Bringing Up Baby

Young Master Aiden (check out the tee shirt)

Believe it or not, I successfully raised five humans. Oh, I made my boatload of mistakes (picture a QE2 size boat), but a handful of wonderful adults emerged from their upbringing anyway. From time to time, I am asked to spill my childrearing secrets. Unfortunately, I don’t remember much (lack of sleep then, plus memory loss now, are the culprits). But clearly whatever I did, worked out!

I'm sure my tips and tricks would not all resonate for Modern Moms (and Dads), but frankly, some of the current stuff I’m hearing sounds rather strange. Take, for example:

 

BLANKET TRAINING

Favored by the (in)famous Duggars, this method is supposed to instill unquestioning obedience in babies. You simply plop the infant on a blanket, with favorite toys just out of reach. Then, when your tot tries to grab the toys and exit the blanket, you are supposed to hit them (gently). Over time, the child learns to stay put, and also that Mom (and Dad) are kind of horrible.

 

BULLDOZER PARENTING

The successor to Helicopter Parenting, the Bulldozer doesn’t just hover helpfully around the child, but actually flattens any and all obstacles in the child’s way (including coaches, teachers and employers). The goal here is to make life perfectly smooth for little Brittanica or Adolphus, so that they need never shed a tear (or make any effort beyond the bare minimum). How like Real Life, eh? 

 

GENTLE (ALSO KNOWN AS MINDFUL OR RESPECTFUL) PARENTING

Now this sounds lovely, right? Who doesn’t want to be treated with gentleness and respect? The problem seems to be that it’s a one-way street. Mommy is smacked in the eye by young Lucretia (or Bronzino) because she asks them to get ready for preschool. Mommy should then examine her conscience: WHY is she making her precious one rush? Isn’t it MOMMY’S hang up (being “on time” for anything) and therefore Mommy’s fault? Something to ponder as Mommy gazes in the mirror at her new black eye.

 

REALLY LATE (IF EVER) POTTY TRAINING

I know, it’s the worst. But at some point, the kiddo has to learn to use the bathroom, and you’ve gotta help them figure it out. I’m reading about the increasing number of kindergarteners in pull ups (heck, why not transition them straight to Depends once they hit middle school?) Like setting boundaries and expectations, potty training is not the “fun” part of the parenting job. But it sure beats a poke in the eye! Oh, wait…

 

I could go on, but I only have 500 words to work with here. Suffice it to say, the grownups generally are trying their best, in a world that is increasingly challenging and stressful. It would be wonderful to dwell in La La Land, but we don’t. So, parents, aim for a middle ground: try to raise kids who are neither mindless automatons nor spoiled-rotten brats. Guide your offspring with both love and limits. And when in doubt, just ask yourself: WWED (What Would Elise Do?”)

Always glad to help! 

My gang! Not a serial killer in the bunch (that I know of:-)

By the Light of the Silvery Moon

Image by SarahCulture on Pixabay

Is there a heavenly body more referenced in song and story than the moon? From our babies' first book (Goodnight Moon) on, seems like everyone has weighed in about our orbiting companion. I have to admit that I’m usually observing the moon in the wee hours of the morning, due to the Farmer’s Hours I keep (I’ll be right back! I have to milk the goats!) But in the summer, I am hyper-aware of the different phases of the moon because of their effect on the tides. Not that I swim anymore, but I do still love a good sandbar (as do Aiden and Peter), and the wide open spaces of a full moon sandbar are the BEST (sadly, they only occur twice a summer while we’re in Lewes). 

While I cheered the various moon landings back in the day, it was a bit of a letdown to actually see how cold and barren the surface was; I mean, I wasn’t expecting cheese, green or any other variety, but this had all the visual appeal of a big, pockmarked boulder. The men ON the moon bounced along, kicking up dry dust, so much less glamorous than the mythical Man IN the Moon. Then I learned that many other planets are orbited by moons as well, so our one singular sensation maybe isn’t so sensational after all. Why, Saturn is encircled by 145 of them (what a showoff!) I can imagine the new ditties being penned by talented Saturnites: “Fly Us to The Moons”, “Moon Rivers” (or is it “Moons River”?) “I’m Being Followed by (Many) Moonshadows.” 

 

It took me years to figure out that the moon also had an impact on my moods. City girl that I am, I rarely registered much of the natural world at all. But, especially since my bipolar diagnosis, I do observe a certain—restlessness that overcomes me when the moon is full and bright. Friends who work in ERs also report an uptick in admissions then, more fights leading to injuries, more psychotic episodes, etc. It’s as if everything is bigger then, stronger, more obvious. The glow illuminates everything, including our darker impulses and aspects. I can only imagine how we humans would react to 145 full moons—watch out, solar system!

 

I’ll leave it to the scientists to parse out exactly why this happens. For me, it is enough to be reminded once more that we are all intimately connected to, and within, the universe. We write about the moon, we sing about the moon, we are also made of moon stuff. My yoga teacher Pattie tells us to reach for some moon dust, and cradle it in our anjali mudra (prayer hands), as a way to recognize and honor who we are. 

 

So let’s sing a chorus of “Shine on Harvest Moon,” chomp on a Moon Pie, and catch an episode of Sailor Moon. Let’s salute our faithful buddy in the sky, however it appears tonight.

 

Moonatics, the lot of us!

Full moon over ocean-Rehoboth Beach

Slicing the Pie

An Evan-baked pie (obviously)

If we look at life as a pie (and why not? I vote for peach-blueberry!), we divide our days into slices: this much for sleep, this much for work, this much for exercise (ha!) Some of these slices are non-negotiable, such as hours spent doing certain jobs. Others are more flexible (a nice big wedge for weekend sleep-ins, say, and a teensy sliver for jogging), but deep down we know we need a decent balance, to keep us from psychological indigestion.

After 20 years in my church position, I’ve been freer in retirement to re-cut my personal life pie, and let me tell you, it ain’t easy. If I use half of my waking hours surfing the internet for literary inspiration, for example, what crumbs remain will NOT get a story done and submitted. 

So, what’s the most effective way to divvy things up? 

I always appreciate a go-to formula of some kind, and am I in luck! Because there is indeed a foolproof calculation for us freelance writers. It’s called the 25/50/25 method. 25% of my pitches/pieces should be sent to publications I am confident will accept them; 50% should be to those bit of a stretch places, and the final quarter of my work should be submitted to the long shots, The New York Times, Atlantic Monthly, etc.

I already do this, sorta, but I confess to erring on the side of sending to far too many (poorly paid) "sure things". The middle 50% needs more of my focus in the months to come. These are the places where my essays may have previously been rejected with a “but do send us another!” encouraging note from the editor. Stupidly, these positive comments tend to paralyze me--what if I send that editor something else and they hate it? Better to cross that magazine off my list, than risk embarrassing myself with a total stranger! As for the top 25%, that’s where my imposter syndrome really kicks in. Who on earth am I to approach The New Yorker? I am, in the immortal words of Garth in Wayne’s World, not worthy.

Clearly my 25/50/25 needs a little work.

But that shouldn’t stop YOU from trying it! 

When you plan the week’s dinners, 25% should be can’t-miss entrees like PBJs, 50% should require an actual recipe, and 25% should require a degree from the Culinary Institute of America.

 At the office, try spending 25% of your day getting coffee, 50% doing the minimum at your job, and 25% sending your resume out to Bill Gates.

For the medical professionals, spend 25% of the day scribbling illegibly on prescription pads, 50% telling patients to lay off the desserts (especially pie) and the remaining 25% giving neurosurgery a whirl.

See how easily and effectively you can focus your efforts?

I heartily recommend the 25/50/25 method, at least until I learn about another way to organize. Now if you’ll excuse me, there’s 50% of an apple pie left in the kitchen. Duty calls! 

Stone Age

The boys have a book, A Street Through Time, that depicts the same place over a period of 12,000 years. While some of the eras’ names are familiar, I have to admit I had never before heard the early 1800s called “The Grim Times.” I’m not quibbling: those were, after all, the halcyon days of rampant maternal and infant mortality, soot-filled skies, slavery, child labor, contaminated water and spoiled meat (are we having fun yet?) But it does beg the question: were those times really THAT much "grimmer" than others? 

Another moniker, this for the prehistoric period: The Stone Age. This was the era when early man first used stone tools, and is divided into three periods: Paleolithic, Mesolithic and Neolithic. To that list I might add another: Aiden-lithic. This is the current period, centered in and around various bodies of water (ocean, bay, lake, pond), and featuring a nine-year-old boy and his skipping stones. 

 

Aiden does not just love this pastime—he is utterly passionate about it. His days at the beach are largely spent skipping rocks across the water’s surface, and he never wearies; his audience (the grownups) may weary, but The Skipper does not. “Did you see that, Nana? Eight skips!!” and he awaits my kudos. Now, mind you, he doesn’t REQUIRE adulation, it’s just a nice extra. Peter, on the other hand, prefers to work in solitude. This morning, when he successfully skipped a stone and I missed the moment, Peter consoled me, “It’s OK, Nana. I am my own audience.” 

Aiden giving Uncle Gil stone skipping pointers

Both boys are, of course, a blend of their parents, with a healthy dash of their own unique selves. But it is striking that young Aiden applies himself to pursuits--like stone skipping--with the same singleness of purpose his father once devoted to pitching a baseball, or scoring in Skee-ball at Funland. 

 

I was never a stone skipper. I lacked the coordination for one thing, also the attention span. Even as an adult church leader, I just couldn’t stick with it. I once led an exercise on a youth retreat involving the ripples a single stone makes when thrown into water (I think the point was the profound effect one action has on others). Anyway, about three seconds post stone launch, when the first ripples were barely appearing, I yelled, “See? Ripple effect! Now let’s have lunch!”

 

But now, I am noticing stones—big ones, little ones, flat and round ones—as I search for good specimens for Aiden’s skipping pleasure. In the past, I only had eyes for seashells (and those are still my faves), and I never even registered stones on the beach at all. 

 

How much else in this amazing world am I oblivious to? 

 

Much. But I’m trying to improve, and see this Stone Age through Aiden’s keen eyes. Aiden, who is teaching me perseverance, and enthusiasm, and the pure joy of a smooth stone breaking the surface of the sea. 

 

My Eras Tour. Taylor Swift, eat your heart out.

extra skipping stones in a bag, just in case

Tragically Optimistic

I think of optimists as perpetually sunny-natured folks, always looking on the bright side of life, no matter what. The jaunty South Pacific song “A Cockeyed Optimist” is playing in my mind’s jukebox even as I type this (and it is NO fun hearing the hokey lyrics “But I’m stuck like a dope/with a thing called hope” on repeat). Pessimists, on the other hand, are eternally grouches with black clouds hovering over their heads, and “Bah! Humbug!” ever on their lips. 

Which personality type am I? As usual with me, it’s complicated, and for ages I struggled along feeling like a walking paradox—a "glass neither half full or half empty" kind of gal. For the record, I am also what they call an “introverted extrovert” (I enjoy being around people, but they drain my energy). 

 

Why do such popular catchphrases as “Stay positive!” “Don’t worry—be happy!” “Everything will be OK!” and “Don’t give up!” ring so hollow to me during a tough time? Turns out there’s such a thing as Toxic Positivity, the insistence (against all evidence) that life is GREAT, and that all we need to do is don those rose colored glasses and we'll be fine.

 

I remember the day before my dad died, after suffering a catastrophic stroke. I was sitting by his bedside in the hospital, preparing to say goodbye, when in bustled a VERY cheery nurse, who snapped open the window blinds and caroled, “Come on, Mr. Cunningham!! Wake up!! You’re going to be JUST FINE!!” It was patently obvious that he would not be anywhere close to just fine, and shouting that at a dying patient seemed ridiculous to me. But I realize that, for her, being bright and upbeat in the face of sadness must have been a coping mechanism (and, to be fair, after the doctor spoke with her about my dad’s imminent demise, she was kind enough to apologize to me).

 

What makes more sense for my life, is to be what is called a “tragic optimist.” Tragic optimists are prepared for the ups and downs of living, and try to learn from their pain. The only way I was able to accept my bipolar disorder diagnosis was sharing my story, and helping other people share theirs. Viktor Frankl, who survived the Holocaust and wrote Man’s Search for Meaning, believed that this search is mankind’s main motivation, enabling one to have a hopeful life even amid very negative experiences. He suggested being authentic and aware, but also accepting and grateful. In the concentration camp, Frankl could not control the evil being done to him, but he could control his reaction to it, and did not let it destroy him.

 

In this flawed and often scary world, we don’t have to be Pollyannas to be optimistic. We can believe that most people ARE good, and that good will triumph in the end. 

 

So enough with the platitudes. Let’s be real. Let’s see the world as it is, and still have hope.

Two of my hopes for the future!