Little Things

In this entry I randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song Title: “Live and Die” by the Avett Brothers (from The Carpenter album)

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about living every day, staying in the present, making the most of those moments. A friend’s tagline on her email is: “Enjoy the little things, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.” Being someone who likes to have big things to look forward to (don’t most people?), this idea prods me a bit. In rushing to get on to the “big thing”–like the annual beach getaway–I sometimes don’t realize that there is beauty and depth in the little thing. Often these little things have to do with my three little things–my kids.

Besides not having a mountain of patience, I’ve driven enough rings around the Beltway, made enough mac n’ cheese and hot dogs, and presided over enough “word study” sessions to feel like I’ve earned the right to not always enjoy those “little things.” At bedtime, I’m literally willing my kids to sleep, like a marathoner with the finish line in sight, as if that will make any difference in what they actually do. I usually end up surprised and frustrated when they don’t seem to have received my mind-controlling messages and suddenly appear in the kitchen for that life-preserving glass of water that will sit untouched by their bedside all night.

Even now, my 10-year-old daughter, who leaves for camp this weekend, is hanging around as I type outside on the patio. I try not to shoo her away too sharply–she will be gone for two weeks, after all–but my first thought when I see her is “not now.” She comes closer, and I uncharacteristically hold my tongue and wait to see what she does. She has showered and dressed and fastened a fake flower to the side of her wet, blond hair that is pulled back in a ponytail.

“Mom, can I see your phone?” (That’s where all the games are.)

I hand it to her and look back at my screen. She sits down at the table next to me and asks if I’ve seen a sweatshirt that she needs to pack for camp.

“Honey, I’m working on something. I’ll be happy to talk in a bit, and then we can take Cookie for a walk.”

She wanders over to the swing and sits. She’s not excited, not upset, just slouches in the swing with that fuscia flower in her hair, lightly pushing her feet back and forth. I think about what I’m writing and how this beautiful, contented (for the moment!) 10-year-old, excited and scared about her first-ever sleep-away camp, is soon to be a 10-year-old who will have had a two-week experience that I will have had nothing to do with, except for write the occasional letter and send a care package, maybe. She will come back changed, even if ever so slightly.

She ambles back over to the table, grabs my phone and starts to show videos of her and her sister to our scruffy terrier, who lies at her feet.

“Mom, look at Cookie watching!” She is giggling.

And I am watching my daughter. It’s only a little thing, this moment in which a 10-year-old is delighting in showing her dog a video, but it’s one I’m paying attention to.

Think I’ll go walk that dog now.

Running, Writing, Striving

Note: This entry is not an actual song-title prompt, but this song is on my running playlist and came on when I was thinking about the topic, below.

Song Title: “Doors Unlocked and Open” by Death Cab for Cutie (from Codes and Keys album)

As I lope along the shoreline, compulsorily glancing out over the glistening sea, it occurs to me that running and writing — both interests of mine — are a lot alike. Each requires an elaborate preamble that sometimes takes longer than the activity itself. Before running (especially at the beach) wind and temperature must be checked for optimum conditions, sunscreen liberally applied, shoes laced just so, playlist cued up, ipod running app ready. Then, when I’ve covered every other procrastination angle, I go to the bathroom … again.

During the run itself, I try to enjoy it, and sometimes that actually happens. I run with ease, not constantly trying to catch my breath. My body feels light and my mind wanders in a good way. Basically, I’m not slogging. But more often than not, my legs feel heavy, I frequently check time and distance, and I talk to myself as I would a whiny child: “Just to that yellow house,” “Only a half-mile to go,” “C’mon, don’t be a pansy!”

Similarly, I have to be in the “right” frame of mind to write. Usually this means bills have been paid, email checked (in at least the last 15 minutes), caffeine ingested, kids asleep or otherwise occupied, husband ensconced in his office, and no latest episode of “Mad Men” burning up the DVR queue.

When I finally start writing, there are those rare occasions when the words flow easily. But much of the time it is a start-stop situation, like a car with a bad battery. Sometimes I will get a text or call with an “urgent” issue. Every 20 minutes or so I have to get water or check my spam folder. A professional organizer once told me after some observation that I had about a 90-minute attention span. And she didn’t mean 90-minute increments. She meant for the whole time. That’s not SO bad, right? Well, ok, for a child…

But if I can get the battery going, I’m usually writing for something like that 90-minute span. Or at least to the point that I’ve feel like I’ve written SOMETHING. Sometimes I quit in the middle of a thought, so that I know where to pick up the next time. I heard Ernest Hemingway did that.

I love Anne Lamott’s comparison of the writing process to advice her father once gave her brother, who hadn’t begun a report on birds that was due the next day: Take it “bird by bird.” (That’s also the title of her book — one of the best ever on writing.) Running, and writing even, is just one foot in front of the other (even if your shoulders are hunched over) til you’ve gone far enough to catch your breath. And at that point, occasionally, it gets easier and you keep going.

I was thinking of the word “strive” and how it seems to encapsulate both “try” and “strength.” First, you have to have the intention — the desire to try — and secondly, you need the strength to take those first few steps.

The Stealth Napper

In this entry I randomly select a song title from my itunes library as a writing prompt.

Song title: “Never Gonna Leave This Bed” by Maroon 5

I can’t say that I enjoy NOT being a morning person, but I also have come to realize that I cannot fight my “bio-ribbons,” (as one daughter calls biorhythms.) Contrary to what I used to think — as a teenager, college student, employee, wife, then mother — you don’t necessarily morph into a morning person when you “grow up.”

It’s kind of like growing up itself, actually. Over time, as you gradually adopt all the accoutrements of adulthood — a job, a professional wardrobe, a rent payment, a husband, a house, a dog-as-first-child — one day you find that everyone thinks you really are a grown-up. And you think, “I’ve fooled them.”

So it is being a night owl who must moonlight as a morning person. You wake up at 6:30 a.m., rouse the kids, make breakfast, rush out the door, and weave and bob through traffic to get to school on time. You go to that meeting about making snacks for the teachers and race to yoga so you can squeeze in your de-stressing and detoxing. You feel energized enough to go make that stultifying grocery store run. You walk the dog in the sun-filled park. You perk up just in time for the afternoon carpool.

But sometimes, after that morning carpool … you go back to bed.

Yes, on rare occasions, when I have that little pocket of time after morning drop-off and no appointments or responsibilities (glaring ones, at least), I’ve driven back home, beelined upstairs and flopped into bed. This is particularly the case if it’s been an unfortunate “no-coffee” morning — if my husband, who usually makes the coffee, is away and we’ve had a searching-all-over-for-the-math-homework-that-was-just-in-the-backpack kind of mornings.

This return to sleep doesn’t happen nearly as often as I’d like. But I like knowing it’s in the universe of possibilities. It feels illegal, in a good way.

Further confession: I’ve even found a quiet place near my children’s school to park the car, set my phone alarm, and tilt my seat back for a 10-minute catnap. Yes, I feel like those cabbies you sometimes see catching winks in their car, and I can relate.

Once, when the twins were infants, I remember arriving home bleary-eyed from an afternoon of errands with them both sound asleep in their car seats. A friend’s car was temporarily occupying our one-car garage, so I parked in front of our house, cut off the engine, cracked the windows, and reclined my seat for a siesta. Why fight it?

A few days later I ran into my neighbor, who smiled a little as she said, “I saw you in the car the other day. You and the babies — all asleep.” Her eyes widened.

Trying not to show how embarrassed I was, I just smiled back and murmured something about “If you can’t beat ‘em…”

I think our world would be a more peaceful, serene place if we openly embraced the idea of the catnap. Luminaries such as John F. Kennedy and Leonardo DaVinci apparently did. In fact, how about adding napping rooms to every Starbucks? If that tall, grande or venti latte’s not doing the trick, you could order up a 10, 20 or 30-minute nap. Extra dark. Eye pillow included.