I’m in my kitchen cutting crusts off one turkey and cheese sandwich
and one peanut butter and jelly sandwich when for about the 143rd
consecutive time during this exercise I think to myself, “THIS is something that I
definitely would not be doing
if it weren’t for the divorce.”
I’m referring to “cutting the crusts off,” NOT “making the
lunch”. But you should know that every time this thought sweeps through my
consciousness, the very next instant I imagine my ex-wife, in some other part
of the universe inexplicably recoiling, still angry about the percentage of
lunches she made compared to me. She really hated making lunches. We used to
joke about how horrible it was. Now, I wish I made more of them instead of
her. Not because I think it would
have saved the marriage, but because it doesn’t really bother me that much. I
sometimes wonder if it bothers her less now that she has left? If it was
perhaps the marriage and not the lunches that drove her crazy… but then I shake
the questions out of my head and try to stay present: Soft white bread, one
likes mayo, the other one gags on it.
The little mayo lover takes his with cheese. The big brother rejects
most deli meats even though he’s a proud carnivore. I use the same knife, but
wipe it off on paper towels in between ingredients to avoid flavor
contamination.
I have a few activities related to mothering that have
become downright meditative for me.
Bathing my kids was like that when they were younger. It was the best
part of my day. I learned so much about them and poured so much of my love
right onto them in those 10-20 mins a day. It almost never felt like a chore.
But now that they are approaching 7 and 9, I don’t mind telling you, it’s
getting a little weird. They are right in between “complete youthful innocence”
and “about to sprout hair”.
They’ve started asking me to wash them in certain places and particular
ways that make me cock my head (pun
intended) to one side and say, “No, I think that’s got to be your department
from now on, my hairless friend.”
As their bodies have gotten longer and heavier, they’ve developed
ever more complicated opinions and preferences (everything from soap to water
temperature, length of soaking to the color and texture of the towel) Bathing
them has become less enjoyable for me. But other precious rituals have evolved…
One morning, Milo and Jake inexplicably started helping me
put on my jewelry. At first I had no idea what was happening. “UM, GIVE ME MY
RINGS!!” I nearly huffed at them. I was used to grabbing my bracelets and watch
and 5 rings and slipping them over my fingers and wrists as we raced down the
stairs. But this particular morning it was with a “Can I help? Here, let me do
this for you?” kind of expression that Jake slipped the watch onto my left
wrist and fastened it. Milo stretched my two silver bracelets over the other
wrist. They divided the rings and as each held one to me, I offered the finger on
which I preferred to wear it. I explained the order of the three rings I
stacked on the ring finger of my right hand and they nodded, committing it to
memory. We seem to be ALWAYS in
motion in the morning. RACING, rushing, and (more frequently than I care to
admit) I am barking instructions, encouragement, and directives like a drum major.
But that morning some things shifted.
First it was my realization that I didn’t have to race through this
activity. We actually had plenty of time to stand still and do this together.
Then, I guess I started daydreaming: I saw a glimpse of my little boys as the
men they might be one day, offering the sweet intimacy of “Here, let me do that
for you... That thing that you always do effortlessly… I’m watching you because
I love you, and I want to slow it down and be with you while you do it.” I
swear, one of them had two different socks on and the other one had dried
toothpaste all over his face, but I could feel the heaviness and simultaneous
grace of how quickly they will turn into men.
They were proud when it was done. I giggled at all they thought they’d accomplished. And the
fact that this went down without any bickering or whining about who gets to do
which piece of jewelry was its own little miracle. For about a month, they did
this every morning we were together. I tried hard not to “require it” as it had
instantly become one of my favorite things. If they forgot, I would wait to put my jewelry on until they
were in the room and sloooooooooowwwwwwwly start until they jumped in, “LET US
DO IT!!!”
“Oh, okay,” I’d reply as nonchalantly as possible. (Don’t
hate the player, hate the game!)
Since the divorce, I sometimes watch these two and overthink
my parenting like a crazy hawk who no longer trusts her instincts: “Should I
dive down and grab some veggies to feed the little birds? Maybe mice and
chipmunks aren’t best for them right now???” It’s hard not to second guess
yourself in even the most ideal circumstances.
One of my problems is, I believe in tough parenting. I
believe in accountability. I believe that if my kids don’t hate me on at least
a semi-regular basis, I might be doing something wrong. I believe that we have
sort of started raising our children so they couldn’t find their way out of an
uninflated parachute, for all the panicking they would be doing when that thing
softly landed on their heads. I want my children to learn how to problem-solve;
how not to choose only the most flawless piece of fruit because
they might lose their mind if asked to chew around a “soft spot” on an
otherwise perfectly good apple or banana.
I want to nurture them in such a way that they face challenges with
confidence, because it is hardwired in them that when you fail passionately, it
is way more fantastic and praiseworthy than success that required no effort; I
want them to develop a certain tolerance for pain and discomfort. (YES! YOU
HEARD THAT RIGHT!!! I do want them to be able to feel and deal with pain!!!) I
mean you get me, right??? I just don’t want them to be totally disoriented or
devastated when they discover CRUSTS on their sandwiches.
Still… It’s a quandary. And hopefully I have time if this is
a parental mis-step, but… I love them. And they live in two homes right now;
and I fight the good fight as often as I can, but when I’m making those
sandwiches, I can’t help it… at least for now, when they open up their lunch
box in the middle of the day, I want them to look at that sandwich and think
“That’s what I’m talking about! YES!”
Cutting those crusts off for them…right now… it seems like
the least I could do.
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Cross posted on NapTime Radio blog
