03/20/2020
I love all of the recently posted ideas for what to do with our kiddos, and how to keep them busy during this time. I've been collecting them myself, as well, but as I do so, thoughts of my own - rather quarantined - childhood keep resonating with me.
*picture circa about 1979...after I spent an unsupervised morning being "bored" in my grandmother's closet 😁
Let. Them. Be. BORED.
"Does she want to be buried or cremated?" I overheard my daughter ask my son as I approached their room.
Suddenly frozen in mid-step I listened intently for the response as my brain whirled from uncertainty (did I just hear that?) to shock and horror (what in the world is she saying and why?).
"She wanted to be cremated", came her brother's response. "And I want that, too. That way I can keep her with me wherever I go instead of having to visit a grave".
"Did you know that's why [*son's friend's mama*] wanted to cremate [*son's friend*]?", he went on to say, "so she could keep him close to her?"
"Yes," my daughter answered. "But I also like it when we go visit people at their graves".
"Yeah, me too", my son went on, "but I want to be cremated when I die".
My daughter said that she might want to, also, but was undecided.
"That's ok," her brother assured her, "we probably don't need to worry about that for a while still".
By now, I had already peeked around the corner, then ducked quickly back into the hall so I could listen undetected for as long as possible. They had been playing with Barbies. The grocery store had become the funeral home, and they were making arrangements for a friend who had died.
Over the past two years I've watched them play "hurricane" - forcing them to give up "things" they love and move from their home- coming back to a place that looks different than what they left. I've heard them talking to animals about moms (me) being sick and what would happen if they died. I've seen them draw pictures of their "Granddude" with an injured leg & foot trying to ride his bike again, or paint a neighbor's dog over a rainbow - in heaven with the friend, grandparents, uncles, and aunts recently lost.
But after this latest encounter of "Barbie funeral home" play, I was suddenly smacked with multiple realizations - most prominently that 1) they were playing through their pain - finding creative ways to work through their fears and comforting themselves in their own ways/words/timing, and 2) each of these playtimes happened probably moments after hearing the words "I'm BORED"
During one very difficult "sick day" for me, I finally told the kids "make your own breakfast", "go play outside or in your rooms", and "please, please, just let mommy rest."
There was crying and complaining; whining and fighting...but there was also teamwork and creative problem-solving; tenacity and coping.
There was a first try at making scrambled eggs and toast (using our gas stove, which, had I been less ill would have probably terrified me), there was a realization that they could figure out how to run a load in the washer and dryer (amazingly fun for children!) when they spilled milk on a favorite lovie. There was impromptu science experiments and non-structured play (oh the messes they made!!!)
Healthy, energetic, "perfectionist" me would have obsessed over each of these things. This me - the one desperate for control in a world of chaos - would say "just let me do it" because it was easier than hearing them kvetch as they took two hours to do something half as "well" as I could have in 15 minutes.
But healthy, energetic me would have missed out on so much. So much excitement. So much makeup, costume changes, new dance routines and rock concert performances. So much confidence and pride in their accomplishments (in ways I'd never witnessed in their "group awards" scenarios).
And while I was feeling new levels anxiety in my *perceived* loss of control, they were demonstrating the least amount of anxiety I had witnessed in a long time.
While there is something to be said for maintaining consistency and routine (and scientific evidence to back it), my attempts to over-structure, uber-organize, and super-happify were making us all miserable (terrifying amount of mounting evidence to support this).
The worst part is: all this time I thought I was raising well-rounded, confident, and active humans I was actually creating anxious, incapable, and emotionally incompetent children.
I suddenly remembered myself as a young girl, talking with my dolls about things that had happened. Things I couldn't discuss with grown-ups because I was still working through how to even put them into words.
I remembered how those times - alone in my room - I was learning to calm myself, to comfort myself, to convince myself that everything was going to be ok - even if they weren't what I hoped they would be.
My play was important work - helping me to develop and grow physically, spiritually, and emotionally. I built resilience and confidence in my ability to survive. Skills I didn't get from school or a schedule. Skills I still need and use today.
That day in the hall I made a promise to myself:
- A promise to let go of the guilt I felt for not being able to fill every. waking. minute. with Pinterest-worthy activities, blog-worthy musings, and Insta-worthy smiles.
- A promise to let go of old standards - not by lowering them, but by re-prioritizing them with a "grand-scheme-of-things" view.
- And, most of all, a promise to let. them. be. BORED.
