More than once in the bedlam of life, I pause midst the turmoil and dream of the calm respite and peace of a sanatorium. In my mind’s eye I can picture it, a scene of serenity—of oblivion, a fluffy white robe and solicitous persons wheeling me about in a garden of quiet fog. I envision a peaceful existence far, far away from the cares and concerns of a life careening out of control. I can almost hear the music of songbirds in the distance…
Dear Me, Today, it’s the squawk and screech of two boys chasing a bird loose in the house, flapping about hither and thither while the stereo blasts and teenage girls dance over my head to a television, telephone and doorbell accompaniment.[1] Manic me, T.
What would be the downside of having myself committed for a week or two? I hear stories from the mother-in-law when she was a nurse, of a woman who was admitted to the hospital for a week’s stay…with her sewing machine. Her physician’s order was to serve her food and leave her alone. Why not me? I’m already a prisoner of my own volition—I deserve the sentence because I committed the crime—children. I brought them on myself.
Whenever my world is at its wildest, I imagine a reprieve. It doesn’t have to be in the form of full clemency, but just enough to grant me a momentary glimpse of peace—a respite from the iconoclastic[2] world of progeny. I need to be bored again with life… if only for just a moment!
[1] The internal debate topic today is: electricity, curse or blessing.
[2] One who seeks to overthrow traditional institutions. (so appropriate here)
Friday
Monday
…steep
Life has not always been so chaotic. There was a time in the not so distant past when women spent part of each day loosening the pull strings of their taut bag of burdens over a nice hot cup of peace in the next-door neighbor’s kitchen.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This book, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this book is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
Today, it feels that I am left alone to stuff my own bag with a mélange of calming curatives and coping strategies that promise to soothe and ease the stressors of everyday life. Of the many varied therapies that purport to calm, appease and relieve, I’ve selected journaling as my new panacea.
To: allandsundry@blog.out
Hey everybody, the quest today is to find humor in the Grape Nuts[1] glued to the kitchen table by the puddle of maple syrup dripping off the edge and onto the floor. The diapered culprit sits in the middle of the mess, with his chubby legs in the air yelling, “Ouch! Mommy, Help!” Love ya, sticky, icky Me
Reality Bite: Humor can’t come until the mop-up is done.
When the scum of life’s toughest situations float to the top of the simmering pot, rather than let it boil over, I vent—on paper. Then, when I return back to a slow simmer, I can amend the tirades and I send them off to other persons steeped in similar stews. This is my way to succor others, like the wise women from the not-so-distant past who knew the risks and perils of trying to float alone on this roiling boil.
My notes and conversations are not intended as personal satire, (because satire requires wit) but as observations of life and an analysis of the hot water that I find myself in, again.
If, by chance, I can manage to salvage humor from the dregs of the previous pot-full, that makes it easier to blow off the next upset and thus return to a functional simmer. These coping strategies may not resolve all the problems, and I may still bubble over, but the raucous whistle I let off reminds the children that it’s time to back off and let Mom write.[2]
Reality Bite: I’m committed! Or should be? See, it all works.
[1] Free commercial product placement. Who in their right advertising mind, would want to place a product in this medium for cash? This book, if you haven’t noticed, is not the Super Bowl.
[2] Caviet: If you are now, or have been ever, under the mistaken presumption that the intent of this book is to fill the void of parenting advice manuals, STOP. Now you can proceed.
Friday
Book Resumed
If you wish to read excerpts from the rest of this book in order, click on the chapter labels in the right column.
Happy reading.
Tuesday
…free flight
As I wave the little birdie away and turn back to face the empty nest, I finally admit that the need to nourish and sustain (which was so underappreciated anyway) has waned. The nesting period is ending and I’m feeling the loss. I wonder if I’m prepared for the next season as it flits nearer.
Gone are the days when I force-fed down tiny gullets, the values of integrity, responsibility and supporting one’s neighbor. They’re past the encouragement phase that I so carefully balanced with learning to stand for themselves, and it seems that my birdies have developed their own cockeyed sense of humor. Most sadly, they are well-prepared to wing it alone.
Oh, there is still the need to fling an occasional seed into the air and blow a kiss to the head as the fledglings fly by, but for the most part, as a mother I’m achieving my greatest desire; I’m slowly and surely working myself out of a job.
Today, I rededicate myself to the last hatchlings in the nest and prepare myself for the time when they will strike out successfully and I will prepare myself to watch them go without regret.
To me,
Warning, Warning, I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my wish and the little birdies will return to nest or just leave the little eggs and nestlings with me so “I will have something to do” Eee, T.
Gone are the days when I force-fed down tiny gullets, the values of integrity, responsibility and supporting one’s neighbor. They’re past the encouragement phase that I so carefully balanced with learning to stand for themselves, and it seems that my birdies have developed their own cockeyed sense of humor. Most sadly, they are well-prepared to wing it alone.
Oh, there is still the need to fling an occasional seed into the air and blow a kiss to the head as the fledglings fly by, but for the most part, as a mother I’m achieving my greatest desire; I’m slowly and surely working myself out of a job.
Today, I rededicate myself to the last hatchlings in the nest and prepare myself for the time when they will strike out successfully and I will prepare myself to watch them go without regret.
To me,
Warning, Warning, I’m told that if I’m not careful, I’ll get my wish and the little birdies will return to nest or just leave the little eggs and nestlings with me so “I will have something to do” Eee, T.
Saturday
…power play
I’m like a child who knows that attention of any kind, bad or good is better than no attention at all. Appreciation and accolades are hopeless dreams, so I’ve given up and I’ll settle for someone--anyone who will sit up and take notice when I yell, “Attention! I’m angry!”
I’m considering military school. Not for them, for me. If I went for a couple of weeks or maybe volunteered in the reserves for a quick brush-up on boot-camp protocol, I would know how to command respect and demand that insubordinates do my bidding.
To me:
I’m in charge—in control—the general of this campaign and everybody had just better know it. I say “Advance” and everybody better get in line right behind me. Yes, sir, T
I’m considering military school. Not for them, for me. If I went for a couple of weeks or maybe volunteered in the reserves for a quick brush-up on boot-camp protocol, I would know how to command respect and demand that insubordinates do my bidding.
To me:
I’m in charge—in control—the general of this campaign and everybody had just better know it. I say “Advance” and everybody better get in line right behind me. Yes, sir, T
Friday
...generalizing
Brainwashing brings on fear first, then comes begrudging respect right?
If I could be in command and fully in charge of my little minefield, then it’s not too much of a cautious leap to the level of respect.
Would that work with parenting?
To me: Power, or at least the illusion of it is dangerous. Lie, cheat and steal. The pre-teenager asks about his favorite t-shirt (the torn, faded, sweat-stained one), and I reply wide-eyed and innocent, “I don’t know where it is ...” The word left unspoken is “…now.” I know which dumpster I threw it in, but where it is now? Honesty is the best policy. Be a good example. Love T.
It’s not so much that I need to be the boss, it’s more that I need to be a more commanding presence. I don’t want them to have to dress right and shoot left, but can I please just have credit for my talent of the twirl I can give the toilet?
Reality Bite: Twirling, always twirling
If I could be in command and fully in charge of my little minefield, then it’s not too much of a cautious leap to the level of respect.
Would that work with parenting?
To me: Power, or at least the illusion of it is dangerous. Lie, cheat and steal. The pre-teenager asks about his favorite t-shirt (the torn, faded, sweat-stained one), and I reply wide-eyed and innocent, “I don’t know where it is ...” The word left unspoken is “…now.” I know which dumpster I threw it in, but where it is now? Honesty is the best policy. Be a good example. Love T.
It’s not so much that I need to be the boss, it’s more that I need to be a more commanding presence. I don’t want them to have to dress right and shoot left, but can I please just have credit for my talent of the twirl I can give the toilet?
Reality Bite: Twirling, always twirling
Sunday
…routine
I’m learning how to call everybody to attention. It’s me, the drill sergeant letting everyone know I’m here, I’m interesting and I’m interactive. Speak to me, acknowledge my worth, or at least nod in my general direction.
The only time my job receives any notice is when it isn’t done. I rise to my family’s greatest expectations, and they are learning not to expect much…
My routine is becoming so routine that I’m exploring new ways to make old chores interesting. I’m acting out the creative side of me like a toddler exploring his world. Today I have got to find some excitement in mixing up a batch of pink underwear from the pink and white in the wash load and the myriad of possibilities that exist with a macaroni and cheese theme.
The key is attitude. Do I feel obligated because someone else dictates or am I free to be the wind beneath their wing? I wonder if I’ve regaled myself to the position just slightly above the family pet. If I don’t perform the requisite jumping, bouncing and face-licking upon arrival of the master, do I risk being kicked to the back yard?
Reality Bite: Next week, I’m signing up for obedience training
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