Thursday, December 23, 2010
In his story-telling, Dad is not unique. Mother has her stories (her exchange with a taxi driver in France when she meant to tell him she was hot but instead told him she was aroused, the wonderful parties her father would have when he was flush with cash and power, and occasionally stories about her time as an orphan). I only tease her about numbering the happy stories – numbering the sad ones would depress her.
All of my many siblings have great stories: the time they dropped rocks down the drain at a then-new hotel in Arizona; when, as children, the family was so broke that they all shared a container of frozen strawberries for our dad’s birthday; or their memories of their home in Cave Creek where I lived until I was barely a month old but they lived their entire childhood. Before she passed some 25 years ago, my 98-year-old grandmother recorded on audio-cassette many of her stories of living through the Great Depression, her immigration to the United States, and the sights of terrible wars before mankind knew to number them.
I don’t really have any stories.
Oh, sure, I have vague memories but I’m not entirely sure they’re mine or if I borrowed them from an episode of a night-time serial my mother used to watch or perhaps a preteen magazine. There’s that time I was almost swept away at a San Diego beach…or was that my little sister? What about that time I was taken to the hospital to have something inappropriately swallowed removed from my stomach? No, that was Curious George. Well, how about when I was locked in the closet for hours by my brother? Er, but wasn’t that actually Edmund and Lucy in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe? Fine, then! Remember when I had that horrible fever and I had delusional dreams about flowers burning and time travel? Oh. No. That was Mrs. O’Keefe in A Swiftly Tilting Planet.
I try to remember experiences, try to shape them into some kind of framework that consists of a beginning, middle, and end. But they’re not there. I have impressions, snapshots of raw emotion that I know occurred tied to an event – some good, some sad, some hurtful, some life-changing. But no memories, no context, no stories.
Occasionally, I’ll ask my parents during a story re-telling: When was this? Was I born yet? What did you do with me at this time? From their answers, I can imagine a road-trip to Mississippi as a toddler when my sister ran away with a boy, an exciting trip to Mexico, or a visit to my grandfather’s prison cell near the end of his life. But most of their best stories occurred pre-me. I’m not even a starlet cameo in the movie of their lives.
None of this leaves me feeling unimportant or unloved. It does leave me feeling boring, though, without any tragedies or triumphs of note. I feel groundless, without ties, like dandelion spore released from its head after my sons have loosened it with their breath. (They believe each floating seed becomes a faerie.)
I also feel pressured into a decision, either to acquire more stories from others to pass onto my children or to set about creating our own. And maybe that is what gets to the heart of it: to share others’ stories is risk-free entertainment but to create one’s own involves effort and choices, perhaps even sacrifice. I’m not sure that’s me.
But that’s not a decision that needs to be made this week. We’re home for Christmas and it’s time to listen to my parents’ stories.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
But, son of a gun if the old man isn't right. I had siblings, but the age difference was so great that the older ones were never really around much and I couldn't be troubled with the little ones. That's not to say I didn't pick up certain skills. According to my sibs, I dead-floated in the pool scaring them off swimming (true), negotiated the younger children out of their money (true), and punched one in the stomach (totally untrue). These are methods of managing conflict that still serve me today (avoidance, persuasion, and a different kind of persuasion).
When watching my two boys communicate, I realize they're benefiting in much the same way in learning boundaries and appropriateness, as well as how to work with each other.
When to Stop:Recently, Castor learned a lesson that you can only boss someone around so much before they fight back. He walked up to Pollux and, out of the blue and without any good reason, pushed Pollux's shoulder. Pollux, two years younger but considerably stockier, looked up from his cars, got a little glint in his eye, and pushed Castor back in the same manner. Back and forth they shoved until finally Castor said, "I'm older than you, Pollux!" [shove] Pollux's response? [super hard shove, Castor falls backwards, turns teary, and Pollux giggles]
Applying Logic:One of the unanticipated results of enrolling the children in private school is hearing certain fables quoted in daily conversation. Most recently they have used the golden rule and Jesus's claim in Matthew's Gospel that "the last shall be first and the first shall be last." Like fledgling philosophers, the children interpret (and re-interpret) these lessons for their own nefarious purposes. A typical exchange goes like this:
Pollux: [plays with a beloved toy of Castor's]
Castor: [walks behind Castor, shoves him, makes a grab for toy]
Pollux: [pushes Castor, protects toy]
Castor: [hits Pollux, takes toy back]
Me: "Boys! Do not hit each other!"
Castor: "But Mom! Pollux hit me first! And you're supposed to treat people the way they want to be treated so he must have wanted me to hit him!"
Me: "It doesn't matter. We don't hit. Also, Pollux give Castor back his toy - you know to not play with that one."
Pollux: "Fine! The last shall be first and the first shall be last so if I'm last to play with the toy that means I'll be first next time!"
Teamwork:My husband has an iTouch which is apparently the boys' white whale. The boys aren't technically allowed to play with it, although they've managed to spend enough time with it to navigate with acuity. Every night it is put away in a different location in a place difficult to find and reach. And every weekend morning, while we sleep in late, it manages to...disappear.
We always find it, located behind some large piece of furniture coddled protectively by four little hands, a cool screen glow making the boys' eyes shiny. Given the effort we spend in hiding it, we're always surprised they manage to find it - so one morning, we roused ourselves to awareness to figure it out.
It generally works like this: First, Pollux, the younger, cuddlier one runs into our room, crawls in between us and says, "cuddle me, Mommy and Daddy." Naturally we oblige. Within moments, Castor stealthily tip-toes in with a small step stool and some kind of long stick-like toy (lightsaber, hanger, paper towel roll, etc.). He sets up shop in the vicinity of the closet and goes hunting for the iTouch. Occasionally, he peeks out to make sure we're still slumbering and then he goes back to work iTouch foraging.
Once Castor finds the elusive electronic treasure, he normally mutters a breathy "Yes!", puts the iTouch in his pajamas pocket, and takes his tools of the trade out of the room with him. He then runs back, lightly climbs on the bed, taps on Pollux's shoulder who clambers out of the covers after Castor. They close the bedroom door and then count on us sleeping while they amuse themselves with their ill-gotten gains.
What have I learned from this? Yes, my dad was right. Also, they'll learn much from each other and sibling relationships are great preparation for interacting with others, with a few years of refinement, of course.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
For some, the short answer is no problem to give or accept. A question like, "why is the sky blue?" elicits an answer of "because it's a reflection of the ocean" and most are satisfied. But I'm not. This answer would lead me to other questions followed by a few online keyword searches and maybe a book purchase or two. Within a few weeks, I'll have amassed enough layman's trivia about the atmosphere, planetary physics, and light scattering to bore even the least socially inclined person at that next cocktail party. If you're lucky, I may even throw in a little analysis of the philosophical question, "what is 'sky'?" (And if you were wondering, I don't get invited to a lot of cocktail parties...at least not a second time.)
The fact is, I never grew out of my toddler stage. You know, the one every parent dreads: the stage of the endless "but why?" questions. It didn't help that my parents were often able to answer all of them, or at least try. Their careers include landlord, chicken farm owner, real estate sales, bartender, accounting, restaurateur, deejay, media sales, photographer, chemistry/forestry professor, parent, and more. Add to that life experience and the hobbies of home schooling, animal husbandry, gardening, meteorology, sewing, target shooting, military history, singing, and affiliations, by turns, with the Catholic, Mormon, Christian Science, Jewish faiths and you have parents who can pretty much answer any question a child can ask.
I'm doomed to not only normally wanting the long answer but expecting to receive it.
Some people make a living out of the long answer: Michael Pollan, Simon Winchester, Bill Bryson, Mary Roach, C.S. Lewis, Henry Petroski. These are people who probably got the short answer many times but kept on asking...and then wrote a book about it. They have written on the coevolution of humans and corn, the history of the OED, the evolution of the entryway and its etymology, the scientific dissection of the sensation of orgasm, the differences between the human and canine soul, and the design of the paperclip (respectively). If these authors are present in my library, do I even have a prayer of ever composing the short answer?
The short answer cheats us. Whatever gains in time we receive by accepting the short answer, we lose in richness of understanding. You mean you don't want to fully understand the differences between the frequently confused concepts of the virgin birth and immaculate conception as it relates to Jesus and Mary? Gah! Listening to the long answer would result in probably most Catholics realizing they're actually Protestants (if a Christian at all). You don't want to know why cheese or sugar often isn't vegetarian or how a specific virus both fueled and destroyed tulip mania and the Dutch economy in the 1600s and is occasionally considered the first speculative bubble by economists? Tsk tsk. However will you win at Trivial Pursuit?
This extends to a personal level, too. So often I have learned more about others because I just kept asking, "why?" or "tell me more." I cherish those experiences because they are the closest I've ever felt like I achieved a true human connection with another. It's exciting, it's intimate, and it's lasting.
So what's wrong with the short answer? Nothing. But let's say Don Williams is correct in saying that life is about the journey, not the destination. The short answer is a shortcut to easy fulfillment - it takes you immediately to your destination. But within the long answer is the journey of understanding and that's where one fineds all the true rewards.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Fortunately, I'm lucky in that there are a smattering of people who, on any number of levels, can find humor in the same things I do. Examples: A former colleague has as his e-mail footer, "There are only 10 types of people in the world: One who gets digital and one who does not." A friend of mine from a once-attended parish knows saying "Father Hormone" cracks me up, and my sister and husband know why I find, "You're treading on thin ice" to be so chuckle-worthy. Another former (Jewish) colleague shares my laughter about when I gave her a Jesus action figure for Christmas. My brother and I snicker whenever we see the Disneyland Parade of Stars with the mushrooms dancing; we also bond over the not-as-frequently visited sections of Craigslist and find the "a-frayed knot!" joke pretty funny. Finally, my best friend knows why "rum raisin" and "you two must be twins!" induces such hilarity.
Then, there's my dear ol' pa and a recent e-mail he sent me. To help prepare you, Dad is also the one who introduces me as "my daughter, named after her dad, George." The brief story behind this is that dear ol' ma found an antique teak (say that 10 times fast, "antique teak antique teak", and you may sound like a woodpecker) elephant children's rocking toy that she wanted to send my way. Before going through the effort to do so, I asked that they take a picture of it. Dad, ever gracious and willing to oblige, did so. The picture is below with his e-mail. I find this pretty darn funny. At first, I wasn't going to share this but I'm pretty sure at least 6 other people (all of whom related to me) will find it equally giggle-worthy.
---BEGIN E-MAIL FROM DAD---
The Lincoln Division of the Ford Motor Company triumphs again with this newest innovation in custom, unique styling. Under design for a number of years, Lincoln today unveiled, accompanied by the oo's and ah's of a select previewing public, what will become the symbol of American automotive ingenuity. Toyota...BEWARE!
Friday, January 1, 2010
The season continues at least through the end of the year, although has been known to persist through February with its flourless chocolate dome cakes and caramel ganache. The flow of carbohydrates and calories is never-ending, merely shape-shifting -- whether that shape-shifting be from Halloween caramel-covered apples to Thanksgiving Dutch apple pies or the less-desirable shape-sifting from a size 6 to a size 10.
As a mildly capable cook and baker myself, I understand the desire to bake, as well as the need to share the wealth (one four-person home can only consume so much sugary goodness). But I also realize that stretchy pants should only be worn a certain number of times in a week. Once that threshold is exceeded, it's time to stop eating.
But how to stop eating when you are beseiged on every front with temptations? Perhaps this is what it feels like to be Tiger Woods at a Barbie-lookalike convention. (Ooh, was that too soon?) No doubt about it, whether going to the local shipping depot, the family holiday party, or the workplace, the calories flow abundantly. It requires one to be on their most vigilant guard.
When I try to resist treats, I find it helpful to understand the (sometimes underhanded or subconscious) motivation of the person who brought them in. This helps me identify the appropriate avoidance technique.
Baker's Motivation: “I really enjoy baking but my family can’t possibly eat everything I make so I’m sharing some of the bounty with you. Please enjoy.”
Avoidance Technique: Righteous indignation. (Think: "I AM NOT A GARBAGE DISPOSAL!")
Baker's Motivation: “My weight loss efforts have been unsuccessful so by making you gain weight through the treats I bring in, I feel less bad and more successful/validated.”
Avoidance Technique: Competitive zeal! (Think: “You’re not going to use me! And I’m going to feel so good being thinner than you!”)
Baker's Motivation: “I received these treats from a good-intentioned parent/sibling/distant relative and I can’t deal with the guilt of throwing them away myself. Please enjoy them so I don’t feel guilty.”
Avoidance Technique: Compassion. (Think: “Here, let me help you put them in the garbage.”)
Baker's Motivation: “I rely on your public pronouncement that you enjoy these homemade treats for my own self-worth. If you don’t try them, I’ll feel like I’m not a good enough cook and possibly be deeply insulted. Please enjoy.”
Avoidance Technique: Craftiness. (Think: “These look to. Die. For. Delicious! But I’m allergic to gluten/dairy/air and am on a strict medically-enforced abstinence diet from my doctor.”)
Don't get me wrong - I am not above any of these motivations myself. It is through using them, though, that I am able to better understand it in others and navigate the battlefield of balance versus indulgence.