ode to silly bands:a tragic misuse of iambic pentameter

 they are but rubber rings of glee displayed

on  sweaty preschool children’s legs and arms.

each birthday party’s now a place to  trade,

a golden sun for an emerald lucky charm.

“you’ve let them plunge headlong into this trend?”

said a friend to me with much disdain and gall,

that my children’s elbows no longer bend

and no pink skin peeks through the loops at all.

so as to keep this killjoy grump at bay

i didn’t speak the merits of the strands:

fine motor work and interactive play

employed to chain and share those silly bands.

what’s not to like about this market niche?

but that i’m not the one who’s getting rich!

as my parents tell the story, i began begging them for piano lessons just a few weeks before i turned four. when my requests persisted long enough to surpass the lifespan of most preschool whims, they took me to my first lesson. i had four different teachers in 13 years, during which time i discovered that i inherited the “playing by ear” gene from my great aunt billie. this discovery corresponded with my prideful refusal to practice and my less-than-enthusiastic attitude toward reading music… but i digress.

now that my little monkey is living out the last few weeks of his third year, i find myself hoping that he will clearly articulate or exhibit some sort of special interest in something. i don’t expect him to be a prodigy, nor do i want to usurp all of his free time (and mine) with a slew of resume-building activities. i do not want to enter him in pageants or groom him for the u.s. olympic swim team. but i do feel responsible for introducing him to activities that he might enjoy and arenas where he might experience success. these expectations seem reasonable enough, right?

but bordering on ridiculous is my somewhat unreasonable dream that one of my sons become a bluegrass fiddle player. this dream is merely the resurrected form of my own desires to play the fiddle. these desires died a painful death after a three-month fiddle rental and the fact that the excruciating series of cat mating sounds that followed caused my husband to question his decision to marry me. i now surround my children with bluegrass fiddle music and take every opportunity to impart to them my appreciation for its beauty. in my more generous moments, i have even been known to expand my hopeful projections to include instruments such as the banjo and the mandolin.

even so, i agree with ayelet waldman, who writes in her book, bad mother, that “the point of a life, any life, is to figure out what you are good at, and what makes you happy, and, if you are very fortunate, spend your life doing those things” (205).

it is my job to help my children do this. it is not my job to raise little people to fill the gaps in my own talents and sense of happiness.  i know this. and i know how to use the cd player to fill my home with bluegrass music, and how to play the piano by ear (thank you mom, dad, and great aunt billie). what i am less sure about is how to weave together the monkey’s leanings and my instincts, how to avoid over programming him and under programming him, and how to help him gracefully accept the inevitable failures that are mile markers on the way to success.

thoughts?

the monkey fully embraced life in the mountains. he spent the month clad in silly bands, lanyard necklaces, shoes that were perpetually wet from creek walking, and a wide, sticky, ice-creamy grin. nothing spells camp like tight sweaty ringlets, the constant talk of  counselors and fellow campers, and a slew of silly songs playing on repeat inside an almost-four-year-old head.

meanwhile, the bird picked up his new favorite hobby: throwing rocks in the creek. he replaced his barely distinguishable babble with real words that actually made sense in context, and thereby joined fellow toddlers throughout time and space in demonstrating for their elders what a miracle the human grasp of language really is. he had his own pair of perpetually wet shoes and his own allotment of silly bands (thanks to the monkey). like his brother, he waltzed into clubs every day to a chorus of counselors’ welcomes.

is is possible that my children did an entire years’ worth of growing up in one month? from certain angles i took in their shaggy hair and occasional nonchalance and imagined their impending teenage years. i saw that what my friend steve says is true: “with parenting, the days go by slowly but the years go by quickly.”

or perhaps it was my own relaxed, campy persona that gave me pause to take a broader view of my children and their progress. with both children in childcare for the first time, i found myself hiking on mountain trails, practicing yoga in a local studio, and sipping coffee on the porch. this time afforded me a glimpse into a future stage, with increased spare time and possibilities.

parenting’s relentless onslaught of joy and duty seems to evoke a delayed sort of processing. there is no time to sift through the realities of one stage until the next stage is dawning. i have been a parent for almost four years now, but this recent preview of the future is the first real glimpse i have gotten of life beyond babyhood. i was able to remember what i liked to do before i had kids and imagine a life that will return me to those things someday.

but for now i am content to re-enter our memphis routine — the onslaught of  joy and duty. however, i do this with the new knowledge that though the days go by slowly, the years truly do fly by, carrying the sweet sounds of baby babble with them.

there are many common narratives in the collective story bank of motherhood, each with its own familiar plot and phrases. who hasn’t told or heard a “stuck child” story, complete with words such as

“…and then i realized that [fill in name of small child] had accidentally locked himself/herself in the bathroom.”?

and now, in an age when  modern mothers are increasingly appreciated and accomplished in the workplace, the “vocational turning point” story is becoming a collective throng. it often goes something like this:

“that day, when [insert chaotic clash of work and home life] happened, i knew i needed to change the way i was working.”

as it happens, these two prototypes converged for me last friday night. the bird was singing his own familiar tearful chorus as i showered and got ready to be the liturgist at the final montreat women’s connection worship service. after learning that it is virtually impossible to simultaneously hold a child and don a dress, i allowed him to use my leg as a teething biscuit as i hurriedly applied my makeup.

just as i was feeling smug about the fact that i would have a whole fifteen minutes to go over my part in the service after i dropped the kids off at my mom’s house, the monkey declared that he needed to tee tee. he did his business, and then, so as not to be outdone by his brother, he instantly deteriorated into a fitful rage that reportedly rendered him completely incapable of pulling up his own pants. i calmly closed the bathroom door and told them that he was welcome to come out once his pants were no longer around his ankles.

in his tornadic attempt to liberate himself from captivity, the monkey accidentally turned the tarnished brass lever above the knob on the old mountain house bathroom door. he was locked inside, and getting more panicky by the second.

my friends and temporary roommates calmed the (now hysterical) bird and hovered outside the locked bathroom door with these  necessary tools:

• a knife
• a spatula
• a phillips head screwdriver

meanwhile, i finished buttoning my dress as i walked outside and scaled a bear-proof garbage bin to get a look inside of the window. a neighbor strolled by and inquired as to why i was five feet above the ground, wearing a towel on my head, leaning at a 45 degree angle, peering into a window, and scaling the house’s exterior wall. he reported that in all of his 30 years of living across the street, he has never seen a person exhibit such behavior.

five minutes later, the monkey, who is apparently remarkably stellar at following my directions (when he feels like it), unlocked the door and waltzed out of the bathroom *with* his pants pulled up. i hopped down from my perch, shuttled the kids to my mom’s house, proceeded to the service, did my part without any major incedents, and moved on.

except that i haven’t really moved on. though i am new at telling the “stuck child” story, there are a zillion other stories that coincide with my attempts to maintain my identity as a person who works, albeit part-time, outside of the home. i’ll spare you the details of the “calling poison control” story, the “writing on the walls” story, and the “submerging daddy’s shoes in the bathtub” story. just know that all three of these plots unfolded while i was trying to fulfill obligations pertaining to my job as a minister.

i don’t know what sorts of shifts i will make in the way i structure my work life, but there will be some. and to the neighbor, who marveled at the site of a young mother living out the particulars of her own “stuck child” story, i have this to say:

if you look closely, you will find that mothers all around you are desperately trying to climb “the wall”. they can be heard pumping during conference calls. they can be found supervising third grade math homework while working on their own coursework. many are simply trying to shower for work in relative peace. women’s roles have changed during the last 30 years, but “the wall” is still there. when old challenges crumble away, they are quickly replaced by new ones.

i might be the first person you have seen shouting instructions to a three-year-old from a lofty perch. but i am by no means the first woman to employ flexibility, strength, and a sense of humor while creatively solving a problem and wearing a cute dress!

as a minister and a child of a dynamic presbyterian church, i have been a part of my fair share of foot washings. in fact, very few maundy thursdays or youth retreats have passed without the uneasy descent into vulnerability that occurs when one clumsily liberates the feet from their hiding places of leather, canvas, buckles, and laces, and offers them, in all of their clammy smelliness, to a fellow community member possessed of a rag and water bowl.

it’s too much raw humanity, yet we do it anyway. except for those times when, in the interest of time and the preservation of dignity, we wash hands instead. i have always chuckled at this modification of ritual and this attempt to clean up something that is intentionally messy. until i encountered these:

until i had boys, i did not know it was possible for the putrid smell of a post-game NFL locker room to be contained so neatly in a children’s size nine keen sandal. and i never dreamed that the still-sweet-smelling curly head of an 18-month-old could be part of the same body held upright by tar-bottomed peds. i wash two sets of powerfully smelly feet (almost) every night now. and i am here to tell you: it is not an exercise for the faint of heart.

the level of fith and sacremental beauty present during my kids’ bathtimes far outweighs anything i have ever experienced in all of my 33 years of church membership and six years of ordained ministry.  some rituals happen in gothic stone churches, and others happen in standard issue tubs. but both are grand entrances into deep spiritual intimacy — chances to make and mark meaning as we put one foot in front of the other.

one of the best parts about spending the month in western north carolina is getting to spend time with my brother, who lives in asheville. and one of the best things about his status here as a local is that he takes us on adventures that cannot be found on trail maps and in guidebooks. who knew that there are hidden trail heads on exit ramps and places on earth where poison ivy and private property give way to scenes like this?

the monkey and bird were experiencing  their first day of clubs, a day camp at montreat, while the adults were embarking upon waterfall hike. but i could not help but be distracted by daydreams of a future time, when my little boys will be big boys, old enough and eager to climb the rocks and dunk their heads under the rushing water. sometimes there is so much promise in the future that it is difficult to stay in the present.

in our current stage of toddlerhood, afternoon naps, and the boys’ almost constant need for assistance, it is so easy to get swept away by far off notions that someday, adult conversation and uninterrupted sleep will re-enter our lives. and then i catch myself forgetting that this time of sloppy nose-kisses, uninhibited delight, the honest articulation of fears, sweet sweaty ringlets, triumph over small accomplishments, and the natural wisdom of innocence is fleeting and precious.  i know i will long for this stage when it is gone.

when we were on our way to the mountains on friday, i received an email from the rental company pressuring us to decide upon our rental plans for next year. never mind that we had not even begun our mountain adventure for the current year. never mind that we were, at the time, simply trying to make a bag of pipe cleaners last for the remainder of our trek down I-40.

the world will lure us prematurely into the future if we haven’t already wandered there ourselves. for me, being fully present in the moment is something i talk about and value, though i find it almost impossible to do! apparently, as i learned on our hike, wearing a t-shirt emblazoned with the words, “BE PRESENT” does not automatically calm the multi-tasking mind.

funny how this does, though:

i take solace in the fact that there are moments scattered here and there that seem to stand outside of time. thank goodness for a spontaneous plunge into frigid water; the surrender of the bird, who stops resisting his nap long enough to rest his head on my chest; and the first cup of coffee enjoyed on a tree-top porch.

speaking of coffee, let us not underestimate its importance when it comes to living in the present and parenting small children.

i am always thrilled when readers leave little photographic gems in my inbox. if you have funny pictures of your child(ren), by all means, share the humor and send them on. (the pictures, that is, not the children. i’ve got my hands full over here.)

today’s picture is from anna, who writes, “The night of C’s ballet recital she wanted to sleep in her tutu. I told her no, bathed her, dressed her in pjs, and when I came in to check on her later this is what I found:”

well C sure showed them, huh?

today is the first in a month of mornings that i’ll be waking up in the mountains of western north carolina. i’ll post more soon about our trip and the requisite en route adventure. but for now, let’s catch up on another amusing little episode, shall we?

a couple of weeks ago, andy and i, along with our raucous progeny, were speed-eating our way through dinner at el porton mexican restaurant. then, just as i was taking my first sip of my second margarita, a couple of high school girls, who were participating in some sort of a scavenger hunt, approached us with sombreros and a camera and explained that they needed a picture of a “normal american family.”

as you can see, not even the prospect of high school scavenger hunt fame can distract me from the lure of tequila. the next day, the picture appeared on facebook, and because the world is small, a mutual friend recognized us and tagged me.

but the point is, god help us all if our family is the picture of normalcy!

the monkey has a semi permanent “ear plug dread lock” in his hair thanks to his waxy blue plugs and embarrassingly infrequent showers (hello… doesn’t swimming count?). i still cut my hamburgers into quarters because my mom used to do this for me when i was little. in preparation for our current vacation, i couldn’t find one single toy to bring that was still in tact and had all of its pieces. for distraction purposes, i have given my infants tampons to play with at restaurants and my toddlers duct tape to play with on airplanes. my husband prefers to jog during the hottest part of the day, in what is arguably one of the hottest cities on the planet. our children were conceived through the miracles of science and are raised on a hodge-podge of common sense, superstition, tradition, book knowledge, and exhaustion-induced parenting moves.

but it is not just that our nuclear family is abnormal. we are the apples that have not fallen far from our eccentric family trees. my aunt, for example, is convinced that my deceased grandparents send us messages through blinking lights and other electrical anomalies. i wholeheartedly agree with her. andy’s dad has been known to buy enough plastic wrap at once to last for decades. we are aware of the longevity of such products because he proudly writes the purchase date on them with a sharpie and revels in this sacred “history” every time he is called to cover something up and put it in the fridge.

i would venture to say that i don’t even really LIKE people who seem to be living out the imaginary standard of “normal” living. i am much more drawn to the bizarre particulars that make people who they are.

i hope those high school girls won their scavenger hunt. but mostly, i hope that someday (and the sooner the better), they come to know that “normal” doesn’t really exist. there are many other standards one can employ to measure the quality of one’s life. take the amount of years that one uses the same roll of plastic wrap, for example!

my friend and boss, jarad, came up with these few lines the other day. they came just in time to remind me that my work in the home is important. i hope they do the same thing for you.

it doesn’t take a whole village
or a new paradigm
or any other grand thing
to make the world better,
not if the world is sitting across the counter-
brown eyes over scrambled eggs-
looking at you.

(the world happens
just like that.)

last night marked our first return in three years to the familiar smell of rendezvous barbecue nachos and happy tunes such as “walking in memphis” playing between innings.

rendezvous bbq nachos

but this time, instead of heading to our old seats behind home plate, we packed up the monkey and bird and headed to the kid-friendly bluff.

image from the commercial appeal

the kids assumed normal outdoor family event behavior as they wandered from blanket to blanket, pilfered food from strangers, danced and clapped to music, and required andy and me to thwart their repeated efforts to toddle off into the sunset. there were, however, two incidents involving the almost-four-year-old-monkey that gave me a reluctant glimpse into my future.

the first involved a ride that essentially looked like this:

it broke my heart that the monkey wanted to ride this thing. i just knew he would get to the top, become overwhelmed and terrified, and have to endure complete and utter hell until the ride’s end. but i managed to quiet my over-protective mom voice long enough to load him onto the pleather bench with several kids who were twice his age.

he LOVED the ride, and this broke my heart even more. he’s getting so big, and he has such a high tolerance for things that others perceive to be dangerous and scary. when this child turns 16, i think i’ll just take up residence in some sort of home for chronic worriers.

the second bit of parenting insight gained at the redbirds game pertained to the monkey’s constant refrain that went like this:

“mommy… daddy… i WAAAANNT one of those pointy fingers!!!”

i responded to this request by explaining that if we purchased a “pointy finger,” we would not have enough money to buy our dinner. this seemed to make sense to him for an entire 15 minutes, and our whole family enjoyed a much-needed respite from the onslaught of monkey melancholy.

then, out of nowhere, the monkey stood before us and presented his case. he said that he would gladly go without food for the evening in order to allocate our resources toward the purchase of one pointy finger. he proceeded to suggest that his hunger could be satiated by foods from home that have been previously paid for.

after andy and i stopped laughing hysterically long enough to come up with a game plan, we told the monkey that we’d buy a pointy finger on the way out *IF* he could manage to stop the begging and negotiating madness.

look who left with a pointy finger:

i cannot say that last night’s parenting decisions were stellar. we were taken off guard. we were not ready for the inevitable stage in children’s lives that involves desperately needing to purchase bits of junk in every possible venue. next time we’ll have our wits about us. there will be a plan in place. there will be pre-event conversations with the monkey about realistic expectations.

i am beginning to see that the older my firstborn gets, the more humility this parenting thing requires and generates. parenting is not for wimps, and parenting in public places requires complete submission to fits of embarrassment.

i can tell you this much: next time i see a mom giving in to her negotiating and fit-pitching child, i will not be pointing any fingers.