One Moment

This week my son graduated from 8th grade. In many parts of the world this might not be a big deal, but our community is adoringly focused on celebrating our kids’ milestones. Not only do we love our kids, but we can’t help but dote. As a matter of fact, I would argue our high school graduation parties tend to rival weddings. Not that I don't feed right into this. Certainly the love we shower among the village kids will create good juju when sending them off into the world. It’s all very good energy. 

Unless, maybe, it isn’t.

My son had already gone off with friends as hubby and I left the 8^th grade graduation reception. My feelings of pride and joy quickly dissipated when I noticed a lone 8^th grader sitting on the bench, waiting for the bus. He was politely sifting through his folder of accomplishments. He wasn’t dressed up as many were that day, wearing the typical uniform of a 14-year-old boy: sweatshirt and jeans. My first assumption was that his parents couldn’t make it—understandable since the event took place at 1:30 in the afternoon on a Monday. But the thought of a boy not having anyone there to support him or give him a hug made me instantly and utterly sad. The auditorium, you see, had been flooded with parents, grandparents, siblings, and friends.

So what did I do?

Nothing. I did not walk over to wish congratulations.  I didn't shout out good luck in high school. I didn't even tell him to have a nice summer. What prevented me from reaching out with a gesture of kindness? I’m not sure, except perhaps I didn’t want to seem creepy. But I have relived it, over and over in my head.

The point of this blog is perhaps a confession for my lack of action. And perhaps it’s a call to be on guard. If you have a chance to perform any small act of good will, don’t hesitate. The kid might have been perfectly content and ready to celebrate with his family and other friends that night. But he might’ve been lonely and feeling isolated. The next time I jump in my time traveler, I’ll offer him warm wishes. In the meantime, I’ll continue to pray for him–and for all people to show more love. 

Peace. 

Congrats to Cole–and every single kid to cross the stage. Any stage. 

The Curse of the Perfectionist

Case #1

The other day as I took took Cole to school, I posed this question, "Remember when you were little, and how you would never draw on a piece of paper that was slightly wrinkled?"

He didn't say anything for a moment. Then he smiled politely and said under his breath, "I still don't really like to draw on paper that's wrinkled."

I was actually testing the kid, with the hopes that he'd grown out of this particular tendency. He also won't draw on the back of a paper as long as anything is written on it. Consequently, my little artist isn't very eco-sensitive when comes to killing trees.

Case #2:

The girl–whom I assumed could calmly read a novel or watch a movie while a tornado hit–had an emotional breakdown the other night. She was feeling pressure over what college to pick and what major to choose. Well, she is a sophomore you know.

Holy chow. What am I doing to my kids? While they have perfectly messy rooms and have no propensity to bring their dirty cups to the kitchen, they obviously have some issues when it comes to achievement, or drawing a tidy picture.

I read an article in the Wall Street Journal last week titled "Inside the Minds of the Perfectionists." These types tend to be a little compulsive over anything they particularly care about. If they care about a lot of things, this can be grueling. (The other night I was desperately trying to not obsess over a can on the end table. I really wanted my husband to put it away himself. But when I saw it sitting there the next morning, I couldn't take it any longer. I decided to let the lesson in responsibility go and took care of the empty can myself.)The perfectionist's trait tends to be passed down through genes and expectations. The problem with these types? There is a high likelihood for unhappiness. The last thing in the world I want for my kids is unhappiness.

A few years ago, I went through one of those management assessment tests. I was told that my perfectionist tendencies border-lined on neurotic. Basically, this means that I never quite feel like I'm good enough at anything. I'll just keep working, working, working–sometimes into a frenzy. (My husband will verify this.) The problem is that I will never quite be satisfied because I'm probably trying to attain some unrealistic result. (Yes, I can't help but think major writing award even though I'm not even PUBLISHED...)  I suspect my condition resulted from being an only child, and was exacerbated by my perfectionist parents as well–whom, like myself, only wanted the best for me.

But now that I am acutely aware that I'm rubbing off on my kids, I would like to change the behavior. I need to inform Alex that it's okay for her not to have her life planned out. And perhaps Cole should start drawing on some sullied paper–merely as therapy. It might be good for him.

Perfect...

Perfect...

And as for me? I'm going to stop trying to do everything and pay closer attention to my kids...to ensure they know I love them no matter what...mistakes, imperfections and all.

The Dining Table

The other night my hubby was attempting to visit with me about one of the March Madness games. When I hesitated to respond as if I was clueless on the matter, he politely reminded me that we had been sitting in the living room watching the aforementioned game together.

"Oh, yeah," I explained myself. "Wasn't really watching though. I had to get caught up on some reading." This is completely true, btw. I have too much to read and too little time.

He chuckled at me.

"Why do you find that humorous?" I asked.

"I just don't understand why you think you need to fit four lifetimes into one."

I have a few plans. In no specific order, I'd like to

• Understand economics at all levels (as do many others right now),
• Master the art of business, 
• Win a Pulitzer by writing a simple novel about universal compassion,
• Raise remarkable children, and, of course,
• Create the charm of a Pottery Barn store in my home.

Of all of those goals, the last one really baffles me. At so many levels. I can't even get the dining room table right–something that can really set the tone of a house. As soon as I come home from work, it's the first piece of furniture I see. And I can barely see it. Allow myself to explain:

While my centerpiece of faux grass spikes fearlessly on the distressed dining table as a part of my rustic motif, I'm distracted by...clutter. Shin guards aerate! Overstuffed school bags collapse instead of hang on the hooks that were specifically made for them by the entrance! Baseball gloves await to go back outside! Endless drawings and paper shout, "Hey, waste about thirty minutes shuffling through me!" And amazingly, someone actually found enough surface to eat. You see, someone didn't take their dirty glass or plate to the dishwasher. It had to to be a kid. Who else would be enticed to eat at this sticky table? Not Martha Stewart, that's for sure. She'd be downright appalled.

I always thought that by this time in my life my dining room table would like something like this: 

Yes, with that backdrop for scenery. Maybe even with a Sheep dog sleeping underneath. Instead I have this:

Oh wait. I see it. The cute kid sitting there. Man, I love that boy. And his messes. And his sister's messes. And his father's messes. Guess, my table is pretty dang awesome after all. Pottery Barn can have their uncluttered perfect table. I'll keep mine.

Hail Mary’s and St. John’s Wart

A few years ago, when the kids were still toddlers, my friend told me a story that I keep in my hip-pocket. My friend, Lyn (I think I’ve mentioned her before), is extremely laid back. As a matter of fact, I’ve known her nearly my entire life and have NEVER seen this girl mad. I lived with her in college and I rarely saw her frustrated. She goes with the flow easier than anyone I’ve ever met. One day she told me that she was so mad that she called her husband and ordered him to come home before she killed her second child. I felt a sense of relief. Not because Troy would keep her from killing Anna, but because if Lyn could blow a fuse, it’s bound to happen to anyone.

Normally, patience rules my temperament as well. But once in a while, it’s like a firecracker explodes in me. I curse. I want to throw stuff. Even break something. And boy, does my family take notice. Like last night.

Normally I don’t complain about the lack of help I get around the house. Okay, that’s not true, but normally I don’t make too big deal about it. Maybe that's not true either. Anyway, after supper last night, which was made up of a BLTs (a meal that always sounds simple but involves a lot of running -- get more toast, get more toast…), I sort of blew. Food pieces and dirty plates were everywhere. Doug was hypnotized by the Olympics. Cole was making a dessert consisting of a cheese quesadilla. Alex was walking around the kitchen looking at the ceiling. When I exclaimed that a few people around here could help me out a bit, boy did I see results. Everyone jumped up, including Doug. When Doug takes me seriously, I must mean business. But it doesn’t really take four people to unload and load a dishwasher, and soon I felt kind of silly about my outburst.

The next time I feel like unleashing on my family,I'll say a few Hail Mary’s (there’s something about saying “full of grace” that inspires me to be more patient) or take another dose of St. John’s Wart(there’s something about taking a pill that makes me think my maladies are cured.

Or, maybe I’ll just call Lyn. Chances are she’ll be able to relate.