Lessons from a Pool Toy

I sat on the edge of the zero-depth kiddie pool and watched my girls splash near my feet. Reese filled a miniature watering can and poured it into Allie's open palm. Ah, those precious giggles. Matt sat nearby on the floor of the pool fiddling with a rubber squirt toy. Last fall we talked about spending his spring break in Mexico sans children, but instead opted for the far cheaper - and much less relaxing - family fun day in Peoria, Illinois (just 30 minutes from home). Toddler Splash at the Riverplex and Burger Barge 2 for lunch. Upper class all the way.

We really did have a great time at the pool. Reese finally overcame her fear of getting her face and head wet, and she had a blast going down the miniature water slide and perfecting her crab walk. Allie had not been in a pool since last summer, and her elated expression was well worth missing out on the palm trees and Margaritas. 

Sometimes when I see my kids having so much fun in such a simple moment I wonder where I derailed. I can (reluctantly) admit that I am a bit of a no-nonsense person, and the days of carefree child-like fun seem so far lost. My desire to prevent messes and injuries often overrides my ability to let loose and have fun. Routine. Order. Control. Boring. That's me. And if it doesn't seem that way to others (thank God), that's often how I feel. 

Watching the girls continue to play, I caught a glimpse of Matt raising a now full squirt toy out of the water. Before I could react, he sprayed a line of water down my abdomen. I shot him a "don't you dare" look as he submerged the toy again. This time he shot me in the face. In the face! He roared with laughter as I stared back at him. "Hun, c'mon," I always say in that long, drawn out way that shows my level of irritation with just two words.

Only I didn't say that. I didn't say anything. Instead, Reese jumped up and said, "Daddy, Mommy doesn't want you to do that!" This wasn't the first wake-up call to the reality that I am creating a miniature no-nonsense version of myself. Her personality is mine in every way. She is bossy and controlling. She prefers order to chaos. And she is often intolerant of even the most innocent teasing. 

And, boy, did I marry a teaser. He's the type who likes to give me jumper cables while I'm cracking eggs. (That's when you take your index fingers and poke them into both sides of another person's waist). One year when Reese had the flu on New Year's Eve, Matt wanted to bet on which one of us would come down with it first. I was not amused. That night, I got up from the couch and went to the bathroom. As I hung my head over the toilet, he peeked around the corner and said, "You win." And suddenly there I was throwing up and laughing at the same time. He's witty and sarcastic and his humor has thwarted way more arguments than it's caused. In fact, it tops the list of things I love about him. He's hilarious.

Yet here I am today giving him dirty looks because I don't want to go to a dumpy burger joint with frizzy hair. Really?? 

I realized then that I never derailed. I just don't choose to laugh as often anymore, and for some reason it seems that the older I get, the less laughter wins. I blame stress – and not the I-can’t-pay-my-bills stress or someone-I-love-is-dying stress, but the kind of senseless self-induced, anxiety-driven stress that I can’t seem to pin on any single life event (or even series of events). And isn’t life just too damn short for imaginary stress to override moments of laughter, joy, and soaking-wet fun? 

I think so.

As suddenly as it appeared, my angry expression transformed into a sly smile as I reached for a squirt toy of my own. I pointed it at Matt and squeezed the head of a rubber tiger. A pitiful arc of water dribbled from its mouth. Matt laughed even harder and sprayed my face again. I tried to reload, but I couldn't squeeze the tiger hard enough to reach him. After a few more tries, I dropped my weapon in surrender. Water dripped from my face and hair and our laughter echoed off the walls. 

Reese ran over and sat on the edge of the pool next to me. "Spray me, Daddy! Spray me!" 

Matt squirted her belly. She squealed. "Do it again!"

Then Allie walked over to him and doused him with the watering can, getting revenge for Reese and me. Someday in the future, when I hear a song that prompts a spontaneous mental montage of special moments, this scene at the pool will surely make the cut.

Laughter doesn't always come up against another choice; it just flows naturally from a good happy mood. Other times, it fights tooth and nail just to get you to crack a smile. It’s like the way your response to a messy spill can land anywhere between indifferent shrug and total meltdown depending on anything from hormones to stress levels (real or imagined) to where this spill falls in today’s lineup of mishaps. If I’m in a good mood and Matt gives me jumper cables while I’m cracking eggs, I laugh and turn my head to kiss his cheek. If I’m in a bad mood, or (more often) in a self-induced stress frenzy, I resort to an irritated “grow up” comment and matching eye roll.

What I’ve learned, though, is that – in more circumstances than we may know (or care to admit) – our response is a matter of choice. In the split second that I felt the water from Matt’s squirt toy begin to pelt my face, something inside me wanted to react with anger or annoyance or – at the very least – a pleading, “Hun, please don’t” with forced politeness. At the same time, another part of me urged a different response…

“Laugh. Really, it’s ok. So what if your makeup runs and your hair gets frizzy? So what if you didn’t pack a brush or a hair tie? The annoyance you feel isn’t about Matt or the squirt toy. It’s about other (totally unfounded) fears and worries that have nothing to do with family fun day. What a great chance to let all that go for a while. Now grab that tiger and squirt him back!” 

An hour later, I sat at the Burger Barge 2 with my Moo-Shroom (aka Swiss and mushroom) burger and fries and, seriously, the frizziest hair ever. I took Allie to the bathroom for a diaper change and glanced in the mirror. Cringing at the sight of my, I turned on the sink hoping some moisture would temporarily tame my frizz. From her position on my hip, Allie reached forward and splashed in the water. I gave her a moment of fun (ah, those precious giggles) and then turned the faucet off without touching my hair. I dried my hands and looked in the mirror again, smiling at my wild hairdo and the memory of the moment that created it.

Are You Smarter Than A Ten-Month-Old?

Allie is ten months old now (yes, I know, time flies) and entering the most fascinating - and aggravating - stage of development. She’s fully mobile (not quite walking on her own, but almost) and getting into everything. Life is one big discovery and common sense is non-existent. It’s cute, funny, annoying, frustrating, and amazing all at the same time.

Yesterday she pulled a spoon out of the dishwasher. She looked it over from every angle and smiled at the shiny metal. She stuck the handle in her mouth, unimpressed by the taste. Then she tapped it on the open door of the dishwasher and looked up at me with wide eyes and a huge smile as she continued banging it on the other items in the rack.

 

I stopped chopping tomatoes and sat down on the floor to watch my little drummer. I love those moments. Actually, I love watching her do anything – pull all the sandwich baggies out of the box, push tiny pieces of banana around her high chair tray, play with her toes. I love it because whatever she does, she’s completely absorbed in the moment. Every smile conveys genuine, unfeathered joy. Her shoulders carry no weight of any burden. Her heart is not heavy with worry or fear. She’s just being her. Just being here. Just being.

We have so much to learn by watching our little ones in action. How wonderful would it be to be able to close our minds to any thoughts that are irrelevant to - or distracting from - the beauty and peace available in any given moment?

When I first started leaning into spiritual growth several years ago, the concept of presence kept coming up. Just be where you are. At first, I didn’t get it. How can you be anywhere else? As it turns out, you can be in many places at once if you give your mind and your thoughts the freedom to wander. Once I really became aware of the constant disconnect between the actions of my body and the thoughts in my head, I discovered that I am really not very present at all. Rather, a large part of me is chronically absent.

Presence is all about being fully engaged in the current moment with no part of your mind dwelling on events of the future or past (or judgmental thoughts about others or personal insecurities or what’s going on with healthcare reform). For most of us, that is not easy to do because we are not even aware that our minds are fragmented. Having irrelevant or counter-productive thoughts when we’re supposed to be enjoying a movie with our spouses or building block towers with our kids or praying in church is so common that we don’t really recognize it as a problem. We entertain our thoughts and worries so automatically that we don’t even know we’re missing out on the full experience of being wherever we are.

The key to breaking these habits is awareness. It’s kind of hard to stop yourself from being distracted if you’re not even aware that you are distracted in the first place. It starts with turning your attention inward and recognizing that being absorbed in irrelevant thought serves no purpose other than pulling you away from feeling pure joy for this moment.

Growing in presence has helped me tremendously with my tendency to feel overwhelmed by the many demands of life and motherhood. Often, when I engage with my kids, a part of me remains focused on what’s not getting done. Then I start getting things done and another part of me feels guilty for not engaging with my kids. That’s so silly, and yet, so common. By focusing on presence, I can find guilt-free joy in playtime and productive time and my days flow with less effort.

Try it today. The next time you’re engaged in an activity (anything from washing dishes to playing with your kids to getting a manicure), notice where your thoughts are wandering and notice how present – or absent – you are in the experience of what you’re doing. Then try doing that activity as if you are a ten-month-old child. No competing emotions. No worries. No outside thoughts. Just being.

Then take in the joy.

Joy? Even for dishes?

Yes, joy for dishes. Sing while you rinse. Dance while you dry. Who knows? You might even start drumming with a spoon.

Life is What You Make It

"Mommy, can we go play in the snow?"

It's so hard to tell her no. "Well, not right now. It's too cold for Allie and we can't leave her in the house by herself."

"Oh, ok." She disappeared into her room and emerged a few minutes later dressed like this...

She ran up to me, wild with excitement.

"Mommy! Hurry! Come see the snow!"

She dragged me to her room, and I instinctively turned my attention toward the snow covered ground outside her window.

"No, Mommy. Right here," She scooped a pretend snowball from her carpet and held it out for me to see.

"Come on, Mommy. Let's play in the snow! But, it's very cold so you better get your hat and gloves."

How could I argue with that? I went to the laundry room and dug out a hat and my warmest pair of gloves.

When I returned in the proper attire, she launched a pretend snowball in my direction. I staggered backward, "You got me!" Then I bent down and made a "snowball" of my own. She ducked behind the rocking chair, "You missed!" I couldn't help noticing that she giggles the same way whether she's throwing a real snowball or a fake one.

We chased each other around the room, throwing pretend snow and making pretend snow angels. We built an pretend snowman and slid down pretend hills on pretend sleds. When we were done, she poured pretend mugs of hot chocolate in her tea party set and we warmed our hands and feet by a pretend fire.

As the scene unfolded, I thought back to a few specific incidents where unexpected circumstances altered my perfect plans and the resulting disappointment hindered my ability to fully enjoy myself in spite of a few hiccups. When I told Reese that we couldn't play in the snow, she could have had a tantrum. Or she could have given up and found something else to do. Instead, she put her boots on anyway.

Kids have an amazing ability to refresh an adult's perspective on life. That morning, Reese decided that she was going to play in the snow and nothing - not even the complete absence of the one thing she needed in order to fulfill her plan - was going to stop her from doing it. She simply decided what she wanted and then she found a way to create it. Not only did she succeed, but she had just as much fun as she would have if she actually was outside.

It took a two-year-old in a t-shirt and princess snow boots to remind me that life is far too unpredictable (and far too short) for us to allow our circumstances to dictate the manner in which we experience it. In any situation, we see what we choose to see. With a little shift in attitude, our challenges can become our adventures, our struggles can become our gifts, and unexpected circumstances can become windows of opportunity.

Sometimes life does knock us down, rain on our parade, and derail our plans. I think we all know what it's like to be that kid looking out the windows of our lives at something we're told we can't have - the "snow" we can't go play in. Those moments come with choices. You can resist them with a tantrum. You can give up and move on. Or you can get up and put your boots on anyway.  

For the month of March, Bigger Picture Blogs is celebrating the change from winter to spring with the theme "Rejuvenate." Join in here for more rejuvenating winter/spring moments!

On the Wings of Someday

Someday...

I repeat that word to myself every time I fantasize about having a meaningful place in the writing world. And for some reason, "someday" is always enough to keep me content with my current state of affairs. It condones my habit of diving under the rug for weeks at a time when I feel discouraged by someone or something, and it lets me continue believing that I really do have every intention of pursuing my dream down the road when life is more convenient.

As much as I hate to admit it, I have been buying emotional stock in "someday" for quite some time.  

The first time I looked in the mirror and saw a writer inside me, I was eight. I wrote a story about a special teddy bear and it was "published" at our local library. Two years later I won a school-wide essay contest on the essence of the Olympic spirit. Throughout high school I never received less than an A+ on a writing assignment, and I still remember  the verbatim compliments of every teacher who encouraged me to pursue this as a career. In college, I applied for four scholarships with an essay component. I won them all.

I'm telling you this not because I want to boast. Actually, I'm rather ashamed. Sure, I'm proud of those specific moments, but what disappoints me is that I took every single one and stuffed it away as encouragement for the dream I would pursue... someday.

For twenty years after I held my very first book in my hands and knew in my heart that I was meant to write, I continued to stand on the cracked foundation of "someday." Looking back, I often wonder where I could have been if I had the courage to sidestep my pride and decide on any one of my 8,000 yesterdays that "someday" would be today.

Two years ago, I grabbed the tail end of a dream that I believed had slipped away and I slowly started reeling it back in. Two years ago today, I published my very first blog post, and in that moment I reconnected with that little girl holding her five-page, self-illustrated book about a missing teddy bear and the child determined to find him. Even though I still have a long way to go in the pursuit of that dream, I'm finally able to say that I have stopped saying I will and started saying I am.

Don't do what I did. Don't wait twenty years to start believing in your gifts, pursuing your goals, and reaching for your dreams. What plans have you packed away in the storage room of your future? Reach into that room and unpack that box. Then leap out and fly on the wings of your dreams so they never have the chance to fly off on the wings of “someday.”

The Best is Yet to Come

Slowing our bikes to a stop, we gathered in a giggly cluster on the front lawn of my childhood home. A white limousine sat in front of the house across the street next to a group of smiley teenagers. We watched in awe, whispering as quietly as young girls can whisper while we cast our votes for the prettiest dress and the cutest date. When the limo finally drove off, we returned to our bikes and I pedaled down the street behind my friends, fantasizing about my own prom night and the many promises of a bright and beautiful future.

That was eleven years before I actually attended my own prom, and here I sit eleven years after, having experienced so many of the days that once seemed so far away – high school, college, marriage, pregnancy, motherhood. Through the first three decades of my life I looked toward the years ahead with such hope and anticipation. Every year brought another exciting “first” and the future was full of mystery and adventure. I wanted to look older, feel older, be older. The best is yet to come.

Somewhere along the way, my feelings toward the future began shifting away from excitement and floating in the space between indifference and dread. With so many major events now in the past, I feared that life would become perpetually repetitive, boring even. No longer able to fantasize about where I might “end up,” I wondered if the adventure was over, if I would begin to spend less time daydreaming about what is to come and more time entertaining thoughts of what might have been “if only…”

Yesterday I celebrated my 30th birthday – not the way I celebrated my tenth with a slumber party filled with popcorn and late-night laughter; or the way I celebrated my eighteenth with a huge bonfire in my parents’ backyard; or the way I celebrated my twenty-first with an irresponsible number of shots and a very spotty memory. Instead, I spent the day at the pumpkin patch with Reese and my mom, and then I enjoyed a pedicure and dinner with friends. It was quiet, peaceful, and perfect, and I celebrated because the repetition I anticipated has become the comfort I seek and the boredom I feared has become the contentment I cherish.

With one decade closing and another about to begin, the future is filled with a different kind of adventure. The identity-seeking years of wild parties and tangible firsts are becoming the peacefully stable years of security, consistency, and continued spiritual growth. With a greater appreciation for simple joys and deeper gratitude for even the smallest blessings, I have a renewed sense of excitement for all that lies ahead.

As 21st birthdays become 40th birthdays, weddings become 50th anniversaries, and graduation parties become retirement parties, I will always remember that little girl on her purple bike pedaling toward the road ahead with the wind at her back and a heart full of hope and anticipation for the promises of a bright and beautiful future. 

The best is yet to come.

This is a Bigger Picture moment.

Share with us today at Jade's place!

Finding Your Inner Child

We unloaded the wooden rocking chair from my mom’s van - the chair she and my dad stained from naked wood before I was born; the chair that rocked newborn babies, entertained climbing toddlers, and smashed a few toes in its thirty years of service to our family. With my mom finally ready to part with it, I gave it a new home beside my bedroom window.

I ran my fingers over the nicks and dents from falling objects, flying toys, and rambunctious pets. I noticed places where the stain has been thinned by years of friction. Despite its scars, it remains mostly unchanged, a pillar of consistency through a life full of transformation. 

I sat in the very seat where my little toddler feet stood almost three decades ago and felt my earliest childhood memory begin to resurface. Facing backward toward the living room window with my little hands clasped around the dark wood, I would rock to the rhythm of the blinking light on the electrical tower in the distance, captivated by the red ball in the sky and completely convinced that my motion controlled its steady flash. 

That was before the reality of divorce, death, and taxes taught me that control is an illusion. That was before I became weighted with memories of the past and worries for the future. That was before I experienced emotions like grief and disappointment. That was before life disrupted the peaceful innocence of a toddler lost in a simple moment of joy. 

I have often longed for the return of that innocence and for years I wondered if the memory of it was the closest I would ever come to experiencing it again. Sitting in that chair, I felt the thirty year gap begin to close. I may have lost sight of that innocence, but the innocence itself was never really lost. I am still that toddler. Somewhere along the unstoppable river of time, that toddler is still rocking in that chair, still fascinated by the light in the distance, still peacefully lost in a simple moment of joy. 

I turned myself around in the seat and knelt on the faded wood. Facing backward toward the bedroom window, I held on to the back of the chair and rocked to the rhythm of the swaying trees.

This is a Bigger Picture Moment.

Join us today at Brook's place.