometimes they don't admit it," I said.
I never got her exact thoughts on my response. She probably thought, like my friend does, that I am delusional, that I am self-centered. But isn't that kind of what you have to think to be a writer, to imagine anyone might relate to your words? Aren't there universal truths?
We are told to "do unto others as you would have done unto you..." but I've said for years, usually after an intractable argument with someone I care about, that that's not what people want. The saying should go, "Do unto others as they would have themselves done unto." But how the hell do you know? Optical delusion seems, sometimes, the only way, a prison to which we are permanently bound.
Take a friend whose seemingly great relationship broke up recently. He sat in my kitchen and shook his head about the break-up, confused. "I mean, how do you stay with someone who just cries all the time?"
"Well, why was she crying?" I asked.
"I don't know, she wouldn't tell me. She expected me to know, and to know how to fix it."
I sighed. Sad. We all want to find that special someone with the crystal ball instead of searching inside our own consciousness. Seems so much easier, right?
Well, another Day of Atonement done, another fast begun and broken and I seem no closer to an answer, just filled with more questions, ones I will spend the coming year thinking about but not having figured so I'll have a new set of situations to atone for next year. I'll try to do better. I guess that's all I can do.
I was reminded at day's end, cleaning up from the dream buffet of foods I'd shared with good friends, of running into a woman who I think sometimes reads this blog, in the morning, on my way to temple. We said hearty hellos but didn't slow down as we neared one another.
"Are you having a good day?" I asked hopefully as I passed.
Behind me already, moving forward into it, she answered: "Trying..."
I laughed. "That's good," I said, "that's all you can do."
I'm not sure if she said it because she wanted a gold star or because, more likely, it was just true. Either way, though, she'll get a gold star, a big one.
"You're delusional..." she said, as if it had just occurred to her, as if in the last few years since I've known her, she might have thought otherwise.
I laughed. "Of course I am," I said. "You didn't know that?"
Delusion has been on my mind since then, what it means, if I'm more or less delusional than most, if it's a problem. Reality is subjective, isn't it? Even a video camera or a tape recorder can only account for what is said and done, not what is thought. That thought recorder I want isn't on the market, not yet. And we all come at things from our own self, don't we? 'Selfish' and 'self-centered' have become pejorative terms, but that strikes me as strange since, of course, by our very nature we have ourselves to worry about most. To want what we want regardless of others' realities is, I suppose, always a delusion.
The idea of my delusion and selfishness haunts me most on Yom Kippur, the holiest most neurotic day of the year for Jews who opt in to the Day of Atonement. We are told to ask for forgiveness from others, to forgive, but as I sit in temple, wracking and sorting, I can never figure who is to blame in any of the situations I think to conjure. I can always both defend my actions and see the other side, I just can't figure out who is right. Then, I realize, right is different for everybody, and we should all just be able to say, "I'm sorry for having hurt you, I didn't mean to," and move on.
But it's not that easy. With husbands, children, family and friends, we most often say things or act based on who we are, and someone else's condemnation or disagreement makes us feel bad about who we are. Easier, then, to be angry at them rather than yourself, 'cause you can always get rid of them, not so easy to get rid of yourself. Even drinking or drugs don't do the trick as it turns out.
As she always does so beautifully, the rabbi provoked thought on how to think about this subject just before setting us to meditate on our transgressions. She invoked Albert Einstein, arguably one of the smartest Jews ever, a guy who, if living, would definitely get a stream of gold stars. Mr. Einstein, it turns out, explained my delusion, even made it universal. This is what he said:
A human being is a part of the whole, called by us, "Universe," a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings, as something separated from the rest -- a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.
This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.
Nice. True. Hard. As I sat, crushed in a pew between other delusional prisoners trying to pray to a better path, it made so much sense. Of course we need to get outside ourselves as the center of the universe and embrace others. But how do we know what others want, what they think, when they so often stay silent, or speak without really communicating, when they don't tell us until it's too late? As a long-time journalist and as an inquisitive person, I know to ask questions, but still, often, even if I remember to step outside myself and ask, I know I'm not getting the true answer. I resort, then, without a true perspective of the other, to come from my own perspective, a strategy that so often gets me into trouble. There seems no winning.
A psychiatrist I saw for a bit in a crisis looked at me with sad, sympathetic eyes one day as I got up to leave. I can't remember what particular comment of mine prompted it, but she said to me, hand to her chin in proper psychiatric stance, "Do you think everyone thinks like you do?"
I laughed and thought about it for a minute before answering. "You know, I guess I do. I just think sometimes they don't admit it," I said.
I never got her exact thoughts on my response. She probably thought, like my friend does, that I am delusional, that I am self-centered. But isn't that kind of what you have to think to be a writer, to imagine anyone might relate to your words? Aren't there universal truths?
We are told to "do unto others as you would have done unto you..." but I've said for years, usually after an intractable argument with someone I care about, that that's not what people want. The saying should go, "Do unto others as they would have themselves done unto." But how the hell do you know? Optical delusion seems, sometimes, the only way, a prison to which we are permanently bound.
Take a friend whose seemingly great relationship broke up recently. He sat in my kitchen and shook his head about the break-up, confused. "I mean, how do you stay with someone who just cries all the time?"
"Well, why was she crying?" I asked.
"I don't know, she wouldn't tell me. She expected me to know, and to know how to fix it."
I sighed. Sad. We all want to find that special someone with the crystal ball instead of searching inside our own consciousness. Seems so much easier, right?
Well, another Day of Atonement done, another fast begun and broken and I seem no closer to an answer, just filled with more questions, ones I will spend the coming year thinking about but not having figured so I'll have a new set of situations to atone for next year. I'll try to do better. I guess that's all I can do.
I was reminded at day's end, cleaning up from the dream buffet of foods I'd shared with good friends, of running into a woman who I think sometimes reads this blog, in the morning, on my way to temple. We said hearty hellos but didn't slow down as we neared one another.
"Are you having a good day?" I asked hopefully as I passed.
Behind me already, moving forward into it, she answered: "Trying..."
I laughed. "That's good," I said, "that's all you can do."
I'm not sure if she said it because she wanted a gold star or because, more likely, it was just true. Either way, though, she'll get a gold star, a big one.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Decisions, decisions...
Fall is upon us and, with it, the inevitable forced return of routine. In Park Slope, it seems, this year more than most, the return from Montauk, Maine, Fire Island or far-flung European destinations means block parties. Big ones, scattered among many closed-off streets, complete, of course, with bouncy castles.
At yesterday's 10th St. block party, to which we'd been invited by a friend, my children played happily, far too long, in an uncrowded bouncy castle. We left them to their nausea-inducing play, feeling nauseous ourselves even watching, and meandered through stoop sales, shopping through other people's junk to, hopefully, find some joy. I almost bought a hat.
"I need a new hat," I said as I placed the taupe-colored cap on my head.
The girl selling it looked at me as if I was a bit dim-witted. "It's not new..." she said.
"Well, it would be new to me, different than the one I wore last year," I said.
"That's true," she said. She offered, in lieu of a mirror, to take a picture of me wearing the hat with her phone, but luckily her phone proved mirror enough. I was in no mood for pictures. I was dressed wrong for the cool day, as for summer, having thought it was warmer than it was. I needed to get in my Fall style groove, but I was fighting against it, not ready. This hat was not going to help, even at the low price of $5. I decided against it.
I'm trying to be better about deciding no on things instead of just buying them and wondering, later, if I'll wear them. I have a closet full of things I've worn once or twice just out of obligation, because I spent the money. But I'm conflicted. Sometimes I want just a few options, but, probably more often, I like to have more to choose from.
I found my friend's stoop sale and saw what looked like a box of young adult books on her table. I was confused. She has two young children, the oldest in kindergarten.
She misunderstood my confusion. "Oh, I know, you think I shouldn't be selling them..." she said.
"No,I'm wondering why you have them?!" I said.
"Oh, they're not recent, these are mine, from my parents' garage."
All of a sudden I was interested. I had always wanted my parents to have saved my books. It's hard to remember, sometimes, the titles that had great impact on your thinking unless you see them again. A lot, like Judy Blume or Beverly Cleary, have stood the test of time but others, like her boxed-set of Paddington Bear books or Benji, the novelized version of one of my favorite-ever movies, have not. I snapped them up before she could change her mind. I felt guilty as slips of paper with to-do lists from a time where wall-to-wall carpeting and wallpaper were de rigeur and yellowed tissues fell out of the books and, with them, memories. I could tell she was conflicted.
"They even smell like my parents' basement," she said. Really, they smelled like anyone's musty old basement, to me, but who was I to judge? They were her memories.
As I stood, still rifling through the books, trying to sell my kids on reading ones I loved but knowing it was going to be difficult when they couldn't see the cartoon version on Nickelodeon, my friend introduced me to a woman, to the mother of the little girl who had just gone inside to "marry" her own daughter.
"She used to live next door, but she abandoned us, moved to Rye," my friend said. There was an awkward silence, as there always is when a defector returns. It is hard to know what to say not to put people on both sides of the situation on the defensive. If she's happy, we're all idiots here, stuffing ourselves like sardines into our little spaces. If she's not happy, she's the idiot, sitting, bored and lonely in her big space. But, of course, none of us are idiots. We are just making different choices.
With little segue, she began her defense. "It's just so different in the suburbs, we're not adjusted yet, it's hard to know."
I just smiled sympathetically. "I always say that if you have the gnawing desire to do something, then you have to give it a try, otherwise you'll always wonder, regret it."
She nodded. "We had just talked about doing it for so long..." she said. Obviously, the jury was still out. She looked around a bit longingly at the city scene around her, at her daughter jumping happily in marital bliss with her old best friend. "People keep asking me if I like it, if it was the right thing to do. I don't know."
I laughed. "People always ask, as if anybody else can decide for them, as if anybody has The Answer. Like if you were happy or not it would mean anything about what they should do," I said. "It's like a friend I have who's divorced, and all the moms come up to her, quietly, and ask her if she's glad she did it, if they should do it, if they'd be happier. She's become the poster child for divorce, as if every situation is the same."
She smiled. "I guess the key is to just be happy with what you have," she said, somewhat resignedly.
"I guess," I said, "except you still have to decide first on what to have..."
As we gathered our shaken-up kids from the bouncy castle and waved goodbye, I felt bad. I wished I had my gold stars on me.
"It's so hard to decide," I said to Geordie as we walked down the middle of the street.
"What?" he said, panicking. "It's not hard...I don't want to move to the suburbs!"
"No," I said, "that's not a hard decision for us, but it is for so many people. It's hard to be so conflicted...about anything."
I was reminded in this moment of the sage advice of my son's first pediatrician, Dr. Michael Yaker, who I have likely quoted on this blog before.
"Look," he had said, staring at me kindly, sympathetically, helping me sort through the scary amount of advice I'd been given in the first hours of motherhood. "You're going to do it your way, and that's going to be the right way, for you."
I went into the woods of Prospect Park the other day, mere steps but seemingly 100 miles from civilization, to think, to write, to get to my own way. Unlike the boy scout camp up on Mt. Lemon, high above the heat of Tucson, where I used to sit under the tall trees this time of year and contemplate, between High Holiday services, there were torn condom wrappers, broken glass and a mean, hissing squirrel who obviously felt I should get off his turf. New Yorkers can be so territorial. But yet, still, now like then it is important to take that time, to escape the way everybody else is doing things and just figure my own way into this year's routines.
At yesterday's 10th St. block party, to which we'd been invited by a friend, my children played happily, far too long, in an uncrowded bouncy castle. We left them to their nausea-inducing play, feeling nauseous ourselves even watching, and meandered through stoop sales, shopping through other people's junk to, hopefully, find some joy. I almost bought a hat.
"I need a new hat," I said as I placed the taupe-colored cap on my head.
The girl selling it looked at me as if I was a bit dim-witted. "It's not new..." she said.
"Well, it would be new to me, different than the one I wore last year," I said.
"That's true," she said. She offered, in lieu of a mirror, to take a picture of me wearing the hat with her phone, but luckily her phone proved mirror enough. I was in no mood for pictures. I was dressed wrong for the cool day, as for summer, having thought it was warmer than it was. I needed to get in my Fall style groove, but I was fighting against it, not ready. This hat was not going to help, even at the low price of $5. I decided against it.
I'm trying to be better about deciding no on things instead of just buying them and wondering, later, if I'll wear them. I have a closet full of things I've worn once or twice just out of obligation, because I spent the money. But I'm conflicted. Sometimes I want just a few options, but, probably more often, I like to have more to choose from.
I found my friend's stoop sale and saw what looked like a box of young adult books on her table. I was confused. She has two young children, the oldest in kindergarten.
She misunderstood my confusion. "Oh, I know, you think I shouldn't be selling them..." she said.
"No,I'm wondering why you have them?!" I said.
"Oh, they're not recent, these are mine, from my parents' garage."
All of a sudden I was interested. I had always wanted my parents to have saved my books. It's hard to remember, sometimes, the titles that had great impact on your thinking unless you see them again. A lot, like Judy Blume or Beverly Cleary, have stood the test of time but others, like her boxed-set of Paddington Bear books or Benji, the novelized version of one of my favorite-ever movies, have not. I snapped them up before she could change her mind. I felt guilty as slips of paper with to-do lists from a time where wall-to-wall carpeting and wallpaper were de rigeur and yellowed tissues fell out of the books and, with them, memories. I could tell she was conflicted.
"They even smell like my parents' basement," she said. Really, they smelled like anyone's musty old basement, to me, but who was I to judge? They were her memories.
As I stood, still rifling through the books, trying to sell my kids on reading ones I loved but knowing it was going to be difficult when they couldn't see the cartoon version on Nickelodeon, my friend introduced me to a woman, to the mother of the little girl who had just gone inside to "marry" her own daughter.
"She used to live next door, but she abandoned us, moved to Rye," my friend said. There was an awkward silence, as there always is when a defector returns. It is hard to know what to say not to put people on both sides of the situation on the defensive. If she's happy, we're all idiots here, stuffing ourselves like sardines into our little spaces. If she's not happy, she's the idiot, sitting, bored and lonely in her big space. But, of course, none of us are idiots. We are just making different choices.
With little segue, she began her defense. "It's just so different in the suburbs, we're not adjusted yet, it's hard to know."
I just smiled sympathetically. "I always say that if you have the gnawing desire to do something, then you have to give it a try, otherwise you'll always wonder, regret it."
She nodded. "We had just talked about doing it for so long..." she said. Obviously, the jury was still out. She looked around a bit longingly at the city scene around her, at her daughter jumping happily in marital bliss with her old best friend. "People keep asking me if I like it, if it was the right thing to do. I don't know."
I laughed. "People always ask, as if anybody else can decide for them, as if anybody has The Answer. Like if you were happy or not it would mean anything about what they should do," I said. "It's like a friend I have who's divorced, and all the moms come up to her, quietly, and ask her if she's glad she did it, if they should do it, if they'd be happier. She's become the poster child for divorce, as if every situation is the same."
She smiled. "I guess the key is to just be happy with what you have," she said, somewhat resignedly.
"I guess," I said, "except you still have to decide first on what to have..."
As we gathered our shaken-up kids from the bouncy castle and waved goodbye, I felt bad. I wished I had my gold stars on me.
"It's so hard to decide," I said to Geordie as we walked down the middle of the street.
"What?" he said, panicking. "It's not hard...I don't want to move to the suburbs!"
"No," I said, "that's not a hard decision for us, but it is for so many people. It's hard to be so conflicted...about anything."
I was reminded in this moment of the sage advice of my son's first pediatrician, Dr. Michael Yaker, who I have likely quoted on this blog before.
"Look," he had said, staring at me kindly, sympathetically, helping me sort through the scary amount of advice I'd been given in the first hours of motherhood. "You're going to do it your way, and that's going to be the right way, for you."
I went into the woods of Prospect Park the other day, mere steps but seemingly 100 miles from civilization, to think, to write, to get to my own way. Unlike the boy scout camp up on Mt. Lemon, high above the heat of Tucson, where I used to sit under the tall trees this time of year and contemplate, between High Holiday services, there were torn condom wrappers, broken glass and a mean, hissing squirrel who obviously felt I should get off his turf. New Yorkers can be so territorial. But yet, still, now like then it is important to take that time, to escape the way everybody else is doing things and just figure my own way into this year's routines.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Trying Relationships
Relationships are trying, in every sense of the word.
I found myself at Marshall's in downtown Brooklyn the other day, unable to resist the lure of its shoe department. It offers the thrill of the hunt like no other place. If you can find your size, or even two shoes that match, you are lucky, finding two shoes that match in your size that you actually want to buy feels like winning the lottery.
As I tried on a pair of fur-lined high-heeled clogs, broken, I discovered sadly, or I would have bought them, I overheard an older mother and her daughter bantering over what one another thought of various styles as they searched. I smiled. They were cute. As commonly happens, for I am not subtle, I was caught eavesdropping.
The mother, I'd place her in her 70s, with a sassy grey bob, turned to me with a smile to say, "We want to be together, but then all we do is fight!"
The two of them giggled, then the daughter piped in, "We're on day six, and we've decided our limit is five!" Her mother, she told me, was in from Florida.
In the midst of the shoe rubble, this seemed a perfect moment to reward efforts expended. I hopped over to my bag on one furry clog and grabbed two of the biggest stars in the pack, handing them over to the ladies, now seated closely together on a little bench. "Well," I said sincerely, "good for you for even trying!"
They sat, matching mouths open wide as they took their stars and, in unison, placed them smack dab in the middle of their shirts. "Oh my God!" the daughter said, "We got gold stars!" They turned to one another and hugged, huge smiles on their faces.
At this point, I wished, as never before, that I was making a documentary, that I could have video-taped this moment.
"I've been giving out these stars for six months and I've seen a lot of great reactions, but you guys win the award," I said. "You're awesome."
I gave them one of my new cards to lead them to my blog and, back in my own shoes but with a new bounce in my step, I moved on, out of the store to do my real errands, to buy a skateboard for my 6-year-old for his birthday. It is amazing to see how hard some people will work on their relationships, laughing through the difficulties of them, putting up with things they don't want to put up with but still doing it. It is so much easier, of course, to let things slide, to just stop trying altogether.
My kids remind me every day that effort is necessary for a relationship to work. Much as I would like it to be, it is rarely smooth sailing and if I pretend there are no waves, we all begin to go under. It never fails: if I check out, my kids begin to notice and retaliate. But keeping checked in is so hard! Sometimes it feels like you are constantly on day six of what should be a five-day stay!
I spoke on the phone yesterday to a woman I met recently at Naidre's, Kathy. When I met her, she had been searching for something that fit her dietary restrictions, but she settled, in the end, for something that wasn't perfect, something that she would enjoy in the moment at least. She is a registered nurse and has a business counseling parents on how to establish peaceful environments at home, one she blogs about at www.parentingpresence.blogspot.com. I'd say her services are well-needed in Park Slope as in every place where kids abound.
She wanted to interview me about my needs as a parent, what I wanted to work on. She had slotted me in for 20 minutes. Ha! Did she have 20 years available? As we talked, I did gain clarity on some things, for example, that I am in constant conflict because the things I love about my children are also the things I loathe. Their physicality, for example. I love that they often snuggle close in one or the other of their single bunks, using one another as a safe harbor, a refuge. But when they seek that same safe harbor through wrestling at pick-up, pouncing on one another and pushing into other people? Not such a fan.
Kathy imbued a bit of science to make me feel better, offering that such physicality is a great way to get rid of stress. Of course, that makes sense. We, as adults, get stress relief, too, from physicality, if we're lucky:) We tend to downplay, sometimes, the need for physical connection, especially in kids, because of our own fears, our own inhibitions. But it is important, she said, and I wholeheartedly agree. The problem, of course, is, like with all things, learning to keep it in check, learning to control oneself in moments where you can't be clawing all over someone just as a stress reliever.
After the conversation, which ran, of course, well past the 20-minute mark, I felt a renewed sense of energy to work on my relationship with my kids and also a deep feeling of dread. I had to really work on my relationship with my kids. It had seemed to be going so well for a time that I had put it on the back burner, focusing on other priorities. But, of course, it's the most important priority. It's the hardest, though, the one on the list that you're least able to check off at the end of any single day.
Last night, as he went to bed, Eli smiled up in his bunk, shutting his library book on Obama.
"It makes me so happy to read about presidents," he said, explaining why before I even asked. "It's really amazing that someone could set such a big goal and actually achieve it! You know, I could be a professional baseball player, if I really try..."
I felt myself tearing up as I leaned in through the slats of his bed for a kiss.
"Yes," I said, "you can do anything you want as long as you try!"
No matter what isn't working in our house, one message, one mantra is definitely shining through loud and clear. Like Obama, I have pushed hard on a single-word stance: Try.
I found myself at Marshall's in downtown Brooklyn the other day, unable to resist the lure of its shoe department. It offers the thrill of the hunt like no other place. If you can find your size, or even two shoes that match, you are lucky, finding two shoes that match in your size that you actually want to buy feels like winning the lottery.
As I tried on a pair of fur-lined high-heeled clogs, broken, I discovered sadly, or I would have bought them, I overheard an older mother and her daughter bantering over what one another thought of various styles as they searched. I smiled. They were cute. As commonly happens, for I am not subtle, I was caught eavesdropping.
The mother, I'd place her in her 70s, with a sassy grey bob, turned to me with a smile to say, "We want to be together, but then all we do is fight!"
The two of them giggled, then the daughter piped in, "We're on day six, and we've decided our limit is five!" Her mother, she told me, was in from Florida.
In the midst of the shoe rubble, this seemed a perfect moment to reward efforts expended. I hopped over to my bag on one furry clog and grabbed two of the biggest stars in the pack, handing them over to the ladies, now seated closely together on a little bench. "Well," I said sincerely, "good for you for even trying!"
They sat, matching mouths open wide as they took their stars and, in unison, placed them smack dab in the middle of their shirts. "Oh my God!" the daughter said, "We got gold stars!" They turned to one another and hugged, huge smiles on their faces.
At this point, I wished, as never before, that I was making a documentary, that I could have video-taped this moment.
"I've been giving out these stars for six months and I've seen a lot of great reactions, but you guys win the award," I said. "You're awesome."
I gave them one of my new cards to lead them to my blog and, back in my own shoes but with a new bounce in my step, I moved on, out of the store to do my real errands, to buy a skateboard for my 6-year-old for his birthday. It is amazing to see how hard some people will work on their relationships, laughing through the difficulties of them, putting up with things they don't want to put up with but still doing it. It is so much easier, of course, to let things slide, to just stop trying altogether.
My kids remind me every day that effort is necessary for a relationship to work. Much as I would like it to be, it is rarely smooth sailing and if I pretend there are no waves, we all begin to go under. It never fails: if I check out, my kids begin to notice and retaliate. But keeping checked in is so hard! Sometimes it feels like you are constantly on day six of what should be a five-day stay!
I spoke on the phone yesterday to a woman I met recently at Naidre's, Kathy. When I met her, she had been searching for something that fit her dietary restrictions, but she settled, in the end, for something that wasn't perfect, something that she would enjoy in the moment at least. She is a registered nurse and has a business counseling parents on how to establish peaceful environments at home, one she blogs about at www.parentingpresence.blogspot.com. I'd say her services are well-needed in Park Slope as in every place where kids abound.
She wanted to interview me about my needs as a parent, what I wanted to work on. She had slotted me in for 20 minutes. Ha! Did she have 20 years available? As we talked, I did gain clarity on some things, for example, that I am in constant conflict because the things I love about my children are also the things I loathe. Their physicality, for example. I love that they often snuggle close in one or the other of their single bunks, using one another as a safe harbor, a refuge. But when they seek that same safe harbor through wrestling at pick-up, pouncing on one another and pushing into other people? Not such a fan.
Kathy imbued a bit of science to make me feel better, offering that such physicality is a great way to get rid of stress. Of course, that makes sense. We, as adults, get stress relief, too, from physicality, if we're lucky:) We tend to downplay, sometimes, the need for physical connection, especially in kids, because of our own fears, our own inhibitions. But it is important, she said, and I wholeheartedly agree. The problem, of course, is, like with all things, learning to keep it in check, learning to control oneself in moments where you can't be clawing all over someone just as a stress reliever.
After the conversation, which ran, of course, well past the 20-minute mark, I felt a renewed sense of energy to work on my relationship with my kids and also a deep feeling of dread. I had to really work on my relationship with my kids. It had seemed to be going so well for a time that I had put it on the back burner, focusing on other priorities. But, of course, it's the most important priority. It's the hardest, though, the one on the list that you're least able to check off at the end of any single day.
Last night, as he went to bed, Eli smiled up in his bunk, shutting his library book on Obama.
"It makes me so happy to read about presidents," he said, explaining why before I even asked. "It's really amazing that someone could set such a big goal and actually achieve it! You know, I could be a professional baseball player, if I really try..."
I felt myself tearing up as I leaned in through the slats of his bed for a kiss.
"Yes," I said, "you can do anything you want as long as you try!"
No matter what isn't working in our house, one message, one mantra is definitely shining through loud and clear. Like Obama, I have pushed hard on a single-word stance: Try.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Reasons Why to Try
I keep thinking about a woman I met at a kids' birthday party the other day, a mom who was threatening to leave because, she said, "I'm a black cloud, ruining everybody else's good time. I'm just in a horrible mood."
I didn't know her, but I can read people, even strangers, well enough to know when they're reaching out.
"You're not bothering me," I said. "Just stay, what are you going to go do instead?"
She guffawed. "Just go home, I guess, and yell at my 13-year-old for not cleaning his room, have him wonder why I'm back, why I'm bothering him."
"Sounds to me like it'd be a better idea to stay here!" I said. She did stay, not even grudgingly, and we got into a conversation about room cleaning, whose job it is, how one can get kids to take responsibility for their own things.
"I just want some small sign that he's even trying," she said, exasperation and defeat showing clearly from her sad eyes down to her sagging shoulders.
I was reminded of this moment today when I went into the bathroom at the Y and saw a woman stop, look at a faucet left running by the last person, and move on, without touching it, without turning it off, into a stall. I stepped out of the stall I'd just stepped into and turned it off. How could I not? How could she not have? As I parent and just as a person, living in the world, I wish there was an easy answer to how to teach the lesson of attentiveness, of taking responsibility for things, of going the extra half-step to do something, even when you don't have to, even when no one is going to make you.
I left the gym and ran into a friend, a fellow parent at my sons' school, who began talking as if she was reading my mind.
"I'm trying to get the school to give homework on the weekend," she said, "because my son won't go beyond what he has to do, won't read on the weekend if he doesn't have to, and I'm worried. I tell him all the time, 'you don't want to be dumb and beautiful.'"
I laughed. Her son, at 9, is a successful model, his sweet innocent face found on the pages of major magazines in ads and fashion spreads my kids come upon excitedly. He is no dummy, either, putting together intricate Lego ships with rapt attention, for hours at a time.
"It's funny," I said. "I was just thinking about this, about what actually makes people learn to try hard. But I don't think it's our desires, our demands that make them learn. I think, somehow, we have to give them their own selfish reasons for doing it."
I imbued some teachings from the Torah. I know, can you believe it? My faith usually rests more in flying insects, but it is the High Holidays after all, and for the first time ever, I was asked, as a member of my extremely open, fabulous temple, to look at a verse from a prayer with my older son and share thoughts on it at services.
The verse was the V'ahavta, which, loosely translated from Hebrew into English, means "And you shall love God..."
The Rabbi, a fabulous and insightful woman whose own gay lifestyle and non-Jewish partner gives her a wider take on things than some other religious leaders might have, asked us to question how we might feel about being demanded to do something that it might seem more appropriate to come to ourselves, to decide on our own. She had offered some thoughts, some teachings she had found, that suggested that by following other verses, such as "love thy neighbor as thyself..." and "love strangers as thyself," we might more naturally come to our own faith in God.
As I discussed this with my son, it occurred to me so clearly: Wow! That is exactly what giving out gold stars does for me! As I think about the efforts of others, neighbors and strangers alike, as I take a moment out of my own internal world to reward them, it gives me faith, faith in myself, faith in others, faith in the universe and, though I don't often imbue the G word, faith in some sort of higher power.
I shared this story with my friend in regard to her situation, in regard to getting her son to try harder.
"So, you don't think my screaming at him all the time will work?" she asked sarcastically when I finished my rant.
"No, probably not," I laughed. "It's hard, though."
She stared intently at me. "So this gold star thing, this is like a new religion?!"
"Absolutely!" I said. "Actually, it's just like all religions are, how they should be, how they begin, as a movement, to make people think."
As I enthused, I began to worry. My new film-producer friend had told me about a whole slew of people stuck in mental asylums in Jerusalem, having come there because they thought they were Jesus. Part of the therapy was to introduce them to one another, "Jesus, meet Jesus," the psychiatrists would say.
The story had hit a little too close to home. A friend and I who hung around a lot, talking and walking, thinking our deep conversations might change the world, used to get into scuffles when one or the other got too high and mighty. "OK, Jesus," one of us would say. "No, you think you're Jesus," the other would most often respond.
For the record, I don't think I'm Jesus, don't desire to be. But I have been wanting to buy a cross lately, just for fashion sake. You never quite know why some things start to look more appealing. Hmmm. WWJD?
I didn't know her, but I can read people, even strangers, well enough to know when they're reaching out.
"You're not bothering me," I said. "Just stay, what are you going to go do instead?"
She guffawed. "Just go home, I guess, and yell at my 13-year-old for not cleaning his room, have him wonder why I'm back, why I'm bothering him."
"Sounds to me like it'd be a better idea to stay here!" I said. She did stay, not even grudgingly, and we got into a conversation about room cleaning, whose job it is, how one can get kids to take responsibility for their own things.
"I just want some small sign that he's even trying," she said, exasperation and defeat showing clearly from her sad eyes down to her sagging shoulders.
I was reminded of this moment today when I went into the bathroom at the Y and saw a woman stop, look at a faucet left running by the last person, and move on, without touching it, without turning it off, into a stall. I stepped out of the stall I'd just stepped into and turned it off. How could I not? How could she not have? As I parent and just as a person, living in the world, I wish there was an easy answer to how to teach the lesson of attentiveness, of taking responsibility for things, of going the extra half-step to do something, even when you don't have to, even when no one is going to make you.
I left the gym and ran into a friend, a fellow parent at my sons' school, who began talking as if she was reading my mind.
"I'm trying to get the school to give homework on the weekend," she said, "because my son won't go beyond what he has to do, won't read on the weekend if he doesn't have to, and I'm worried. I tell him all the time, 'you don't want to be dumb and beautiful.'"
I laughed. Her son, at 9, is a successful model, his sweet innocent face found on the pages of major magazines in ads and fashion spreads my kids come upon excitedly. He is no dummy, either, putting together intricate Lego ships with rapt attention, for hours at a time.
"It's funny," I said. "I was just thinking about this, about what actually makes people learn to try hard. But I don't think it's our desires, our demands that make them learn. I think, somehow, we have to give them their own selfish reasons for doing it."
I imbued some teachings from the Torah. I know, can you believe it? My faith usually rests more in flying insects, but it is the High Holidays after all, and for the first time ever, I was asked, as a member of my extremely open, fabulous temple, to look at a verse from a prayer with my older son and share thoughts on it at services.
The verse was the V'ahavta, which, loosely translated from Hebrew into English, means "And you shall love God..."
The Rabbi, a fabulous and insightful woman whose own gay lifestyle and non-Jewish partner gives her a wider take on things than some other religious leaders might have, asked us to question how we might feel about being demanded to do something that it might seem more appropriate to come to ourselves, to decide on our own. She had offered some thoughts, some teachings she had found, that suggested that by following other verses, such as "love thy neighbor as thyself..." and "love strangers as thyself," we might more naturally come to our own faith in God.
As I discussed this with my son, it occurred to me so clearly: Wow! That is exactly what giving out gold stars does for me! As I think about the efforts of others, neighbors and strangers alike, as I take a moment out of my own internal world to reward them, it gives me faith, faith in myself, faith in others, faith in the universe and, though I don't often imbue the G word, faith in some sort of higher power.
I shared this story with my friend in regard to her situation, in regard to getting her son to try harder.
"So, you don't think my screaming at him all the time will work?" she asked sarcastically when I finished my rant.
"No, probably not," I laughed. "It's hard, though."
She stared intently at me. "So this gold star thing, this is like a new religion?!"
"Absolutely!" I said. "Actually, it's just like all religions are, how they should be, how they begin, as a movement, to make people think."
As I enthused, I began to worry. My new film-producer friend had told me about a whole slew of people stuck in mental asylums in Jerusalem, having come there because they thought they were Jesus. Part of the therapy was to introduce them to one another, "Jesus, meet Jesus," the psychiatrists would say.
The story had hit a little too close to home. A friend and I who hung around a lot, talking and walking, thinking our deep conversations might change the world, used to get into scuffles when one or the other got too high and mighty. "OK, Jesus," one of us would say. "No, you think you're Jesus," the other would most often respond.
For the record, I don't think I'm Jesus, don't desire to be. But I have been wanting to buy a cross lately, just for fashion sake. You never quite know why some things start to look more appealing. Hmmm. WWJD?
On Balance
I dropped my kids at school yesterday, then high-tailed it for a cafe, wasn't sure which one. I have the luxury in my neighborhood of choosing from so many, and the choices just seem to grow every day. I decide between the coffees themselves--levels of bitterness, amount of froth on top, etc.--between atmospheres--chatty or plug in and get your work done--and, of course, between barristas, knowing where and with whom I can banter.
It wasn't an easy choice yesterday, Monday, because I'm never sure on the first day of the week what I'm doing, who I want to be. Do I want to be the chatty, confident gold star-giver? Or do I need to curl up, quiet, in a corner with my At-a-Glance calendar and get things organized? I opted for the latter, helped in my decision by the fact that I had forgotten my gold stars, and walked the relatively far distance, through Detective Mayrose Park, to Southside. It is filled with parents I don't know from another school, with a range of barristas who, even when they offer slight banter, leave me alone. I am not enough of a regular.
My to-do list was long, filled with things to do for my kids, ways to promote and pitch my blog, things to buy, tasks for my writing workshop. It just seemed endless. I set about working on my blog-pitching plan, and, after not long a period, my cell phone rang. It was a friend I hadn't seen in a long time, a woman I love to talk with, who makes me laugh and think and see things in a different light. I had proposed we go on a walk in the park, and she, amazingly, had the time. In a flash, my At-a-Glance was shut, the pitch I was putting together tucked away to finish another time.
I met her with her baby, a sweet, smiling, calm redhead (an oxymoron, I should know, I'm married to one), picked up her dog and headed into Prospect Park. It was an absolutely glorious day and the dragonflies were swirling all around as we walked, confirming I'd made the right decision.
She is a yoga instructor, a former art therapist, a painter, a new mom, a wife, and she is trying always to strike a perfect balance. She totally understood my own problems balancing, figuring out how to keep my creative head in its place, to ensure my ideas kept flowing by doing things like taking walks, taking the time to blow dry my hair and working out but still having the time to do the business-side tasks, to promote my blog. She fully related to how difficult it is to stay true to what you do and also give it mass appeal.
"The best yoga instructors, the really inspirational ones, aren't necessarily the ones with the videos," she said.
"Right, but just because you have a video does it mean you've sold out? Shouldn't you try to reach as many people as possible if you feel you have something to offer?"
We both were quiet, thinking about it. It is the classic artist's dilemma, one we weren't going to solve, even on a mindful meandering through the urban woods.
We came out of the dense brush, the bird sanctuary, back on the far reaches of the lake, behind, it seems, most everything, and we saw, in an open field, a man, high up in the branches of one of the highest trees. We strained our necks to see him.
"What are you doing up there?" I asked. He had a harness, there was another Parks person on the ground, watchful, but still. He was very high up.
"I'm looking for Japanese beatles," he yelled, "and luckily, I haven't found any."
"That's good," I said. "How amazing to be up there, what a gorgeous tree."
"You should see it from up here..." he said, then immediately apologized for what amounted to a kid-like 'ha ha, I get to do this and you don't.' But, hey, better him than me. Much as I would love the vantage point, not sure I'd be climbing to the tippy top of any tree. I'd leave that to the squirrels, and to him.
I had no gold stars, which was a crying shame, but I offered a meak, "Thanks for your efforts on our behalf!"
See, I couldn't take the day off from acknowledging other people, with or without a star. It is in my nature, it is what I do. I am amazed at the heights people will go(pun intended)to do good work. But now that I've made it the closest thing I have to my job, it's hard to segment my time, to know when giving out appreciation is something I should just do for doing it, or if I do it and then use it in my blog.
It is something I have always feared, really loving what I do for a living, really integrating it into my life, because then, I knew, I would make time to do little else. And there is so much else to do, so much on the to-do list, things I want and need to do like spending time with my kids and my husband, having time for extended family and friends, cooking and yes, even cleaning.
Our walk came to an end, we stopped in at the local diner for some lunch, and then I had a mere couple of hours left before pick-up to accomplish something. A friend needed me and I called her but I was clearly distracted, self-centered, and she was miffed, unused to me in work mode. I haven't been there in a while, would rather chat endlessly, but there it was. I wasn't really available. I'm not she understood.
I went to pick up my kids in a funk, angry at my inability to balance, and delivered them to their respective activities. After swimming, waiting for Oscar to appear out of the boys' dressing room, I overheard a mom talking to her young son.
"We're going to eat dinner out, kay? 'Cause mommy didn't get to the grocery store today, she got very involved doing a project, cleaning all the wood in the house very carefully with a special cleanser and a cloth."
"Does it look different, will I notice?" the boy asked.
She pondered that, head to the side for a moment and then answered, "I hope so."
I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm not sure kids totally appreciate these kind of efforts we make, not yet," I said. "Of course, it would be nice if they noticed, since they take up our entire day but..."
She nodded in agreement. "I know. But my husband has allergies, and it was so dusty, it just needed to get done. I actually enjoyed it, and I enjoyed appreciating it in the few minutes I had to sit there before I had to come here."
"Of course," I said, "if it hadn't taken you away from doing everything else you needed to do, it'd be great. I used to love to spend a whole Saturday cleaning, before I had kids. And then sit down with the paper and revel in my work."
I wanted to give her a gold star, she definitely deserved one, but I still had none on me. I told her that I give them out, that she would get one if I had it to give, that she had done a good day's work. She smiled, grateful. Balancing is so very, very hard. I pondered that as I hit the grocery store then hurried home as fast as possible with Oscar on and off his bike with constantly-loosening training wheels to make dinner.
It wasn't an easy choice yesterday, Monday, because I'm never sure on the first day of the week what I'm doing, who I want to be. Do I want to be the chatty, confident gold star-giver? Or do I need to curl up, quiet, in a corner with my At-a-Glance calendar and get things organized? I opted for the latter, helped in my decision by the fact that I had forgotten my gold stars, and walked the relatively far distance, through Detective Mayrose Park, to Southside. It is filled with parents I don't know from another school, with a range of barristas who, even when they offer slight banter, leave me alone. I am not enough of a regular.
My to-do list was long, filled with things to do for my kids, ways to promote and pitch my blog, things to buy, tasks for my writing workshop. It just seemed endless. I set about working on my blog-pitching plan, and, after not long a period, my cell phone rang. It was a friend I hadn't seen in a long time, a woman I love to talk with, who makes me laugh and think and see things in a different light. I had proposed we go on a walk in the park, and she, amazingly, had the time. In a flash, my At-a-Glance was shut, the pitch I was putting together tucked away to finish another time.
I met her with her baby, a sweet, smiling, calm redhead (an oxymoron, I should know, I'm married to one), picked up her dog and headed into Prospect Park. It was an absolutely glorious day and the dragonflies were swirling all around as we walked, confirming I'd made the right decision.
She is a yoga instructor, a former art therapist, a painter, a new mom, a wife, and she is trying always to strike a perfect balance. She totally understood my own problems balancing, figuring out how to keep my creative head in its place, to ensure my ideas kept flowing by doing things like taking walks, taking the time to blow dry my hair and working out but still having the time to do the business-side tasks, to promote my blog. She fully related to how difficult it is to stay true to what you do and also give it mass appeal.
"The best yoga instructors, the really inspirational ones, aren't necessarily the ones with the videos," she said.
"Right, but just because you have a video does it mean you've sold out? Shouldn't you try to reach as many people as possible if you feel you have something to offer?"
We both were quiet, thinking about it. It is the classic artist's dilemma, one we weren't going to solve, even on a mindful meandering through the urban woods.
We came out of the dense brush, the bird sanctuary, back on the far reaches of the lake, behind, it seems, most everything, and we saw, in an open field, a man, high up in the branches of one of the highest trees. We strained our necks to see him.
"What are you doing up there?" I asked. He had a harness, there was another Parks person on the ground, watchful, but still. He was very high up.
"I'm looking for Japanese beatles," he yelled, "and luckily, I haven't found any."
"That's good," I said. "How amazing to be up there, what a gorgeous tree."
"You should see it from up here..." he said, then immediately apologized for what amounted to a kid-like 'ha ha, I get to do this and you don't.' But, hey, better him than me. Much as I would love the vantage point, not sure I'd be climbing to the tippy top of any tree. I'd leave that to the squirrels, and to him.
I had no gold stars, which was a crying shame, but I offered a meak, "Thanks for your efforts on our behalf!"
See, I couldn't take the day off from acknowledging other people, with or without a star. It is in my nature, it is what I do. I am amazed at the heights people will go(pun intended)to do good work. But now that I've made it the closest thing I have to my job, it's hard to segment my time, to know when giving out appreciation is something I should just do for doing it, or if I do it and then use it in my blog.
It is something I have always feared, really loving what I do for a living, really integrating it into my life, because then, I knew, I would make time to do little else. And there is so much else to do, so much on the to-do list, things I want and need to do like spending time with my kids and my husband, having time for extended family and friends, cooking and yes, even cleaning.
Our walk came to an end, we stopped in at the local diner for some lunch, and then I had a mere couple of hours left before pick-up to accomplish something. A friend needed me and I called her but I was clearly distracted, self-centered, and she was miffed, unused to me in work mode. I haven't been there in a while, would rather chat endlessly, but there it was. I wasn't really available. I'm not she understood.
I went to pick up my kids in a funk, angry at my inability to balance, and delivered them to their respective activities. After swimming, waiting for Oscar to appear out of the boys' dressing room, I overheard a mom talking to her young son.
"We're going to eat dinner out, kay? 'Cause mommy didn't get to the grocery store today, she got very involved doing a project, cleaning all the wood in the house very carefully with a special cleanser and a cloth."
"Does it look different, will I notice?" the boy asked.
She pondered that, head to the side for a moment and then answered, "I hope so."
I couldn't help but laugh. "I'm not sure kids totally appreciate these kind of efforts we make, not yet," I said. "Of course, it would be nice if they noticed, since they take up our entire day but..."
She nodded in agreement. "I know. But my husband has allergies, and it was so dusty, it just needed to get done. I actually enjoyed it, and I enjoyed appreciating it in the few minutes I had to sit there before I had to come here."
"Of course," I said, "if it hadn't taken you away from doing everything else you needed to do, it'd be great. I used to love to spend a whole Saturday cleaning, before I had kids. And then sit down with the paper and revel in my work."
I wanted to give her a gold star, she definitely deserved one, but I still had none on me. I told her that I give them out, that she would get one if I had it to give, that she had done a good day's work. She smiled, grateful. Balancing is so very, very hard. I pondered that as I hit the grocery store then hurried home as fast as possible with Oscar on and off his bike with constantly-loosening training wheels to make dinner.
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