Thursday, May 18, 2006
On Death and Dying
According to the experts, children become aware of death sometime during their fourth year. So I was not yet prepared when Max first queried me about death last summer. He found a lifeless butterfly in the backyard and brought it to me, cradling it carefully in his small hands.
"This butterfly is old," he announced somberly.
I wasn't entirely sure what he was thinkng, since we had never discussed the subject of death, so I merely confirmed his prouncement. He carried on as if nothing particularly significant had transpired.
A couple of hours later, after we'd come inside, his thoughts flitted back to the butterfly.
"Mommy, why do butterflies die?"
And so began Max's journey to understand death, to the extent any of us really can.
As best I can tell from Max and his teachers and fellow moms, the topic of death and dying looms large on the preschool playground. Being killed by the T-Rex during a game of "king of the dinosaurs," discussing whose parents or grandparents may have died (or not), playing dead under the monkey bars--such are the terms with which four-year olds grapple with one of life's ultimate mysteries.
Occasionally, Max broaches the subject with me, never failing to catch me just a little off guard.
"If you died, who would be my mommy?"
Max flung this question my way as I was getting the kids ready for bed last night. I tried to suppress my own terror at the idea and assumed the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.
"Well, Max, if I died, you wouldn't have a mommy."
(Okay, in hindsight, I might have crafted a more sensitive answer, one that offered him more comfort, but you don't always have time to edit the perfect response.)
Max appeared to be soaking in this revelation as I braced myself for his distress. He paused for another moment. Then his face exploded with unexpected exuberance.
"I know!," Max nearly shouted, unable to contain his glee. "If you died, then BABEE could be my mommy!"
I guess I don't need to worry about that contingency any more.
"This butterfly is old," he announced somberly.
I wasn't entirely sure what he was thinkng, since we had never discussed the subject of death, so I merely confirmed his prouncement. He carried on as if nothing particularly significant had transpired.
A couple of hours later, after we'd come inside, his thoughts flitted back to the butterfly.
"Mommy, why do butterflies die?"
And so began Max's journey to understand death, to the extent any of us really can.
As best I can tell from Max and his teachers and fellow moms, the topic of death and dying looms large on the preschool playground. Being killed by the T-Rex during a game of "king of the dinosaurs," discussing whose parents or grandparents may have died (or not), playing dead under the monkey bars--such are the terms with which four-year olds grapple with one of life's ultimate mysteries.
Occasionally, Max broaches the subject with me, never failing to catch me just a little off guard.
"If you died, who would be my mommy?"
Max flung this question my way as I was getting the kids ready for bed last night. I tried to suppress my own terror at the idea and assumed the most matter-of-fact tone I could muster.
"Well, Max, if I died, you wouldn't have a mommy."
(Okay, in hindsight, I might have crafted a more sensitive answer, one that offered him more comfort, but you don't always have time to edit the perfect response.)
Max appeared to be soaking in this revelation as I braced myself for his distress. He paused for another moment. Then his face exploded with unexpected exuberance.
"I know!," Max nearly shouted, unable to contain his glee. "If you died, then BABEE could be my mommy!"
I guess I don't need to worry about that contingency any more.
Thursday, May 11, 2006
When Less Is More
As my life with a husband, two sons, two dogs, two houses and eleven horses (not to mention a self) has grown increasingly complex, I've often imagined that I could manage it all, with finesse and good humor, if only I could find the Right System. (A friend pointed out that maybe what I really need is the Right Assistant....) As one part of my organizational odyssey, I've consolidated all of my lists into a single notebook, which serves, for the most part, as the repository of everything from grocery lists to wish lists to funny things my kids said. And I don't leave home without it.
But today I made a big change. Didn't take the notebook with me. Didn't look at my "to do" list one single time. Didn't stop at the end of the day to gauge how much I'd accomplished, or what I'd try to bite off tomorrow. Instead I spent the afternoon with my kids. Really with them.
I read an article last night about "Zen parenting." We're not talking rocket science here, just mindfulness. Paying more attention. Being in the moment.
After tennis, Max plopped in front of the t.v. for a little decompressing. I sat down beside him, inspired by a recent suggestion from Daniel Pinkwater to watch what your children are watching on t.v. and notice how long before you're either engaged or wishing you were washing the cat.
After 15 minutes, I could sit no longer.
"Max, I'm bored."
"Me, too," came his unexpected reply.
"Let's go do something."
"How 'bout building a sailboat?"
We did, together.
And so we passed the remainder of the afternoon, building and reading and chasing and dancing and laughing.
When the time came to make dinner, the kids started to retreat to their room. "What if you stayed here and kept me company instead?" I asked. "Each of you could build a tower." I pulled from the cabinet five plastic boxes, a red dinosaur cup (think baseball game souveneir, only from a child's birthday party), and a sippy cup. They set to work. "What's another way you could make the tower?" More activity. "Can you think of a way to do it so that the largest box isn't on the bottom?"
With dinner in the oven, we hit the backyard. While I served as general contractor, the kids built a house from bricks discarded during the ongoing construction over the garage. I turned down their request to install the brick roof (too hazardous for little fingers!), but Max quickly resolved the design delimma by fashioning one from twigs and leaves. We hit tennis balls off the T-ball stand. Watered the pumpkin plants that began as seeds in Max's Christmas stocking. Noticed the orbs, like shiny green marbles, forming on the orange tree. Then I flew them on my feet, just as I remember my parents doing, until Lee arrived home for dinner.
Afterwards, as I was doing the dishes, Max loped back into the kitchen and gave me a gratuitous hug. "I love you, mom," he whispered as we exchanged bear hugs. Then back to his room to continue a landscaping project with four inch Tonkas.
Was it a coincidence? When I tried to get less done, when we rushed nowhere all day, when I didn't raise my voice--not even once--the kids cooperated more. Argued less. Listened better.
"Teeth time!", Max volunteered, and ran off to take care of bedtime business all by himself.
When I passed by their room again, Max was sound asleep. But Boo called out to me: "I want my blanket." As I tucked it beneath his chin, he grinned, "I had a fun day." No doubt about it. Something had gone very right.
I stooped to give Boo a butterfly kiss on his cheek. He chortled in that deep, throaty way that is the embodiment of pure joy. I gave him another one on his nose. More laughter. "How about one on this side?" he asked, pointing to the other cheek. I obliged, then wrapped up our love fest with an eskimo kiss. But Boo wasn't satisfied.
"And how about a giraffe kiss?"
Very right indeed.
But today I made a big change. Didn't take the notebook with me. Didn't look at my "to do" list one single time. Didn't stop at the end of the day to gauge how much I'd accomplished, or what I'd try to bite off tomorrow. Instead I spent the afternoon with my kids. Really with them.
I read an article last night about "Zen parenting." We're not talking rocket science here, just mindfulness. Paying more attention. Being in the moment.
After tennis, Max plopped in front of the t.v. for a little decompressing. I sat down beside him, inspired by a recent suggestion from Daniel Pinkwater to watch what your children are watching on t.v. and notice how long before you're either engaged or wishing you were washing the cat.
After 15 minutes, I could sit no longer.
"Max, I'm bored."
"Me, too," came his unexpected reply.
"Let's go do something."
"How 'bout building a sailboat?"
We did, together.
And so we passed the remainder of the afternoon, building and reading and chasing and dancing and laughing.
When the time came to make dinner, the kids started to retreat to their room. "What if you stayed here and kept me company instead?" I asked. "Each of you could build a tower." I pulled from the cabinet five plastic boxes, a red dinosaur cup (think baseball game souveneir, only from a child's birthday party), and a sippy cup. They set to work. "What's another way you could make the tower?" More activity. "Can you think of a way to do it so that the largest box isn't on the bottom?"
With dinner in the oven, we hit the backyard. While I served as general contractor, the kids built a house from bricks discarded during the ongoing construction over the garage. I turned down their request to install the brick roof (too hazardous for little fingers!), but Max quickly resolved the design delimma by fashioning one from twigs and leaves. We hit tennis balls off the T-ball stand. Watered the pumpkin plants that began as seeds in Max's Christmas stocking. Noticed the orbs, like shiny green marbles, forming on the orange tree. Then I flew them on my feet, just as I remember my parents doing, until Lee arrived home for dinner.
Afterwards, as I was doing the dishes, Max loped back into the kitchen and gave me a gratuitous hug. "I love you, mom," he whispered as we exchanged bear hugs. Then back to his room to continue a landscaping project with four inch Tonkas.
Was it a coincidence? When I tried to get less done, when we rushed nowhere all day, when I didn't raise my voice--not even once--the kids cooperated more. Argued less. Listened better.
"Teeth time!", Max volunteered, and ran off to take care of bedtime business all by himself.
When I passed by their room again, Max was sound asleep. But Boo called out to me: "I want my blanket." As I tucked it beneath his chin, he grinned, "I had a fun day." No doubt about it. Something had gone very right.
I stooped to give Boo a butterfly kiss on his cheek. He chortled in that deep, throaty way that is the embodiment of pure joy. I gave him another one on his nose. More laughter. "How about one on this side?" he asked, pointing to the other cheek. I obliged, then wrapped up our love fest with an eskimo kiss. But Boo wasn't satisfied.
"And how about a giraffe kiss?"
Very right indeed.
