quality time

In terms of “quality time” with children not being what we expect.

We are parents – and we expect a lot of ourselves. Why don’t we have some good quality time with “this child” or with “these children”. Let’s take advantage of this moment we say. Perhaps we are feeling a bit guilty about shoving them off for the last while. The necessities of the day forcing us into our own tired out place of self regret - whatever the case, we make an effort to focus on the children – lets say, to play a game, play make-believe, something for which we have to abandon our own goals for the day, even if briefly, and sit on the floor or otherwise get on their level.

Great, fantastic. But what of the times when it feels as though we are wasting our time? Perhaps the children are only interested in arguing about the game? The older constantly corrects or derides the younger. The younger perhaps is exceptionally whining at every opportunity, or even at times when there shouldn’t even be an opportunity. Perhaps instead of enjoying the "quality time", we feel like we are pulling and pushing and otherwise keeping the whole thing from spinning out of control – keeping the little planet in orbit so to speak. The evening meal together could be another good example of this feeling.

So we are left wondering if this “quality time” thing is merely a myth. Or perhaps it will feel like quality time at some later point? Or better yet – maybe, as bad as it feels to sort out arguments, protect the weak, cheer on the disconsolate, and simply being there in the midst of the chaos as a proponent of relational “working it out” – is the best kind of quality time in terms of family building. Are the arenas of adult life any more functional or placid? Think of your workplace or that of your spouse – or anywhere else that humans have to form a group and work at a congregate goal.

I find myself believing that this groundwork, grunge work, in the trenches type of parenting – in the midst of the relational chaos of the children with their tensions, their moods, their discord and otherwise non-placid behavior – is actually the primary place that we as humans are able to learn to function as people. So what ends up feeling like a waste of time, or even failure on our part, is actually of exacting importance. Too bad it is so difficult to see in the moment.

Wearing the Shoe That Fits

Here is my once-per-week-or-so phenomena.  Shoes in their homes, aligned, semi-sorted and ready-to-go.  I continue to be amazed and startled at the ease and fluidity with which shoe collections emerge into the household.  I mistakingly thought we could make progress as the warm weather arrived.  We can get rid of these winter boots and make some space in here.  Ha!  Now we have rainboots and multiple pairs of variated models of summer footwear.  The summer flip-flop has evolved into the flip-flop, the croc, the practical sandal, the slip-on dressy sandal, etc., etc.  We haven't started talking about soccer cleats.  It is also the season for updated running shoes.  So I must bump my other shoes on down the line.  My "second pair" for rainy or muddy days.  My "third pair" for hanging out in the yard when I don't want to wear my workboots.  My "fourth pair" which must be thrown away?  It takes a moment of disciplined practicality to throw away shoes that I have shared so many miles with. 

A friend recently noted my pseudo-obsession with feats of discipline, or at least imagined feats.  A moment of self-reflection followed.  Why do I tend so heavily towards reigning the self in, securing the cargo, strapping down, quietness.  Last night I remained mum - choosing silence over what I imagined as tired and angry thoughts expressed for no particular purpose other than to initiate an argument, something I was too tired to desire.

Ours is an age of excess.  In every way conceivable.  We have to get up at crazy hours and perform incredible feats of mental agility in order to stave off the effects of food excess.  We have to buy books like The Information Diet in order to try and make sense of our excess media.  Today it is excess shoes.  Forgive me if I struggle to not become obsessed with discipline.  I so badly don't want to exceed.

Morning News

before it is time to wake up, M (3) yells out in her sleep, as she is prone, and I attempt to salvage the wee hours of darkness by stumbling over to her bed, perhaps to rub her back or tuck in her blanket.  instead she grunts, as though peeved, yells something about a giving her a snack.  having failed in the offer of comfort, I bestow a stern, "be quiet now."  she is dreaming.  before I can regain the warmth of my bed, N (1.5) yells from his room.  in the last few weeks he has decided to take on the grumpy morning demeanor of his sister.  so now instead of happy mumbles and chants in the morning, he half wails and moans in mock agony until I am forced to get him up out of desperation for ear solace.  even though it is a much more stressful way to do things, when I am too tired, I will not get up bofore N.  such is the case this morning, yet I go downstairs to clean out the woodstove and restock it with wood before I go up to save N from his own despair.  I also happen to have a stiff neck this morning, my wife and I have long discussions about stiff necks and what they imply.  for my current purposes, it implies that it is harder to hold two grumpy children on my lap as they try to wake up and try to whine the other out of their space, daddy's lap.  we sit in front of the woodstove in the morning darkness, I try not to move my head too much.  N is taking great delight in eating cereal and milk from a bowl like his sisters and has done well.  until this morning when he decides to dump his bowl down his front.  I'm not sure how much milk has dumped, how much has been drunk, until I observe a puddle of milk forming underneath his high chair, dripping out of the slot designed for a strap.  I wipe him off and postpone a thorough cleaning of the chair until L (8) is on her way out the door to the bus (or the "cat bus" as M lovingly refers to it.  or the "BSSSSSS!" as per N.) having completed her morning routine with a few smart alec comments, almost forgetting something, and kisses all around, although N trips while trying receive his kiss and must now wail instead of receive his sister's blessing.  I now turn my attention to the high chair and discover there is a decent amount of squished food/milk packed neatly into the fittings of the chair strap.  I decide it is time for a complete overhaul and am required to get a few tools out of the drawer in the kitchen in order to take everything appropriately apart.  M and N also must watch and help hold the tools as I do this.  eventually all the straps are removed, the packed food bits are painstakingly picked off the floor and appropriate surfaces cleaned with spray.  I work the straps into the first load of laundry for this "laundry day."  my wife is rustling in the kitchen, staunchly making hot oatmeal and pours the coffee I have managed to make in between the kids.  M informs me that N has pulled yet another glass ball ornament off the tree.  I search in vain for the balls matching cap and wire, and while I am kneeling in front of the small tree, M and N decide to parade around the tree.  N half trips over the light cord and pokes his face in the branches.  it is too tight for a good parade and I redirect his enthusiasm.  I remind M to wash her hands after going potty and make sure that N does not try to wash his.  my wife has time for an impromptu conversation and after several failed attempts we let the kids watch an episode of Maisy so that we might have our 5 minute conversation over breakfast.  we speak about the nature of stress and back aches, stiff necks, the on-going "Amish project", what the day may hold and why are the holidays so stressful?  what are we doing wrong?  how can we simplify? etc.  I ask about a few of her Amish patients and offer to start her car.  (which happens to be my Dad's truck - as her car is no longer working, long story)  we wife does not keep the habit of hanging keys up on the key hooks I bought at Lowes last year while carting around two kids and deciding to get the "real wood" mounted hooks even though they were more expensive.  instead they usually are in her brown bag, her purse, or one of her coat pockets.  after exhausting these possibilities, she remembers that she set them on the ground beside the raised beds last night while peeking at the spinach.  I retrieve them in my flip flops and start the truck, taking care not to back over any children that may have slipped out the back door without my notice.  my wife rubs my neck briefly until the attacks by N are just too much, she shows me a few stretches for shoulders and is on her way.  I water the outdoor cats, who in the winter only get small windows of opportunity to drink as their dish freezes so quickly.  I start the laundry for the morning, after finding a brown bag with handles for M who is asking for a "basket" to carry things with.  I attempt to negotiate a parallel play opportunity, as N also wants the bag.  this works until M informs me that N has torn the bag.  I find another bag.  we have about 3 days until the holidays break loose upon us.  it is now 10:03 on a chilly Monday morning.

Lettuce Visions

Guest blog by Olivia

Last night around midnight I realized that, if I keep paying off my med school debt at its current rate, I will be 57 when it is paid off.  I can hear my uncle Phil joking, "Hey doc, how's it going making the big bucks?" all the way from Pennsylvania.

I suppose I could have become a famous neurosurgeon.  I could have done 10 more years of residency, and paid off my loans after two days on the job.

I suppose I could have gone to Hershey med school with the dairy cows, instead of Einstein, where all the partying smart kids thought I was a little touched and left me behind when they took the express bus to Manhattan. 

I suppose Matthew and I could have continued to rent a duplex in Lewisburg, never owning a home.  Allen Roth would have been quite proud of us.  We could have raised 3 more mini-Wengers across the street from Catherman's bakery, filling their bellies with the best eclairs on the planet, while singing "I've got a mansion, just over the hilltops" after supper every night.  But I got a REALLY bad case of nesting instinct while expecting N.  I didn't care so much about how we'd pay off a mortgage when I was two weeks postpartum.

We have lived in the prairie house for over a year now.  I'm working almost fulltime.  Most of my patients are on public insurance, and better thank their lucky stars for every Democratic vote next election.  I keep dabbling in the genetic diseases of the other, not-so-Democratically voting, part of the county.   A little failure to thrive here, a few seizures there.  Add a pinch of dystonia.   A few pleas to the Big Guys for a little more sacred time...it makes a bittersweet stew if you know what I mean.

There really isn't much to throw my arms up in the air and cheer about.  Until I stumble out of the house after a day sitting in gloom puddles, to see M's latest creation.  What finesse!  What fresh home-grown spinach in the middle of November!   Note the rain-proof roof, and the wind-proof clasps.  Regard the frame built from salvaged wood!  I shout Hosanna.   Blessed be the Name of the LORD!!!  I'm going to heaven, after all.



The November Masterpeice

 

Pine needles are automatic mulch if you plant your lettuce in the right place

Our Passionate Work

The woodstove in our living room is quietly and increasingly beocming a part of the daily routine.  In spite of the warm afternoons of the past week, the winter cold is on its way.  This summer and fall, I've spared what moments I can in order to split and stack a supply of wood that rests sheltered in the barn.  I don't yet have a good sense of how much wood we can burn in one winter.  N can hardly wait to handle the splitting maul and the axe that I use to make kindling.

The essence of a good life involves sitting still long enough to hear the wind, watching the light patterns move slowly along the wall, on a cold morning in late fall.  It also involves many days when this is not possible.

Those whom we love, we despise because of our own weaknesses that are revealed.  To love fully is the ability to accept the seasonal, cyclical patterns that confront and obstacle our moments together.  The sustenance of commitment is revealed in the callused hand that works unseen.  Its touch upon soft skin an undeniable surety, our passionate work.