eleven bee

I was about 7 months pregnant with Colin when I had a conversation with another woman who had just recently become a mom herself.  We were chatting about people’s sometimes surprising reactions to my pregnancy — “Oh  look at you!  You’re huge!” often followed with an uninvited belly pat — and she gave me a piece of advice that has stuck with me to this day.  “People don’t mean to be inappropriate,” she said.  “There’s just something about the sight of a pregnant woman that evokes this kind of emotional response.  I’ve come to realize that really, they’re just happy for you, and are trying, in their lame kind of way, to share that happiness with you.  It’s coming from a good place.  I learned to just accept these gestures in the spirit with which they are intended.”

It made sense to me then, and it still makes sense to me today.  It is a more generous, more forgiving approach to interpreting the things people say and do.

I was thinking about this earlier this month as I was scribbling little notes on the back of our holiday cards.  I’ve only recently started to hear rumblings about how the greeting “Happy Holidays!” during the Christmas season causes some Christians to bristle a bit.  Last year I heard someone complaining about how tactless it is for non-Christians to take part in the winter-time holiday celebrations.  Christmas, the argument goes, is to celebrate the birth of Jesus.  It’s a birthday party of sorts.  And if you don’t believe that Jesus Christ was the literal son of God, what makes you think you have the right to participate?  It’s like you’re crashing someone else’s birthday party.

Without getting into the theological debates about the origins of our winter holiday season (Merry Chrima-Hannu-Kwaanza-Bodhi-Stice to you, by the way), I would think that we can all agree that a simple card, with the inscription “Happy Holidays and best wishes for the New Year” is not likely intended to be an overtly aggressive gesture.  It’s just an attempt to send a friendly “Howdy.  Hope you’re well!” to the ones we love.

If the world were free from truly intentional offenses, then I guess I could maybe see the sense in looking for issues to dissect in search of possible hidden meanings.  Oh yeah?  What do you really mean by that? But there appears to be no limit to legitimate instances of intentional insensitivity.  So why not give people the benefit of the doubt?  Why not accept a smiling, “Congratulations!  You’re having a baby! Looks to be a 10 pounder at the rate you’re going!” or an innocent “Happy Holidays” as relatively innocent attempts at connecting in a positive way?

Now when an older man calls me Sweetie, or someone tells me I look like I’m not feeling well, I take into consideration what I think that person’s motivation might be.  Sure, the older man could be trying to patronize me, could be trying to reaffirm his authority over me … or he could just be attempting to use a term of endearment in addressing me, trying to show some sign of affection.  And yeah, the person could be trying to tell me that I look particularly ugly this morning… or she could just be trying to show concern for me, wanting to make sure I’m okay.

It takes some practice, and just a little bit more effort, to try to decipher what someone’s true intentions might be.  But I think it’s worth it.  I know that I’m that much happier when I take the time to consider the spirit with which these things are intended.

I had an “ah-ha” moment today.  The particulars aren’t important at all, but it was a such a relief to get to that point … finally.  Being open to considering the possibility — nay, the probability — that the problem was, after all, me, really did help to get to something of a resolution sooner rather than later.  It’s not a flip-the-switch-and-the-problem-is-solved kind of situation, but I’m fairly confident that I’m well on the path to recovery.

Switching gears for a moment — and I’ll circle back and make a connection in a paragraph or two — Colin came home from school today with a Thanksgiving card that he had made.  There’s a pop up turkey on the cover of the card, and on the inside, it says: Thank you Mom and Dad for cleaning my clothes.  Even my underwear.  And thanks for tucking me in and reading me stories at bedtime.  I love you, Mom.

There’s a conspicuous lack of symmetry to the card’s inscription.  Charley grumbled a bit about how the kids don’t appreciate him as much as they should, how they often seem to favor me.  (Colin explained that he ran out of time before he was able to finish writing the card, but that’s beside the point.)  In Charley’s mind, it’s a fluke.

Now let me go on the record here as saying that I think Charley is a great father, and that the boys really do love him… but there’s always room for improvement, right?  The thing is that if you always attribute undesireable results to factors outside of your control — a fluke of nature, the alignment of the stars, the stupidity or bad judgement of others — you sort of resign yourself to accepting the way things are.  And yes, some things truly are out of our control — God grant me the strength to change the things I can, accept the things I can’t, and the wisdom to know the difference — but some things really aren’t.  Or at least they aren’t completely out of our control.

So back to the idea that I introduced in my opening paragraph.  Being open to the possibility that the problem might be me, as it turned out, was a good thing.  A humbling thing, but a good thing.  And, ultimately, a productive thing.

Gobble gobble.

With number one son, at the very beginning when we were still making an effort to be a part of the overachieving parents club, we did indeed try the baby sign language thing.  Imagine being able to communicate with your baby months before he or is she is actually verbal, the baby sign language literature boasted.

I have a very vivid memory of watching a baby sign language video where a Birkenstocked dad explained that the sign for “toilet” was simply the letter T (thumb stuck between the pointer and middle fingers) wiggled back and forth.  “It’s still a very useful sign even now that Moon Blossom is six years old,” he explained.  “When he’s busy playing with his friends, we can stand at the door and make the toilet sign as a kind of secret way of asking if he needs to use the restroom, without embarrassing him in front of his friends.”

Because it’s normal for the parent of a six year old to hover over a group of kids making weird hand gestures to see if the kid needs to make the pee pee.  Right?

As ridiculous as all that struck me — and for the record, we never moved beyond mastering the “all done” hand gesture — I have always been somewhat intrigued by secret codes.  I tried to invent a secret language for my all-girls Chickadee club in 3rd grade.  When you see a mean boy, spell out the word “test.”  T-E-S-T.  Because it sounds kind of like “He is nasty.”  Get it?

And to this day, I still use the phrase “olive juice” as code for “I love you,” because when you silently mouth the words, it really does look like you’re saying “I love you.”  I’ve done this with Charley for as long as I can remember, and so it just naturally became something I say to the boys too.

The other day Colin stopped to ask why I say olive juice instead of I love you.  After I explained my logic — which really sounds a little silly when you spell it out — he paused for a minute and then proclaimed that he would invent his own code.  We decided that his code phrase would have to be something that you wouldn’t normally say in the context of any normal conversation.  And it couldn’t be something like “Watch out for that truck!” because that just wouldn’t be safe.  After some careful consideration, Colin came up with “brains and eyes.”  So from here on out, in the Baker house, “brains and eyes” means “I love you.”

This has given rise to a slightly peculiar exchange each night when I tuck the boys in.  Each night after backs have been scratched and kisses and hugs have been exchanged, I whisper quietly, “Olive juice.”  And each night now, the boys look up at me and respond back sweetly, “Brains and eyes.”

This evening, as I was walking out of Colin’s room, I heard him say again for emphasis, “Brains and eyes and olive juice.”  I smiled.  “And I’m not just saying that — I really mean it.”

How sweet is that?

The other day I read a really touching post on my friend Mike’s blog, and it got me to thinking.  What, exactly, is it that I’m trying to do here with this blog? I like to pretend that I don’t have any expectations for this space here, that it’s just a place where I can go to throw down a few random observations, share some light-hearted moments, record an occasional memory or two, but even with those kind of low expectations, I feel like I’ve gotten a bit lazy lately.  And it all seems so… inconsequential. Nobody really needs to know about the new funky color I’ve painted my toes (sparkly Smurf blue).

So I took a bit of a breather.  (I was also sick — again — and just feeling relatively low energy all around.  At the end of the night, after tucking the boys in bed, I’d often just pass out.  And it’s hard to write anything, no matter how meaningless, when you’re unconscious.)

I’m thinking it’s time to recharge with a Lighthouse class.  And maybe a … wait for it … fiction class.  Just to mix things up, focus on some of the more artsy elements to the act of writing.  So that I may one day actually be able to say that I come here to write and not just type.  There’s a difference you know.

I’m surrounded by piles.  Piles and piles of stuff.  Mountains, almost.  And it’s driving me bonkers.

Ours is a problem of input versus output.  We have ridiculous amounts of stuff coming into this house, and not enough stuff going out.  I’m the mom that goes to pick the kids up from daycare at the end of the day and tries to extract my children without being forced to take home the piles and piles of paperwork — “art” projects, announcements, book drive order forms, fund-raising propaganda — that the eagle-eyed caregivers try to press into my hands.  I take a moment to appreciate the boys’ most recent colored pencil sketches, I glance at the announcements, and then, if I can get away with it, I locate the nearest recycling bin and toss them.

If that doesn’t work, I end up piling the backpacks, jackets, and papers on the passenger seat of the car, and then try to sort through them when we get home, before we all unload into the house.   If that doesn’t work, then I concede and add the papers to the growing mound of papers on our kitchen counter, evidence of other past failed attempts to purge.

And that’s just papers from school.  I’ve started to use the mailbox as spill-over storage, dreading having to retrieve and sort through stacks of mortgage refinance offers, Direct TV fliers, overly technical reports from our financial planning service that I’ll never actually read through or have any hope of ever understanding.

On top of that we have toys, books, shoes that are too small or out of season, and an assortment of useless tchotchkes.  I once thought that we would be able to avoid having so much useless plastic crap around just because we don’t do the happy meal thing.  Apparently, though, there are other sources of these tiny pieces of misery.  Kids’ birthday parties.  Festivals.   Well intentioned gifts from  friends and family.  Other kids.  It just never ends.

We get numerous magazine subscriptions, which would seem harmless enough on their own.  But added to the other unending sources of stuff coming into our house, I have now come to resent them.  Not only that, but the actual magazines that we receive seem a little ridiculous when you look at the state of our house.  The American Handyman?  Why in the world do we need The American Handyman magazine when we long ago accepted the fact that neither of us is the DIY kind of homeowner?  Maybe I’m being overly sensitive, but I’m feeling a little mocked by The American Handyman.

I love, love, love getting rid of stuff.  I’m not sure why it’s so hard to do.  Perhaps if we could all be a little more disciplined about not bringing stuff home in the first place.  Perhaps if we had a little more time to organize.

Last night on Halloween, I took the boys out trick or treating.  Each time a neighbor opened their door and pretended to be impressed with our kids’ store-bought Star Wars and Batman costumes while they handed them a piece of candy, I’d catch a glimpse of the insides of their homes.  None of them looked like they were at risk of being as overcome with stuff as I feel we are.

How are they doing it? I wondered.  And is it too late for me to learn how…?

Is there a difference between feeling sorry for someone or taking pity on someone?  I can’t quite figure it out.

Lately I’ve been noticing people passing out pity for things that don’t strike me as pity-worthy.  Take parenthood, for example.  I was at a birthday party for a little girl and ended up grazing at the food table alongside a woman I didn’t know.  “Which one of these is yours?” she asked, making a sweeping gesture towards the gaggle of kids running around in circles with no apparent purpose.

“Um…” I looked around and tried to focus on the whir of children.  “That one.  And… that one.”  I pointed to my two boys as they zipped by squealing with laughter.

“Oh. Two boys.  Wow,” she said.  “I’m sorry.”  And then she laughed a little.

I crinkled up my brow a bit.  “Don’t be.  I’m not.”

Turns out that she was the mom of a little girl, a little girl she adopted from China.  So clearly she chose her child.  I didn’t actually get to choose my boys, but honestly I wouldn’t have changed anything even if I could.  It’s not that I think things would have felt any less right if I had had a girl or two, it’s just that … well it seems pointless to spend any real amount of time even pursing that line of thinking, you know?  It is, as they say, what it is.

So what circumstances do merit pity?  Illnesses, I suppose, are pretty universally regarded as unfortunate.  And accidents. A run of bad luck.  But other things seem kind of subjective.  You want to be careful with saying things like, “Dude.  Sorry about that haircut,” because there’s every chance that homey likes that mullet that you just immediately assumed was a botched hair style.

I guess in general, I’m thinking of being a little more careful when doling out my sympathy to others.  Maybe, just maybe, others like the boxes they’re in, whether they chose to be in them or not.