Out of the Ordinary

So last night my son and I went to the movies to see a live broadcast of the London National Theatre's production of Treasure Island. 

And I did not want to go. 

It was meant to be fun: the tickets were free (a Christmas present), and it would be a night out with my son (with whom I rarely get to hang out solo), and we'd be seeing something new and exciting (live theatre, from the UK)...but honestly I just wanted to stay home.

First off my house was an absolute disaster and getting it babysitter-ready would take all my time and strength.  (And by disaster I mean disaster; think three-weeks' worth of laundry - including some still not washed from an overseas trip to Kenya - think white kitchen sink the colour of black tea, think random piles of Playmobil figures and board books and Mastercard bills and sermon notes all jumbled together and rotting in random places like under the bathroom sink and on the third stair from the bottom and on the floor by my bedside table).  Disaster. 

Second my husband was staying late at work, which meant I didn't have an extra set of hands to help get the house babysitter-ready, or get supper on the table, or to help occupy the toddler in order to get out the door by 6:15pm and off to the theatre.

Third I was craving an evening just to catch up, on house tasks (obviously), but also because it's been a heck of a few weeks.  I been to Kenya and back to an immediate and huge assignment at work and felt like I still hadn't caught my breath.

So, no, the theatre was really not at the top of my list of "top-things-I-want-to-do-on-a-random-Thursday-night."   Some gift, I thought.  This "gift" was taking everything I had in me.  But what was I going to do?  Not take my son to the theatre?

So off we went. 

And you know what? 

I had a fabulous time. 

I took it all back, all my ranting and raving about how horrible it was that I had to go to the theatre instead of staying put and cleaning my house.  I got to see true creativity (they'd changed the ceiling of the theatre into an actual planetarium) and I saw an excellent story and I had a great time out with my son.  And in a couple of weeks and months and years an ordinary night staying home to clean up would simply meld into all the other ordinary nights I spent cleaning up, but this night, because I stepped out of the ordinary, will stick in my memory.  And it will give my son some memories of me that don't involve cleaning and kitchens.

So yes, it was a push (to say the least) to get the laundry going and the piles sorted and the garbage out and the supper made and the dishes in the dishwasher by 6:15pm when the babysitter showed up.  And yes, there was some ranting and raving on my part.  But I realized that it's so important to push ourselves to step out of the ordinary.  Ultimately it's a lot more fun.  And it's what we'll remember. 

The whole night was a real gift, after all.

The Big Picture

We got sidetracked yesterday looking at old pictures and videos of us and the kids when they were babies.  We were in the middle of the long-overdue job of downloading photos from the camera to the computer, trying to create space for new memories and we got lost in our archives.

There was our now-toddler caught on video crawling down the hall towards the mini piano his big brother was "playing."  There was our almost-nine-year-old daughter, then an imp-faced baby sliding down the slide at the playground we used to frequent every day.  (I can't remember the last time I went there.)  And then there was the video of our oldest, pushing a recycling bin through the hallways of the derelict high rise apartment building in which we used to live.  That was what we used to do for a good time; he'd practice walking by holding on to the bin and if he got too stir-crazy in the tiny apartment we'd roam the hallways and ride the elevator down to the lobby.

And then there were the photos of my husband and I; hoisting babies up on our shoulders, tickling the kids until they were in fits with giggles, pushing swings, chasing toddlers down the street.   We look so happy, my husband said.  And we really did.

At the time those photos and videos were taken I'm pretty sure I couldn't get through the day without napping alongside my children I was so sleep-deprived, and I know that we were constantly running out of clean clothes and that I was spending hours washing my own cloth diapers and that I once walked into the kitchen to see a mouse rummaging through the dirty dishes and dried bits of dinner on our counter to find its own meal.  At the time those photos were taken I struggled to get through the basics of daily life and household management - I know I did.  I couldn't have been that happy all the time.  I know those kids had tantrums and I had to drag them out of drop-in centers and kicking from play dates.

When I look at my life now it is just as hard to see the big picture - I am usually so caught up by what's immediately in front of me: the futsal session for soccer and the fact that I forgot to arrange a carpool for my son, the bobby pins that are missing when ballet starts in two minutes and my daughter's hair is nowhere near a bun, the scramble for coffee - now! - because my almost-three-year-old still doesn't sleep through the night.

But I don't take photos of those moments.  And when I look back at my life in a few years from now I'm sure I'll have to squint to make them out, they'll be so out of focus.  My little trip into the archives reminded me of the big picture I'm a part of - the picture that actually makes it into the frame - and it's a picture of joy and fulfillment and happiness, not in my day job or schedule or meal plan, not in decorations or house design or number of vehicles or annual income, but a picture of joy in relationships.

When I look back, that's all I can see.  And I need to remember to enjoy the moments that I'm in right now when they're happening, because ultimately, I'm having the time of my life.

There's Always Something

One thing I can say for certain about parenting: it is not boring.  Every week - sometimes every day - it seems something happens either to me or someone in my family.  And here's where parenting really becomes a spiritual practice, because whatever happens we just have to respond, no matter what.  It is great training for the development of those intangible virtues like attitude and discipline and calmness under pressure.  One week someone is sick, another week someone has a big project they need extra support on at school, or there is a week filled with evening meetings or one of us parents is working late.  It seems we never have a "normal" week; something always happens that we didn't bargain on and that adds constant upheaval to the routine.

Last week in my family it was lice, times two.  Now I have never had lice, but my children seem to pick these nasty bugs up all the time and it really throws the whole household into chaos.  Not only do I have to find extra time every day to nit pick (I now have a visceral experience of this expression and it's surprisingly apt), but I have to gather up almost every linen in the house and haul these over to the laundromat for cleaning, since we have no dryer at home.  The trouble is that in our house almost every minute of every day is already accounted for, so when someone gets lice I go crazy trying to figure out how to cram in all the picking and cleaning that I really don't have time for.

And every week it seems there is something like that that happens.  And parents a little further down the road tell me life never really gets any more "normal" or easier to predict.  Older parents tell me they are still surprised by what family life drops on them, week by week: children in tumultuous romances, children messing up jobs, children making choices the older parent never would have made; there's always something.

Thank goodness.  It means we're surrounded by people who need us, people to love.  It means we have something to do, which is better than nothing.  Our relationships gives us a reason to get up every day.  I know I'd be unhappy without my family, lice and all.  But I could stand for them to get it a little less often!

Yay! We're a happy family!

One of the biggest reasons I find parenting to be a spiritual practice is that it is so good at giving me a swift kick in the rear whenever I get too cocky; and it's a function of any spiritual practice to make us think and to call us to account, to make us aware of faults and give us the impetus to change.

I learned soon after my eldest was born that it was really me who was "growing up" as my children aged, and not the other way around.  When I can't get the dishwasher loaded because my toddler needs me to play blocks with him, it's me who learns to be patient just as much as he does.  When the toys we just put back in bins get dumped all over the floor - again - it's me who needs to take a moment and gather some self-control.  And when one of the kids is tired and cranky and grumpy it's me who needs to be charitable and recognize that they are just having a moment and that the moment will, eventually, pass.

Just when I think I've got our routines figured out, just when I've printed the latest, greatest edition of the job chart, just when I think my baby is finally going to sleep through the night (it's been almost three years!), just when I'm about to burst into a song that sings all my praises, something will happen and we're back to where we started: routines that don't happen routinely, jobs that go undone, kids that still don't sleep.

Parents very quickly learn the virtues of humility and modesty.  I am still waiting for a chunk of time to go by where I feel like we get it right as a family, most of the time.  By that I mean that I'm still waiting for a day when I can say with confidence that we've figured out our routines, that the kids are doing their fair share of the work that needs to be done to keep our house running, and that we're all getting enough rest and exercise.

Instead I feel like we're constantly heading back to the drawing board, constantly tweaking and adapting and changing and doing an about-face - but according to one expert, that kind of humility is actually a good thing.

I recently heard an interview with the writer Bruce Feiler (of Walking the Bible fame) who has written a new book called The Secrets of Happy Families.  And it turns out our family has at least one thing going for it when it comes to being happy.  Feiler spent three years researching this book by talking to sources in-the-know - albeit unorthodox sources, like the creators of Modern Family - to come up with more than 200 ideas and suggestions for improving family happiness, one of which is: adapt constantly.  If you're doing things the same way you were last month or last year, Feiler says, you're doing something wrong.

Finally! Some good news!

I often find it demoralizing to know that I'm not getting it right with my kids, most of the time.  But humility is a redemptive virtue.  At it's core it's a virtue about the capacity to change.  And perhaps that's what children really need, not an example of perfection, but examples of adaptability and flexibility.  Because things won't always go right for our children, and the best character trait they can learn to compensate is the capacity to learn and grow and change. 

The Current Thorn in my Side

There is one spiritual fruit I just can't seem to grow: self-control. I can't get one bloom out of this virtue.  Lord knows I've been given enough opportunities to cultivate it.  Every day family life hands me multiple opportunities to stay calm in the face of aggravation, to breath deeply through insult, to laugh instead of getting all in a huff.  I'm handed the seed, so to speak, but I toss it and stomp on it before it ever sees soil.

One of the places I'd like to have more self-control is during the daily piano practice. There is one child whom I have to sit with to keep on task.  At the beginning of every practice session I'm fairly bright and cheery, mainly because we've managed to make it to the "piano practice" portion of the day, which I think an accomplishment in and of itself. By the end of the session it's all I can do not to rip the books off the stand and smash the keyboard.  I get so frustrated with this child.  This little one swats my hands when I'm trying to point out a missed note, or yells, "I get it, I get it, I GET IT!" before playing the same wrong notes.  If I leave the practicing in the child's hands it won't happen.  What to do?  I'm not sure.

I guess like anything in life, when it comes to spiritual growth, it's practice makes perfect.

  

Entertaining Gentleness

This week I decided not to sign up my children for swimming lessons.  Fear not for their souls; they're still doing piano, ballet, soccer, brownies, cubs, x-country running and choir.

I was fully planning on signing them up for swimming.  I had diligently picked up a copy of the Parks and Rec guide, located our local pool, noted the date and time of the appropriate classes - but on Wednesday morning (sign-up day) I couldn't bring myself to sign them up. 

It turns out this year that our Tuesday nights are completely free which, I had originally thought, would work out well for swimming lessons. But when I looked at my calendar a little more closely I realized that making time for swimming would mean lost time on other activities.  I've been wanting the kids to cook supper once a week, for example, and an evening without any activities to rush off to would give me the time to supervise.  And then there is the time they play with the neighbourhood kids.  When an evening is "free" it can actually be spent playing soccer or swinging on the monkey bars. 

I've been thinking about Gentleness; how I'd like to invite Gentleness into my home, maybe make some space so she could stay awhile, but looking at the calendar I see we have been inadvertently entertaining Harshness for years now and that we haven't had much time or space for Gentleness.  Gentleness, it turns out, is one of those guests who asks a lot of us and doesn't coexist well with Harshness or anyone who is rushed and fussed.  Invite her over and you'll see what I mean: try speak kindly to your loved ones when you're late for that evening class you tried to cram in, or try to make time for a grandparent in a nursing home when every weekend afternoon is booked, or try to enjoy the mundane, or to patiently teach an intangible value when you're simultaneously shoving kids out the door to swimming lessons...it can't be done. 

So I've opted to keep Tuesday nights free in our house. I'm hoping it means we'll have time for unexpected visitors.

Space for Gentle Living

This summer I had a mini-revelation.

I was passed out on the couch at the lake, recovering from eleven months of running, my mind a stream-of-consciousness blur, when I got to thinking about Ma, as I often do in moments of exhaustion or self-pity.  For me, Ma has always been the epitome of not just motherhood or wife-hood but simply good person-hood.  I'm referring to the inimitable Caroline Ingalls, whose power and ingenuity has been immortalized in her daughter, Laura's, "Little House" books.  I read the "Little House" series when I was a girl and recently reread them again with my daughter and have come to the conclusion that Ma's pretty much as perfect as a person can be.  Sure she's got her foibles, but what astounds is her gentleness - and it's a gentleness that never falters - even when surrounded by wolves, or when her husband is lost in a blizzard, or during that long winter when she ground their last bit of wheat with the coffee grinder and made what she thought was their last loaf of bread.  Here's the thing about Ma: she never loses it.

I got to thinking about my own ancestors, laying there on the couch at the lake.  My grandparents grew up on farms and their parents were pioneers.  They didn't get a lot of vacations, and somehow they managed to do a lot of work and raise a lot of children without completely passing out.  And I wondered, as I lay there on the couch, how did they do it?  How did they manage all that work, sun up to sun down, day in and day out, year after year after year without the luxury of a month-long holiday?  What would they say if they could see their progeny, one hundred years down the line, depleted, head drooping and drooling?

My revelation was this: what kept Ma's sanity intact and what enabled my own ancestors to work as much as they did were hard and fast margins that protected the blurring of lines between work and rest.  Without electricity, works necessarily starts and ends with daylight.  A life lived in conjunction with the seasons protects time for interior and exterior projects.  And every single week these people took an entire day off to rest and rejuvenate.  That's 52 days a year, much more then my meager month.  Their work (and their ability to approach work and life cheerfully and with optimism) was sustained by the steady presence of serious margins: that time in between time - blank time and blank space - to fill as they saw fit.

I am realizing that a key to bringing a spirit of gentleness into our days and into our very selves is to protect our margins.  This doesn't mean trying to live as though we're always on holiday, that's not realistic, but protecting certain spaces in each day that we might eat well and with loved ones, and sleep well, and walk or garden, or think or play and rest, daily, weekly, monthly, and yearly.  It means asking: what really has to happen now?  What time is it?  What season? 

Ma always knew the right answer.