mind diet

This isn't my son's latest collection of crap but it is recent-ish. The current pile of boogers is drying out nicely atop his yellow bookshelves. Hopefully I will share its glory with you soon.

My dad and step-mom came over for lunch the other day and brought us some koagies. A koagie is a Korean Philly steak sandwich. Kimchee and steak on a soft hoagie roll? Possibly genius? Or maybe a taste only a stoner could love.

So we were all sitting on the sofa digesting and my dad asked me how many people read my blog. Which is exactly the kind of thing a neurotic, competitive approval-seeking girl like me should not concern herself with. I told him that I thought there were maybe around twenty. I came up with this number by counting all the good people who tell me they read the blog but never post (you know who you are), the dear ones who read AND post, the kindly ones who comment on Facebook but not on the blog, and then at the bottom of the blog page, on the world map there are little red dots representing cities all over the world from where people are clicking in, but I don't know if they are stopping to read or just passing by. It's so exciting to see that wonderful cyber-friends from Tangarang, Seoul and Karnataka are perusing and, and can you tell where I am going with this? I would love to hear from you.

So, screaming. Here is an update inspired by my friend Kristi’s recent blog post regarding that New York Times article about yelling at our children, which I am too tired to link again after all the not-yelling I did today. Kristi is also going the no-scream route with her kids because like me, she feels like shit after shouting at the shorties. She makes the good point that not yelling is freaking exhausting. And as I obsessively listen to my Pema Chodron audiobooks and make an honest effort to change my habitual patterns of reacting with rage, indignation or despondence I am realizing firsthand that not reacting is very difficult. I am learning to stay with the irritation but not act on it. I am learning to accept the mounting anger, but not feed it. The John Nash character from A Beautiful Mind, is that movie really almost a decade old? When he's describing how he's battling his schizophrenic delusions, calls it a "diet of the mind." I love this. I guess I am on a mind diet too. I'm not eating rage, jealousy or self-loathing these days and boy is my stomach growling.

Tonight for instance, my kindergartener had a dance at his school. It was just for the kindergarteners. Every class gets their own dance, complete with DJ, which is cute, in theory. Why they scheduled it from 7-7:45 is beyond me, especially when the teachers beg us to get our children to sleep earlier, but maybe the DJ only works at night. 

We usually get jammies on and brush our teeth and read stories at this time of night. Not a good public time for my children. Funny, all the other kids at the dance seemed fine, like they'd all done it a hundred times. My kids? They don't do the chicken dance. They no hokey pokey. Line dance? No way. They sat and looked on longingly at all the participating kids circled up, putting their left hips in.

It wasn't long before Hamish writhed in anxiety because, as he later described it, he really wanted to do the limbo but he was too nervous and embarrassed to do it in front of all those people. And Stella was ready for bed and showed this by rolling around on the floor, chewing her plastic Halloween toy treat and swinging the spit covered thing in my face. Hamish hung on me keening with inner turmoil, gripped me for dear life, almost brought me down a few times. This was especially fun when I was chatting with his teacher, who for one, had a nicer trench coat than mine, and got it for a better price. 

Miss Young* mentioned that Hamish had a nice "mini-meeting" with the school guidance counselor that day, to see how he was faring since the first few days of school were riddled with fears and tears, his and mine. I couldn't resist confessing to Miss Young that Hamish and I share similar excruciating irrational anxieties and at times bring it out in each other, like say when I'm in denial about my son starting public school after two cushy cozy coddled private school years. I don't know, maybe I was hoping she'd nod her head emphatically and say, "Oh! I know just what you mean!" But instead she just nodded politely, wondering perhaps how to extract herself from the conversation with her trench coat intact. No she was cool. Really. She didn't bat an eye when Hamish straddled Stella's head, inches from Teacher's pointy-toed boots. Miss Young is a fashionista.

When I finally dragged our bedraggled butts to sit down, Stella punched Hamish in the face and he punched her back, all to the beat of Beyonce. Then he turned to me, eyes ringed in milky blue, and said, "Can we go home now?" And I said, "Yes, gladly!" We packed up and zoomed home just in time for my five year-old son to declare haughtily that he would be exiting the minivan through the front door, which would mean mud-stepping it over the front seats, which in our house is a rule-breaker. I said no. He leaned forward. I said we have rules. He lifted a foot. I said I'm getting angry. I said I felt like screaming. I held him back with my arm. He kept coming. I told him I didn't want to yell. I really really didn't want to yell.

And then, and I didn't even see it coming, I just. Burst into tears. Just follow the rules! I blubbered. Just cooperate! All I ask is that you cooperate! At first they thought I was joke-crying, which I do for schtick sometimes, but when they saw that I wasn't kidding, they got freaked out and it was satisfying in a creepy way. He left through the side door, I told them how frustrating it is being a mom, how my whole life is for them and all I want them to do is cooperate and I felt so... ew. I was giving them a guilt-trip. Not what I ever want to do to my kids, but there it was. I do everything for you and what do I get? Aggravation and red stinging eyes from the mascara and the crying. Thanks a lot, kids.

Ugh. Gross.

But Hamish was over it. He only wanted to make sure that we'd still have time for stories. And I love that in the midst of the chaos, he still wants to be read to and I still remember to be happy that he gravitates toward books these days, even if it is Captain Underpants and the Perilous Plot of Professor Poopypants. But it's actually thoughtfully written and LOL funny. And oh yeah, that's another thing to put in my spiritual warrior tool kit. Laughter. I'd remember where I left it if I weren't so exhausted.