Before I Forget // June

Sibling fights, pocket notebooks and the culture of optimization

“How quickly one enters into the madness of others.”

- Andrew Sean Greer, Villa Coco

The other day I heard James tell Lucy “if you’re going to play my game, you have to inspect my rules!” A reasonable (if confidently mis-worded) request, yes? Not in this house. He has an idea of how the game should go and she has ideas of how to improve upon his idea and before I know it, the game is forgotten and they’re beating the absolute shit out of each other while I watch, like a spectator stunned to realize that the show I bought a ticket to is actually a UFC fight with a lot of crying and no winner.

This has become a weekly, if not daily occurrence, and none of my tactics are working. “Think Mr. Rogers, stoned” calls Michaleen Doucleff from my copy of Hunt, Gather, Parent. The kids are kicking each other on the couch, neither willing to give in, and I’m trying to remember what that mom with the shiny hair on YouTube says about sibling conflict. I channel a cheerful Maria von Trapp. When that doesn’t work, I switch to an unbothered Mary Poppins. Suddenly it’s looking like an Episode of Judge Judy is being filmed in my living room. None of it is working.

So while they kick each other over who gets to sit in the corner of the couch, I text my friends, my panel of experts: What are we doing about all the fighting? Do we intervene? Do we sell tickets and let them fight to the death? Please advise.

My first instinct is to assign blame, to make one of them the bad guy and the other the victim when it’s never really that simple. Lucy, I hear myself say. You know better, as if logic overrides the rage induced by your little brother poking you with his American flag again after you’ve asked him nicely to stop 17 times. James! I snap. You had it coming.

I also know better than to lose my cool when they poke me with their elbows and their needs all day long. Doesn’t stop me from doing it anyway.

I want rules for this game. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go fish, skip your turn, king me. Respect the rules. Win the game. But what is the game anyway? And what do I win?

In her book The Irrational Season, Madeleine L’engle wrote: “I know that when I am most monstrous, I am most in need of love. When my temper flares out of bounds it is usually set off by something unimportant which is on top of a series of events over which I have no control, which have made me helpless, and thus caused me anguish and frustration.”

I think James is right. My rules often need inspecting more than respecting. My life isn’t the cause of my frustration, my rules are. Waking up early to drink lemon water, read the Bible, crush a workout in a matching athleisure set and get dressed like a dewy cheeked fairy princess with a 37 step skincare routine doesn’t make sense with a tiny baby who’s sleeping in my bedroom/home gym and will spit up on whatever I wear within 30 seconds of his first meal. Getting 10,000 steps and all of the protein isn’t gong to happen when I’m on the couch with a raging case of mastitis. And yet, it seems these are the rules of the game. Spend 10 minutes on the internet and you’ll be convinced this is the right way to be a grown up. Don’t forget to get it all on video and post it online so everyone you know can see how much better you are than them. Ain’t it fun!

I love a morning workout. I love a great outfit. Hell, I love lemon in my water. And I really love the feeling of starting the day doing things that matter to me just as much as I hate wondering if I’ll have a chance to get to them, feeling my sanity and sense of self slip further and further away as the hours pass.

But if the point of the rules is to make the game more fun as Bluey says, then my old rules aren’t working. They’re just making it impossible to win and no one wants to play a game they’re guaranteed to lose.

Lately I’ve seen some debate online over whether mothers should carve out more time for themselves or dig out the white flag from under the couch cushions and surrender their hobbies, passions and desires until no one needs them anymore (so, you know, never). Like most things, it seems to me to be more of a both/and than an either/or. It’s not at all surprising that I find it much easier to gracefully surrender my ideas of how things should go and respond to interruptions with grace when I know that there is time regularly set aside to putter around the house, spend with friends, focus on a creative pursuit, or *gasp* do nothing at all but sit in the sun room and stare out the window while listening to my word of the year playlist.

The other day I wrote myself a little note in my pocket notebook:

“It defeats the purpose if you do it all but enjoy none of it.”

More and more I find myself almost allergic to the language of optimization. It’s not a game I want to play, not a prize I want to win. It takes all the fun out of life and leaves no room for surprise or spontaneity. So I’m trying something. Instead of keeping a list of things I need to do, I’m keeping a list of the things I already did:

sun room yoga, read Tiny T-Rex to James, took a couch nap, watched the baby yawn and stretch, opened all the windows, wrote a letter and walked it to the mailbox, apologized when I didn’t want to, called Nana, worked out, wrote some words, baked my best loaves of bread and gave one away, danced a little, kept everyone fed, re-filled the hummingbird feeder with Lucy, made sun-dried tomato and herb butter, drew a still life I really like at the table with the big kids, went for a walk with a neighbor, watched a mother duck and her ducklings walk to the lake.

Some days it feels like there’s so little room for me, squeezed in between the needs of these growing little people, but maybe there’s just no room for all my rules, because it might not be all fun and games, but it turns out a lot of it actually is.

READING

Went to the Memorial Tournament which was mostly a comedy of errors but this part was nice.

Dolly All The Time by Annabel Monaghan — What a good time. Dolly is the long-suffering firstborn who takes care of everyone and everything. Until! Until she meets Stewart Whitfield who might change everything for her and her crumbling family home. A completely delightful romance, but also so much more. Eldest daughters, this one’s for us.

Whistler by Ann Patchett — This gorgeous father daughter story may be my favorite book of the year so far. I don’t understand how Ann Patchett writes such gorgeous literary fiction that’s also so thoroughly easy to read but I’m glad she does.

Hunt, Gather, Parent my Michaleen Doucleff — I typically avoid parenting books at all costs mostly because I find them boring but also because the tone is usually condescending, but I actually really enjoyed the first 75% of this. My biggest takeaways: stop doing stuff you hate just to entertain your children, let them help, don’t micromanage when they don’t do it perfectly, stop talking so much, a little benign neglect goes a long way.

Villa Coco by Andrew Sean Greer — Gosh, I adored Coco. She wasn’t even all the likable but I liked her anyway. This was an absolutely ridiculous and memorable trip to the Tuscan country side through the eyes of a young American archivist.

EATING

For book club I made a version of this shredded beef for tacos and it was delish. Skipped the can of tomatoes and used a can of chipotles in adobo instead of chipotle powder. Served it alongside an arugula salad with smoky roasted veggies and a chipotle balsamic vinaigrette. The whole gang outdid themselves with street corn dip, and guacamole, strawberry salsa with chocolate “chips” and a glorious mixed berry bowl. No one went home hungry, I’ll tell ya that.

We are obsessed with the sun-dried tomato and kale pasta from Caroline Chambers’ book What To Cook When You Don’t Feel Like Cooking and probably eat it once a week. At this point I just make a version of it based on what I have. This is a slightly different but very similar version from her website, but I will say, her cookbook is one of my current favorites.

For Father’s Day, we made Jeff these brookies and they were so yummy and easy to make.

LOVING

We went to our local air show a few weeks ago and I’m still in awe. My only thought the entire time the Air Force Thunderbirds were flying: AIRPLANES ARE SO FUCKING COOL. People around us were clearly air show regulars as evidenced by their composure. Meanwhile I was fully losing my mind. It was truly AWESOME, and also just made me really proud to be an American.

This post by Amy Catriona inspired me to use my pocket notebook in ways I hadn’t thought to before. Mostly mine is a catch all and I love that it’s like a tiny time capsule.

10 uses for a pocket notebook to keep you off your phone

Guilty as charged.

CONTEMPLATING

The Mother's Gauntlet

“The stay-at-home mom cannot escape into a system and hide from her own ungovernability. Not only will she tell on herself, but her children, her life’s greatest work, will eventually tell on her, too. It is a monumental task, calling forth resolution and self-possession on a scale that most of us have never practiced. For that very reason, it is ennobling. But it is also a severe and demanding road bereft of honors and outside encouragement. Our advertisements for homemaking should include that fact—this is a spiritual battle, not a cakewalk. Expectations need to be set at that level.” - Lane Scott