Creative Destruction

There is a fine line between encouraging children’s creativity and letting them ruin your life. When their imaginative and explorative minds are fully active- watch out- something is going to get trashed. Children who are not fed on a steady diet of screen time are dynamic mess makers. It is the price paid for turning off the TV/smartphone/tablet/computer/DS/game console; they come out of stasis and commence learning.

I once came upstairs to find my 2 and 4 year old “greasing the piggy”- spreading Eucerin skin cream (the really thick one) like frosting on Bear’s piggy bank. It was all over their clothes and they were having a ball. Being the party killer that I am, I put a stop to it, but I couldn’t be mad. No doubt it was tactily stimulating.

At some point, each one of my children turns a lipstick all the way up and mashes the cap back on. They dump out boxes of neatly ordered items- bandages, cotton swabs, tea bags, but lack the interest and small motor skills to put them back in. They unroll rolls of toilet paper, pull out entire boxes of tissue, gleefully rip out page after page of phone books. (Alas, our youngest never had this thrill as we received our last one before she was of paper ripping age.) They are on a mission of discovery that usually entails moving from order to chaos.

As older children, they body paint themselves with sidewalk chalk or mud. Walls double as canvas, napkin, and Kleenex. Peony petals are stripped from their stems and flung about in a Disney excess of beauty and delight, leaving plants dejected and a near carpet of pink on the grass that quickly turns to something resembling brown snot. They’ll cut a ticker tape parade worth of paper nitnerts before they vote in their first election. They will all end up on my floor.

I was similarly busy as a child. While my parents lived with much child-made chaos, there was one feature that made harmony between childhood and adulthood easier.

My natal home has a two-part backyard. Visible from the house is the lawn, babbling pond, patio, and bonfire pit- all against a DSC_0080backdrop of a 5’ stucco wall and a riotous wisteria. There is only a glimpse of the Neverland that lies beyond- the back back[yard.]

The back back was our realm. We were essentially free to do anything there that didn’t involve shedding our own or each other’s blood, or at least not much of it. We had everything a child’s imagination and ingenuity required. A patch of 10’ bamboo-like grass served as building material for teepees, fishing poles, pit traps, spears, and anything else that required a stick. Queen of Heaven trees grew like weeds and, when we were old enough, we were allowed to cut them down for sturdy lengths of stinky green wood. We had food- apricots, grapes, and apples. A spigot watered our meager garden, filled multiple buckets for countless uses, and slaked the thirst of small throats. We dug a huge hole one summer that morphed from swimming hole to Egyptian tomb, to bear trap, to root cellar. We buried small pets there (previously expired,) marking their graves with haphazard markers that were always conspicuously absent after the next mowing.

We played at farmer, Peter Pan, and weeks worth of “Refugee”- a game of pretend in which we survived in the jungles of Vietnam with our family and pet panda.- like “house” with a touch more drama. We had many adventures. We discovered many things. We made a mess. If it had not been for the shield of that masonry wall, if my parents had had to look at a pit trap from the living room, or the bundles of tall weeds we harvested and tied as sheaves of wheat from the dining room, our activity would have been curtailed. That wall separated our worlds enough that they could let us be creative and imaginative and still have their adult preference for purposeful landscaping and order.

My family was lucky to have that wall there when we moved in. I doubt my parents would have divided their yard by choice, but it proved beneficial. Adults with children in their lives should consider the level of chaos with which they are comfortable and how attached they are to their possessions. Then they ought to set meaningful boundaries they are willing to enforce. If they do not, children will naturally expand to fit the space allowed, just like grown ups.

Of course, this is all highly individual. I know families who live by the Montessori mantra, “Everything in its place and a place for

Montessori- take me away!

everything.” I am in awe of those parents. I know families who are comfortable letting their children have the whole house and don’t mind the mess. Every room is full of children’s detritus- books, art, toys, games, etc.  Other families have rooms that are off limits to children, lest small feet mar the uniform nap of the carpet, or leave other evidence of their being lying around. My aunt, who had 3 boys and was married to a 4th, had a room that was just hers- full of girly projects and things she didn’t want broken. If you possessed a penis, you were barred.

Based on households I know, I consider my chaos tolerance as middling. Art and drinks stay at the table (That is the rule, but I have found a glass of milk turning to yogurt in a closet.) Playing with water happens outdoors or in the bathtub. Toys are not allowed on stairs; that is just dangerous. There are two rooms where children are not permitted to play- the kitchen- because I am always there and don’t want to trip on Legos, and my bedroom.

The parental bedroom is adult space. Period. Hot Swede and I are quite capable of trashing it ourselves and require no youthful assistance. After a whole day with children, I want one place where I can go and not have to step over plastic food or ruin a foot on a die cast car.  Other than that, they are free to roam. Of course, I am also a terrible troll and make them pick up their messes… when I have the energy.

Some parents feel guilty if they limit or carve out specific spaces or ways for children to play. Hot Swede and I are not among them. We

hmm, maybe a bunker?

hmm, maybe a bunker?

love our children and pay a financial and career-stifling price so I can devote these few years to caretaking this family. But, this is our life too, not just theirs. We live here as well. Heck, we own the place. Hot Swede pays for every material thing about our home with days of his life. I don’t want our children to squander that. I protect pockets of order and set rules about our home to retain a grip on my tenuous sanity and decrease the sense of fruitless effort that comes with keeping a house where children live.

Children need space and permission to make messes and do their learning.  Adults need the order and predictability that children unravel. It is about finding balance- a shifting equation of adult and child needs, unique to each set of people and circumstances, each finding her space and peace, being true to herself and respectful of others. Where do you put your walls and boundaries? How do you manage living with young inquisitives and youthful creatives?

I’m Not Lazy; I’ve Got Priorities

Last week, my parents flew across the country to see us. I let the lawn grow long. I let the blog idle. I didn’t clean the basement, workout, scroll through Facebook, or do any solitary things that could wait. The weather finally turned from garbage to gold, and I shifted everything of lesser import further down the list. I spent the week eating, walking, and laughing with, cooking for, and talking to these people who first believed I was worth the trouble, while soaking up beautiful weather with all my senses.  To do otherwise would have been foolish.

Relationships are the richness of life. It is incomplete when not shared, in some way, with others. Loved ones come first. Work will always be. People are precious and temporary.

5500724272_a8f55edbe4_z(Not my family, just another one, doing the most important things.)

Learning to Write

I’ve been writing this blog for 5 months now.  It’s the first blog I’ve ever had and I am enjoying it. I try to write a post a week. This is slightly strenuous as I have other things to do. I need blocks of uninterrupted time. I need a topic I am ready to write about. I am no longer facile enough to blather on about anything. And I am slow.

Every time I sit down to write, I think of all the teachers who forced me to put words down. I am indebted to them for teaching me to organize my thoughts and instructing me on wielding the tools of language. I have noticed that those with whom I was educated manipulate language with a lot of skill. And these are not just the classmates who became writers. These are farmers, yogis, scientists, doctors- eloquent people in every field. I think it is because we learned to do it early and got plenty of practice.

The last time I wrote with regularity, I was in high school. I was slow, but not as slow as I am now. I was blessed early on with a lot of teachers who made 2826079915_7b8ccb95b7me write, and I got good at churning out papers. Mrs. Eaby (2nd grade) made me write a lot of stories. Ms. Moorehead (5th grade) regularly had me turning in 4-5 pages of notebook paper full of stories, reports, or essays, and she made us journal every day.  She also had me write and illustrate a book for a kid’s writing competition. I’m pretty sure that’s the year I developed the divot in my right index finger where my pen sits.

In sixth grade, I moved to a college prep school and wrote at least a paper a week until graduation. It started on a typewriter. I loved the click of the keys, the way the hammers struck with enough force to emboss the letters into the paper. But, oh, correction tape was such a pain, and I had to compose by hand and then type the final draft, pecking all the way until Mrs. Butterfield forced us all to learn to type correctly. Thank you, Mrs. B for your strangely stressful class of sixth graders all doing timed typing exercises while you walked around correcting hand position and catching us looking at our hands. (My favorite Mrs. B quote: “If you’re going to lie or cheat at something, do it for something important, not a typing test.”) Her class proved invaluable in this digital age.

My teachers took the time to offer real critiques of my mechanics, styles and thought process. I got paragraphs of reflection at the end of each paper and, with the exception of one teacher, I always knew exactly why a paper had earned the grade it did.

We wrote papers on everything at that school. I still have most of them in binders, arranged by year. Most were essays on literature we were studying. I wrote an epic poem in 8th grade that was 15 pages long. I am sorry you had to grade that, Mr. Brown.  I wrote lab write-ups (which I hated,) ½ pages in Spanish, a couple research papers for orchestra (yes, orchestra,) painfully dramatic stories, bad poetry, regurgitations and research papers for history class, oral and written presentations on Plato, Aristotle, and Nietzsche (oye,) and an assigned over-analysis of The Beach Boys’ song “The Little Old Lady from Pasadena.” (It’s a feminist diatribe against the American male establishment, in case you were wondering.)

In ninth grade, we read The Elements of Style, and were forced to own and refer to the MLA Handbook for Writers of Research Papers. It was not fun reading, but it proved useful, despite my griping at the time. The best thing I got out of that school was some mastery over words and the tools to make them do my bidding.

large_text53874_32560By my junior year, I could click out a 3-5 pager (1” margins, 1.5 spaced, Palatino font, Chicago- if it seemed short) on my hand-me-down Macintosh SE in a few hours. I never took my teachers’ advice to do a rough draft ahead of time. It all happened in one sitting- write, re-read, panic, shift paragraphs, compose new transitions, re-read, tweak, write the intro, make sure I wrapped it all up at the end, print, pull off the dot-matrix edges, staple or clip (depending on the teacher) and go to bed between 2 and 4 am.

I worked well with a fire lit under my rear. Some of the best papers I wrote were the three I wrote for Mr. Musgrave at the end of 10th grade. They were overdue and he said he’d fail me if I didn’t have them all in by the end of the week. I wrote one every night for three nights. He gave me barely passing marks because they were so late, but wrote glowing feedback and said that they were worth waiting for and my best work. Apparently, I thrive on fear.

When I went to college for music, I knew my writing days were essentially over. I picked my freshman English class based on the number of books in the syllabus that I had already studied. I read one new work for that class- A Doll’s House. I had my mom send me all my notes and papers on the other books. She asked me if that was plagiarism. “Nope,” I said, having already anticipated the objection. “It’s my work. They are rough drafts for this class.” It was awesome. Professor DuRocher like my writing and I did rework them… except for the one where I only changed the date and the professor’s name. I did; I’m not proud of it. I was working very hard at trying to get my mind and fingers around playing chord progressions and that paper on Hamlet was already passable. By the way, Professor DuRocher, may he rest in peace, was a truly inspiring teacher. I wish I had the chance to really study with him.

Writing for my music history professor was a nightmare. I spent my entire education learning to write artful prose with style and flow and she had no use for such froth. Dr. Hanson was tough 6189238026_ea959a4e23_nas nails, no nonsense, “don’t waste my time with your flowery segues and connecting transitions.” She would cross them out and write “bullshit” on anything that didn’t directly support my thesis. I got disappointing marks on every paper I wrote for her because I could not bring myself to write the way she wanted. She was also the kind of teacher who took off a point for every misplaced comma in footnotes and bibliography. And you had better stay consistent with either MLA or ALA style! I am getting tense just thinking about it.

I took 5 classes with this excellent teacher. She knew her stuff and was painfully efficient and clear in her presentation of the material. By the 5th semester, I got it. She finally broke me of my habit of nice writing. I turned in a paper on Copland’s “The Tender land” opera that read like an outline. An outline was my first draft. I took out the letters and numbers, added enough words to make full sentences, double and triple checked my notations and turned in a completely artless paper full of nothing but analysis and citations. The introduction actually included the phrases “First, I will show… Then, I will analyze… Finally, I will…” She deemed it acceptable. I earned an A and she wrote on the last page “Yes! You finally got it!” Whew, what a relief.

So here I am, making myself write again, in my pre-Dr. Hanson style, because it is good for me, because it helps me sort my mind and because, apparently, people besides my mother enjoy reading it.

425669_225060984259427_1569910971_nTo my writing teachers, Eaby, Moorehead, McAfee, Robertson, Moore, Lipkowitz, Brown, Scanlon, Musgrave, Kuh (even though I didn’t have you in class,) Pennington, Field, Hanson, and DuRocher, thank you. I hope I don’t embarrass.

Going Down The Rabbit Hole. Packing a Lunch

Down_the_rabbit_hole_by_super_sheepI try to get a new post up once a week, but I don’t have anything ready yet. I started on a topic and it just keeps going and going. I don’t know when it’s going to stop. What a strange and totally normal thing it is to not be in control of one’s own creation. (Hmm, sounds biblical.)

I haven’t given up and I am trying, but I can’t throw some slapdash schlock up, just to say I did because I respect you all and I won’t knowingly waste your time. I’ll keep digging this hole I’m in. I’m curious where it will end up.

Bumbling towards Responsible Adulthood

I blew my lid with the kids this morning. Our babysitter left her bag at the house and my children took out her sidewalk paint and gleefully used it all up. They went into her bag and helped themselves. I was horrified. “What? You just helped yourselves to someone else’s property? Would you rifle through Grandma’s purse? What made you think that was okay? I am ashamed of your choices…” and on… and on.Hendrick_Jacobsz._Dubbels_001

There are times, like this, when I feel like the most terrible parent around. I felt guilty for losing my cool (but not that guilty.) I felt like a failure because my 8 and 6 year-old took stuff that wasn’t theirs and they should know better. I was embarrassed. I clearly had not done my job. I cried on the way to school. I knew I was over-reacting. My rational self kept mumbling, “This is not about you.” But she lost control of the ship; it was all she could do to keep me from blurting out, “I guess I’ll have to come visit you in prison!”

Knowing that I was teetering on the edge, I called Hot Swede at work. He is experienced and effective at talking me down from emotional cliffs. His level head and calm voice soon lowered my crazy sail, and I began to think sense.

People make mistakes. Kids are inexperienced people; they’re going to make a lot of them. Of all the lessons children need to learn, moral and ethical ones the most difficult.  Moral action requires mastery of oneself- doing what’s right instead of what’s desired. Ethical behavior takes courage, thoughtfulness and maturity- three things that my young have yet to develop. It takes practice, redirection, consequences, forgiveness and love to learn to behave in moral and ethical ways. It is part of children’s job to push boundaries and figure out how they will operate within and on the world. That is where I come in. My job is to help them learn these lessons with sidewalk paint, instead of more expensive property and consequences.

I thought they had “do not steal” all sorted- my fatuous mistake. When rational, I understand that, of course, I am not done teaching and reinforcing lessons about respect for others and their property. They are 8 and 6. Duh.

So, I will explain why I was so upset this morning and the seriousness of stealing. They will each buy a set of replacement paints with their saved allowance and write an apology.  Two sets- because I want them to feel the cost and because when we wrong someone, we often have to expend extra effort to make things right.

I wish I had been prepared with an attitude of “Wonderful, here’s a chance to teach a lesson.” instead of caught off guard and horrified.  I will pray for wisdom and grace in anticipation of the next time they make a bonehead move. Because this is just the prelude.

Still the best option

Still the best option

Memorial Day

4215216945_3cf7c02b70_z      What does it mean to serve your country with military service? I don’t know; I didn’t serve. I am not the spouse, lover, parent, sibling, or child of an active service member. I don’t know. But I wanted to say…

To Members of the Military, Past and Present:

Thank you, for signing up. Thank you for your youthful exuberance, belief in an ideal, whatever it was that prompted you to take on this solemn and sometimes, unbearably difficult job.

Thank you, for learning at least one new culture, for submitting to a new set of rules, and for rising to challenges.

Thank you, for your courage when it came naturally, and thank you especially for your courage when it was hard to find.

Thank you for looking out for each other.

Thank you for your honor and goodness, especially in a time of war.

Thank you for fighting for us when you believed in the cause. Thank you for fighting for us when you were unsure.

Thank you for going into hot, cold, wet, dry, cramped, miserable, dangerous places to do your job.

Thank you for your years, your friends, your mental peace, and all that you carry with you.

Thank you for your bodies and your lives. I hope we honor your sacrifice with the kind of country we strive to make and uphold.

To Military Families, Past and Present:IMG_6644

Thank you, moms and dads, for raising able Americans willing to serve.

Thank you for your sons and daughters.

Thank you for their service and the worry, tears, and fear that must go through a parent’s mind and heart.

May we honor the grief and anguish suffered when children do not return whole.

Thank you, children, for your daddy or mommy. Your sacrifice is not your choice, but it is still yours.

Thank you, brothers and sisters, for comfort and support.

Thank you, lovers, wives and husbands, for raising kids without your partner, for trying to keep young kids connected to their deployed parent, for trying to keep yourself connected.

Thank you for your strength and your weakness.

Thank you for supporting each other.

Thank you for loving a soldier.

Mind Their Manners

A plea for parental courtesy, for everyone’s sake.

A few weeks ago, an elderly man lurched out of our church service in a hurry. The effects of stroke encumber his body, but he moved quickly and was clearly distressed. Four ushers rushed to his side to see what was the matter. Agitated, he repeated himself four or five times before they understood- “The children, yelling in church!” It was true. This gentleman had been seated near a small child who had been yelling (not crying or fussing, just yelling) for quite awhile.  I had trouble hearing the sermon and I was 20 feet away. This gentleman ended up sitting near the nursery and listening to the remainder of the service over the speakers. The yeller stayed in her pew.

When did it become okay for people to inflict their disruptive children on large gatherings of the public? When did parents stop minding their children’s behavior

and removing disorderly youngsters from church services, movies, restaurants, waiting rooms, weddings, etc? I may suffer from early onset curmudgeonry, but I am not the only one to notice this trend. Fed up restaurateurs ban children from their establishments. I’ve seen waiters with trays of food trip over Lilliputian diners who are allowed to frolic about the dining room. Hostesses provide crayons, coloring pages, games, and pizza dough to play with, in an effort to keep children in their seats and reasonably quiet. Clerks in shops full of breakable baubles bristle like porcupines when I walk in with three small people. On airplanes, childless travelers tighten their jaws when seated next to my 6 and 4-year-olds and then compliment them and me on their good behavior at the end of the flight, their words sighing with relief.

Ugh, airline travel.

Ugh, airline travel.

I like children. From experience (three kids worth of experience) I know how little control I have over any family situation. I can’t always predict what kids will say, when they will need the toilet, or puke on an airplane. (Dear sir next to me in the last row of that Delta flight, you were so gracious when my daughter threw up all over us… twice. If I hadn’t been so flustered, I would have bought you a drink. You are a gem.)

Most people are pretty patient with normal childlike behavior, and just want to know that parents are sensitive to the impact their young have on others. Babies make noise. Toddlers get tired of sitting still. Pre-schoolers are not always capable of controlling their behavior. This is why we hold parents responsible.

As the adult, I am responsible for extending courtesies to the people with whom my children come in contact. Young children are not yet capable or skilled enough to do it themselves. If my child pours milk into your handbag, I will be horrified, apologize and try to make amends. Because he is my child, I take on the consequences of his actions as though they are my own. Common decency does not allow me to dismiss the act with, “Kids will be kids. What are you going to do?”

Direct destruction of property may be an extreme example, but what if my kid ruins your romantic dinner by banging her fork on her plate repeatedly, talks through an entire movie, stunt drives his die cast car across the hood of your new car, or cries loudly throughout your daughter’s wedding? And what if I do nothing?

I frequently see parents laugh at or ignore a child who is impinging on another’s experience. You may find your child’s behavior charming and excusable. But here’s the truth- No one thinks your kid is as darling as you do, not even her grandparents. Ask yourself how you would feel if the loud, obnoxious, boorish gal stumbling around, throwing peas and yelling was a full-grown adult. Not as tolerable, is it?

That isn’t to say that people should not give a little grace to children and their parents. (Actually, we could stand to give a little grace to everyone.) Children will melt down despite a parent’s best efforts, and it is important to remain calm and give the parent a chance to handle the situation before becoming incensed and offended. For me, as long as the parent is addressing the behavior, and is sensitive to the people around them, I have no problem. We were all children once and our parents taught us how to behave. These children are the people who will be our caregivers when we are in the nursing home, so- be nice.

We parents owe it to our fellows to minimize the impact of our children’s negative behavior. It is common respect. We owe it to our children to teach them good 20762534_660705a831_zmanners and to protect their young reputations. When parents allow bad behavior to go unchecked, they make all children guilty by association, thus- bans on children in restaurants. Worse, they make pariahs out of their innocent children. Adults don’t want to be around them and other parents don’t want their children around them either. They won’t say it to the parent’s face, but hey say it to everyone else.

So, what? Do we keep our kids at home until they can use choose the right fork at a fancy dinner? No, they need chances to practice and learn. Parents should take them out in public, but only if they are willing to do the work of teaching and guiding. Talk about the expectations for behavior ahead of time, and how different events demand different kinds of behavior. Don’t take them somewhere where you are unwilling or unable to skedaddle if it all goes south. Remove children when they are disruptive; it is less awful than staying. Don’t take them places where you know they have no chance of behaving reasonably (courtrooms, late night dinners, screenings of Ingmar Bergman films come to mind.) Yes, there have been times when I’ve spent entire church services cajoling toddlers to be quiet, or standing in the narthex with a fussy baby. I have been known to employ gum and orange Tic Tacs liberally. I’ve spent hours on a plane with a hand on small legs, reminding them not to kick the seat in front of them.  It’s all part of making small savages civil.

Human society is complicated and nuanced. It takes years to learn its rules and absorb its conventions. This is why human childhood is so long and why we have parents for the duration- to guide us through the social jungle and soften the discord between our inexperience and the adult world. When their behavior is good, children are an absolute joy to be around. They infuse life and beauty into any gathering. The best part of any wedding reception are the diminutive guests- shoes off, shirt half-untucked, getting down on the dance floor.ba1de2eb0ff97867d7aa474eb3c3e20f-d5z94e5

Have you had experiences with unruly children and their parents? Am I off base? Please tell me if this is a personal quirk and I need to lighten up. I will listen. I’d especially like to hear how other parents handle their children’s less than ideal public behavior and how you handle OTHER people’s unruly kids. (There’s a thorny one.) I take all tips and suggestions.

It’s Spring; I Can’t Help It.

I love spring. After a winter and a half, Earth’s awakening is particularly sweet. Yes, spring makes my eyes itch and snow melts into the basement, but it’s a nice change from winter winds chapping my cheeks and the awful snow. Because I am drunk on the spring sunshine, I wrote poems, seven of them. I know- embarrassing. I’ll just share two.

Band-aids
Scooters, bicycles, skateboard wheels
Making rhythmic ka-thuk on the sidewalk.
Bare feet everywhere I turn,
Sandals as lawn ornaments.
Tumbles, crashes, toes caught on sticks,
Scratches, scrapes, road rash,
Telltale signs of active kids.
Buy the big box.

Yard Food
The garden, of course.
Daylilies and pansies in salads.
Marigolds make spicy butter.
Children assault with chive breath.
Raspberries, warm in the sun.
Peaches. PEACHES!
Weeds- dandelion, purslane, lambs quarters, wood sorrel.
Beautiful names, better than the vegetables.
Squash.

4695802454_d632b0bd42Now that you’ve laughed or rolled your eyes, a plea- gimme a break. I am not a poet, but spring kind of requires it, doesn’t it? And it was a fun exercise. Spring writes it’s own poetry, but you can’t put all the glory of a crocus on the internet. Do you have favorite readings about spring, or your own silly, or not silly poem to share?  I’d love to read them. Happy spring!

Flawed Perfection

My mom was a mess. She’s pretty pulled together now, but when I was a kid, I remember wondering why she was such a flake. Her life was a stupefying Rube Goldberg machine of family life-467px-Cassatt_Mary_At_the_Window_1889 bewildering in its intricacies and number of moving parts. Somehow she managed it with only an occasional dropped ball. As a kid, I didn’t see the complexity. I only knew that she frequently called me by my sister’s name and called my brother by the dog’s.

For years, I thought toast was made by burning it black and then scraping it down over the sink to the desired lightness of char. Mom was always barely remembering snack day, or coming home from the store with sour cream instead of cottage cheese and looking at the carton with an incredulous look that I now recognize as- “What the hell?”

My mom broke a hairbrush hitting it on the counter in frustration while trying to get three little kids, my dad, and herself ready for a professional portrait.  (I’m surprised I got out of the ordeal with only uneven bangs.)

She was tired. She was flustered. She was awesome. She was perfect.

Since becoming a parent of multiple children, my opinion of my mom has gained significant altitude. I understand what it means to be at the mercy of a small tyrant who doesn’t give a fig if I haven’t slept since last Thursday. I struggle to keep my cool when we are late to school and one child is still shoeless.  I understand why so many people drive around with forgotten mugs of coffee on their roofs. (Car companies- do us a solid and put a cup holder up there.) I know how endlessly fragmented parents’ brains are, how no task is ever completed- just started, and how a clean kitchen floor is a magnet for the spiteful side of buttered toast.

399px-Cassatt_Mary_The_Bath_1891-92I yell. I get lazy. I forget all kinds of stuff. I want to quit. I need a vacation. I discipline out of desperation instead of wisdom. I am a flawed, messy human. How fortunate I am to have a flawed mother.

How else would I know that I am okay and not ruining three young lives? Mom did plenty of top-notch things. She fed us healthfully at nightly family dinners. She taught me to cook well, sew poorly, and knit only as a last resort. She made sure I could swim, ride a bike, provided opportunities for me to try a whole slew of activities, even when she knew they would amount to naught. She called bull on me when I needed it, listened when I needed that, and kept her mouth closed when an argument would have served neither of us well and I was too immature to bridle my own tongue.

But it’s her shortcomings that reveal the grace of imperfection. I need her blunders now as much as I needed her successes as a child; they bring me assurance and comfort. If Mom had always kept her temper, remembered all appointments, and remained smiley and well coiffed at all times, I would despair my own shoddy efforts at parenting and adult living in general. I would think my children doomed by having me for a mother, because I am a mess. Her example reveals the lie of perfection- it can’t be true because it isn’t honest. I am faulty. I needed a similarly flawed mother to teach me how to parent well despite my limitations and shortcomings.

1024px-Mary_Cassatt_-_Susan_Comforting_the_Baby_No._1_(c._1881)_detail_01Thanks, Mom, for forgetting to pick me up from sixth grade that one time. I needed that. Thanks for losing your temper and asking for forgiveness. What a good example you set. Thanks for always asking how my soccer game went, even though I played volleyball. You give me hope. Thanks for all the wise and unwise things you said. I only remember the wise ones. Really.

Parenting is a difficult job and the stakes are high, but unless your little dirty-handed booger eater is perfection incarnate, she needs someone like you to show her the way. Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers in my life. You are inspiring admirable women, imperfect and just right.

Happy Mother's Day!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Laundry is for Suckers

I love my washing machine

Washing machines: the best thing since washable fabrics.

I am a sucker, a chump, a fool. Every week, I wash and fold about eight loads of laundry. That’s pants, shirts, socks, dishtowels, sheets, etc. for five people. I fill my baskets with towers of uniform rectangles, folded according to the depth of their intended drawers so that the folded edge will stand next to all the others and a census of the drawer’s contents can be taken at a glance. I don’t put clothes away; I file them.

I organize drawers, ostensibly so people can see what they’ve got and find what they need. A week later, I walk upstairs and, in any room,  am greeted by vomiting dressers, drawers spewing sleeves and pant legs over their lips.  I grumble, shove the mess over, and make room for my neat little stack of good intention- all ready to be disheveled tomorrow.

Is there another household chore that takes as much time and is as equally futile? I can’t think of one. Cleaning out the fridge is important for organization and hygiene, even if the pickle jar with the bad lid ALWAYS tips over on the top shelf within a week of cleaning.  Cleaning kid-level windows is a waste of time, but it isn’t something I do every week [read: year.]

Why do I do it? To model neatness? Because that is the way laundry has always been done and I’m a slave to tradition? I think I do it because deep down, I believe an organized laundry practice has merit. That said, all my trouble is only worth it if all parties agree to operate on the same system, and, well, they don’t.2628256853_8f0cd46700_z

It doesn’t matter to anyone but me if the drawers are neat. As long as there is a pair of underwear in there somewhere, I will hear nothing about it, good or bad. My children think the hamper is a folding machine- throw it in; it magically reappears in the drawer, clean and ready to wear. Do the children care if their clothes are wrinkly? No. Likely, smooth shirts would clash with their hair, which gets impressively sculptural under winter hats. Do I care if their clothes are wrinkly? No, not unless it’s picture day and the shirt has an archaeological aesthetic to its creases.

If I were sensible, I’d sell the dressers and get everyone two laundry baskets- one for above the waist, one for below. I would wash and dry clothes, sort them into north or south piles by owner and dump them into the appropriate baskets. The family could root around for what they want and I would save HOURS of wasted labor each week. You have to admit this system has merit. It saves loads of time and takes into account the reality of our clothing situation.

I currently entertain a Disney level fantasy of children and husband whistling while they refold their clothes and tuck them away in neat rows. There may even be songbirds folding t-shirts and chipmunks pairing socks. Then I get irritated when the reality falls short.  This is not a smart mindset.

I must be chicken, or a little OCD. I can’t change my broken system. I don’t know why, because I’m able to let go of other futile endeavors: flattening my post 3-baby belly, singing bass-baritone, not letting the kids eat in the car. I would feel like such an iconoclast- giving folded laundry the old middle finger and getting rid of furniture that is full of pointless expectation.

I cannot wait until I can share laundry duty with the children. (rubs hands together and cackles.) They are learning to fold, and I give folding as a chore- especially if I catch a kid throwing clean clothes in the hamper/folding machine. I am determined; they will do more. The summer chore campaign is approaching. Will I make them keep their drawers neat? No, but drawers must close fully and there must be room for fresh laundry to fit. Will I make them fold in uniform shapes? Yes, they will learn the proper way, even down to how to fold fitted sheets. (Yes, it’s possible.) Then, if they choose a more chaotic laundry practice as adults, it will be by choice and not because they know no better. I hope that some day, my children will appreciate that daily dressing need not involve the added stress of scavenger hunts for matching socks and quests for the one pair of magical sparkle tights.

Even if they end up choosing a less fussy system, they will learn one important lesson from me: Sometimes you just have to do pointless stuff because that’s what the boss requires.

I'm gonna need you to fold those in thirds. M'kay?

I’m gonna need you to fold those in thirds. M’kay?