Alright, I'm up. There's no sense in trying to fight it any longer, so I may as well get out of bed and do something. Although it feels like the loneliest thing in the world, I am sure I'm not alone in suffering the horrible frustration of insomnia. Usually I will just grab the book off my nightstand and read a page or twenty. Unfortunately, I forgot to include A.J. Jacobs' My Life as an Experiment when I packed my bag to spend the weekend at Michael's in the city. I am bookless, and doomed.
Lying in bed from four to six AM, I stared out the windows at the Atlanta skyline, watching the occasional car wind its way up or down the parking deck of a nearby hospital. I looked at the moon. Pretty. But after twenty minutes its beauty started to fade as I grew increasingly irritated at my inability to sleep. Michael's peaceful sleep sounds--the deep, sonorous breathing and the occasional snore--mocked me. The worst part of insomnia, for me anyway, is having to listen to my own mind. If it would just shut the hell up, maybe I could get some sleep.
I suppose it's the stillness and lack of stimulation, coupled with the stark isolation, that make fertile ground for my conscience and my superego to dig and till, planting seeds of doubt and worry. I laid there, letting my thoughts grow darker as I waited for the sky to grow lighter.
"You know your job is only a temporary position. You need to get your act together and find something more secure."
"Your kids are growing up so fast. Are you spending enough quality time with them? Are you teaching them everything you should be?"
"When are you ever going to put together some photo albums of your family life? You won't have anything to remember all these good times when you're old."
"Did you ever make an appointment for your daughter's annual physical?"
"When are you going to rewrite that novel and send out queries?"
"You don't have enough money in the bank right now. One unexpected expense. . ."
"Someday, you're going to grow old and die, just like everyone else. And it's sooner than you think."
Alright, enough already. At this point, I decided to get up. I hate it when my mind gets all existential on me like that. And it doesn't help that we have the condo decorated for an upcoming Halloween party with skulls and bones everywhere. In fact, on the futon directly across from the bed lie two full-sized skeletons, a bride and groom. How apropos.
I am reminded of Thich Nhat Hahn's meditation on one's own corpse. (Sound morbid? Well, what do you expect? It's the middle of the night, and I'm alone, surrounded by skeletons.) He suggests that his students meditate on the image of their own corpse, decomposing stage by stage, until nothing remains. It fosters the ultimate acceptance of impermanence; nothing lasts. Once we embrace our own temporary nature, we can release the suffering that comes along with attachment to our bodies, our health, our youth. This body my spirit presently sports has a shelf life of about 80 some odd years, give or take a few, and that's if I take good care of it. At forty-one, I'm halfway there. In the eerily desolate hours between two and six am, this truth becomes a stark reality.
The Spanish language has a wonderful word for this time of neither day nor night: la madrugada. Probably the best translation we have for it is "the wee hours of the morn," although that sounds frivolous and trite. If we find ourselves alone and awake in this madrugada, we sometimes face our own mortality and the ultimate truth of our aloneness. We all die alone. Yet comfort comes in knowing that all of us are in the same boat, so to speak, on this ocean of isolation. Every one of us alive today, in fact, everyone who has ever lived, has had to face this same truth. And life goes on.
So, I can either lay in bed and think about my inadequate savings account, my job insecurity, my empty photo album, and my eventual, inevitable death, or I can get up and live today, here in the Now. Because none of those things will matter once I roll over and take the big dirt nap. No one will care that my job wasn't secure (I certainly won't need it anymore). No one will give a rat's behind if I scrapbooked every minute of my kids' lives. And unless I can take the balance of my bank account with me to bribe any boatmen or gatekeepers, it doesn't matter if that ends up a big fat zero. (My grandfather used to say, the last check from your account will go to the undertaker, and if you live your life right, it should bounce.)
Here's another truth for you. This is one beautiful world we live in, and I have much to be thankful for. My children bring me a steady stream of love and laughter. (God, I have some funny kids.) It may be unsteady work, but I do have a job that I love and that has flexible hours, so I can spend time with my family. And sleeping noisily in the next room, Michael has managed to become both the love of my life and my new BFF. Right now, this is my reality. And this moment is all that really is. If I stay here, in this moment, I'm content.
Oh look. . . the sun's coming up. The sky is awash in pink, purple, and blue. More cars are circling up into the hospital parking deck. The full moon fades as the sky lightens around it. The night may have been a rough one, but it looks like the start of a beautiful day.
And the skeletons are smiling.
Saturday, October 23, 2010
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Work It, Girl
"I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy." ~Rabindranath Tagore
This might sound like bourgeois nonsense, something The Man might say to make the proletariat whistle while they work. But I do believe that it is indeed through service that we find our bliss. The Bahai consider work as their worship. In Buddhism, Right Livelihood is is a step on the Eightfold Path to Enlightenment. Work satisfaction is closely tied to our happiness. So instilling a strong work ethic is one of the kindest things we can do for our kids.
But somewhere along the way, I dropped the ball as a parent. I had the ball, at one time. Had that sucker firmly tucked under my arm and was dodging tackles left and right, back when carrying the ball was my full-time occupation and I was Employee of the Month, every month. I ran that house like a fascist cheerleader with OCD. We had memberships to everything from the zoo to the botanical garden to the science museum. We did crafts, and took trips, and had experiences. I filled my children's minds and exposed them to all sorts of cool stuff. We picked blueberries, we saw aquariums, we made pottery, we watched cows get milked, and a slew of other field-trippy things. But I also made them work. The refrigerator was a testimony to my devotion; my mission in life was to Raise Good Kids. If I had my way, they would have good manners, they would know the value of money, and most importantly, they would develop a strong work ethic. With chore charts, allowances, and room inspections, these kids were well on their way.
Then I got divorced, started working full-time, and just got tired. I suppose I dropped the ball somewhere between the courthouse, the university, and the after-school program carpool line. The fridge still has The Family Rules posted on it (among several other spirchul lists, like The Rules for Being Human, and Deepak's Seven Laws of Spiritual Success for Kids), all of which get broken on a daily basis at my abode. Where the hell is that ball? I need it back.
If you read the last post, then you are aware of Wednesday's problems with neatness. Her room is a cross between a Petri dish and a hamper. The child lives like a frat boy, without the beer can tower and posters of naked girls, of course. Yesterday morning, I told her and Max that I plan to reinstate the old system of chore charts and allowances. This way, they will learn that privileges are tied to responsibilities, and that money doesn't grow on trees. (Yes, I was channeling for my grandfather when I said that one.) The plan still needs the kinks worked out, like exactly how much money will be earned for exactly which chores, and how their performances will be evaluated, but I gave them the global idea as I drove the little darlings to school. Wednesday's response just floored me.
"Well, I'm just being honest here, okay? But if it's like, a lot of work for not much money, then I just won't bother."
Huh? Wait...that's not an option.
It occurred to me: that's a pretty good description of many people's jobs, mine included. "A lot of work for not much money." Maybe I can just waltz into the department head's office and proclaim, "Hey, just being honest here, but this is like, too much work for mot much money, so I'm just not gonna bother." Then I'd just sashay outta there and go to the mall to hang out with my friends and talk about boy bands and buy Japanese snacks at Niko Niko. That'd be the life, huh?
Well, that is apparently the life I have set up for my daughter. With no expenses to cover, no mouths to feed, and no mortgage to pay, she doesn't really have to do anything. I'm going to have to up the ante here. From now on, she is cut off from any expenditures aside from food and some very basic clothing. I will buy her some jeans and t-shirts from Target. Any concert tickets or clothes from Hot Topic will have to come out of her funds. (Which she doesn't have yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha!)
At Wednesday's age, I babysat on a regular basis. My boyfriend was delivering papers at age seven! He worked that route until he was fifteen, starting as early as 6 am on Sundays. Why did we do these jobs? Two reasons. One, we wanted money that was ours, that we earned and could therefore spend how we wished. And two, we thought it was cool to "have a job." It made us feel grown up. So it came down to ambition and responsibility, the two components that make up something I see lacking in my daughter: a strong work ethic.
When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a lawyer (a calling for which my brother still claims I was designed). Before that it was a research scientist, and after the lawyer thing, it became an advertising executive, because I could write, be artistic, and make a crap-ton of money all at the same time. (Hey, it was the 80's. Greedy times.) What are Wednesday's ambitions?
"I got it all planned out. Me and Mariela are gonna like, move to Liverpool and be artists. Then, when I get married, I wanna move to Japan."
"Artists, huh?" (Nothing wrong with that, but let's define "artist.")
"Yeah. She's gonna paint, and I'm gonna do photography. But we know that won't pay much, so we're gonna also be like, hairdressers or something like that cuz it's easy."
"Really?" I said. One of my best friends is my hair stylist, and I know for a fact it ain't easy. "Stand like this with your arms in the air for the next eight hours."
I got an eye roll. Shame on me for spoiling such a perfect plan.
This might be a poor transition, but I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, which was "based on a true story." I also read the books, so I think I got the inside scoop. If Mary and Laura could hold down the farm (which I think caught fire in that episode) for a day while Ma and Pa went into Sleepy Eye to sell eggs, then why can't Wednesday put the dishes in the dishwasher?
Expectations.
We live in an age where the average middle class kid has more goodies than the richest kids a generation ago did. My brother and I had an Atari. Some kids had a Nintendo. You had to pick. My kids have a Wii, an XBOX 360, and a Playstation 2. (And they still want more systems.) Electronics are cheap now, and they make our lives convenient. Kids are already living like grown-ups, so why do they need a job to make them feel adult? They have cell phones and laptops, making them feel pretty damn important already. But guess what. They aren't as happy as we were with our babysitting jobs and paper routes. See, Rabindranath has a point. Without a sense of accomplishment and contribution to the world they live in, our kids are jaded, dissatisfied, and unhappy. The kindest thing I can do for my daughter is to help her see that service is joy.
So, Step One: I unplugged her.
Now time for Step Two: I'm cutting off the ATM. No more money. Period. If she wants it, she'll earn it. even if it's "like, a lotta work for not much money," it'll be more than she has now. And although she doesn't realize it, she will be earning something besides money: happiness.
I'm picking the ball back up.
But somewhere along the way, I dropped the ball as a parent. I had the ball, at one time. Had that sucker firmly tucked under my arm and was dodging tackles left and right, back when carrying the ball was my full-time occupation and I was Employee of the Month, every month. I ran that house like a fascist cheerleader with OCD. We had memberships to everything from the zoo to the botanical garden to the science museum. We did crafts, and took trips, and had experiences. I filled my children's minds and exposed them to all sorts of cool stuff. We picked blueberries, we saw aquariums, we made pottery, we watched cows get milked, and a slew of other field-trippy things. But I also made them work. The refrigerator was a testimony to my devotion; my mission in life was to Raise Good Kids. If I had my way, they would have good manners, they would know the value of money, and most importantly, they would develop a strong work ethic. With chore charts, allowances, and room inspections, these kids were well on their way.
Then I got divorced, started working full-time, and just got tired. I suppose I dropped the ball somewhere between the courthouse, the university, and the after-school program carpool line. The fridge still has The Family Rules posted on it (among several other spirchul lists, like The Rules for Being Human, and Deepak's Seven Laws of Spiritual Success for Kids), all of which get broken on a daily basis at my abode. Where the hell is that ball? I need it back.
If you read the last post, then you are aware of Wednesday's problems with neatness. Her room is a cross between a Petri dish and a hamper. The child lives like a frat boy, without the beer can tower and posters of naked girls, of course. Yesterday morning, I told her and Max that I plan to reinstate the old system of chore charts and allowances. This way, they will learn that privileges are tied to responsibilities, and that money doesn't grow on trees. (Yes, I was channeling for my grandfather when I said that one.) The plan still needs the kinks worked out, like exactly how much money will be earned for exactly which chores, and how their performances will be evaluated, but I gave them the global idea as I drove the little darlings to school. Wednesday's response just floored me.
"Well, I'm just being honest here, okay? But if it's like, a lot of work for not much money, then I just won't bother."
Huh? Wait...that's not an option.
It occurred to me: that's a pretty good description of many people's jobs, mine included. "A lot of work for not much money." Maybe I can just waltz into the department head's office and proclaim, "Hey, just being honest here, but this is like, too much work for mot much money, so I'm just not gonna bother." Then I'd just sashay outta there and go to the mall to hang out with my friends and talk about boy bands and buy Japanese snacks at Niko Niko. That'd be the life, huh?
Well, that is apparently the life I have set up for my daughter. With no expenses to cover, no mouths to feed, and no mortgage to pay, she doesn't really have to do anything. I'm going to have to up the ante here. From now on, she is cut off from any expenditures aside from food and some very basic clothing. I will buy her some jeans and t-shirts from Target. Any concert tickets or clothes from Hot Topic will have to come out of her funds. (Which she doesn't have yet. Mwah ha ha ha ha!)
At Wednesday's age, I babysat on a regular basis. My boyfriend was delivering papers at age seven! He worked that route until he was fifteen, starting as early as 6 am on Sundays. Why did we do these jobs? Two reasons. One, we wanted money that was ours, that we earned and could therefore spend how we wished. And two, we thought it was cool to "have a job." It made us feel grown up. So it came down to ambition and responsibility, the two components that make up something I see lacking in my daughter: a strong work ethic.
When I was fourteen, I wanted to be a lawyer (a calling for which my brother still claims I was designed). Before that it was a research scientist, and after the lawyer thing, it became an advertising executive, because I could write, be artistic, and make a crap-ton of money all at the same time. (Hey, it was the 80's. Greedy times.) What are Wednesday's ambitions?
"I got it all planned out. Me and Mariela are gonna like, move to Liverpool and be artists. Then, when I get married, I wanna move to Japan."
"Artists, huh?" (Nothing wrong with that, but let's define "artist.")
"Yeah. She's gonna paint, and I'm gonna do photography. But we know that won't pay much, so we're gonna also be like, hairdressers or something like that cuz it's easy."
"Really?" I said. One of my best friends is my hair stylist, and I know for a fact it ain't easy. "Stand like this with your arms in the air for the next eight hours."
I got an eye roll. Shame on me for spoiling such a perfect plan.
This might be a poor transition, but I grew up watching Little House on the Prairie, which was "based on a true story." I also read the books, so I think I got the inside scoop. If Mary and Laura could hold down the farm (which I think caught fire in that episode) for a day while Ma and Pa went into Sleepy Eye to sell eggs, then why can't Wednesday put the dishes in the dishwasher?
Expectations.
We live in an age where the average middle class kid has more goodies than the richest kids a generation ago did. My brother and I had an Atari. Some kids had a Nintendo. You had to pick. My kids have a Wii, an XBOX 360, and a Playstation 2. (And they still want more systems.) Electronics are cheap now, and they make our lives convenient. Kids are already living like grown-ups, so why do they need a job to make them feel adult? They have cell phones and laptops, making them feel pretty damn important already. But guess what. They aren't as happy as we were with our babysitting jobs and paper routes. See, Rabindranath has a point. Without a sense of accomplishment and contribution to the world they live in, our kids are jaded, dissatisfied, and unhappy. The kindest thing I can do for my daughter is to help her see that service is joy.
So, Step One: I unplugged her.
Now time for Step Two: I'm cutting off the ATM. No more money. Period. If she wants it, she'll earn it. even if it's "like, a lotta work for not much money," it'll be more than she has now. And although she doesn't realize it, she will be earning something besides money: happiness.
I'm picking the ball back up.
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