Last night was typical. RL was crying, with a host of very serious reasons for doing so--she was, after all, NEVER going to be able to play the piano which I just keep making her practice, and Mrs. J was making her do an ENTIRE PACKET a day for reading groups (which is obviously unfair). She had to finish her homework before going out to play, and I wouldn't give her ice cream beore dinner. When I snapped at her to stop whining, she wailed, "See? I'm stupid, too!"
This comes two days after a discussion about lemonade, and how to make it if life hands you the proverbial lemons. During this discussion, of course, RL mostly bemoaned the fact that if she does manage to look on the bright side, I probably won't even know since she'll likely be at school, so I won't reward her for it. What's the point? She is not my most optimistic child.
The thing I keep thinking about lately is this feeling of entitlement that radiates off my children. Lemons? Life has handed them two parents who are highly educated, hard working and utterly devoted to them. They live in a country where they have rights, freedoms, opportunities--not to mention electricity and plumbing--and I'm talking to them about making lemonade. It more than once occurs to me that this is ridiculous.
I'm guilty, of course, too. Someimes, I don't feel happy. And I indulge in a little self-pity. If I didn't have so much to do for everyone else, if my husband were more sensitive, if my children were better behaved, and the kicker--if my mom had lived. It reminds me of the scene from Bridget Jones's Diary where she's in some foreign jail with all these women complaining about boyfriends who beat them, sell them, make them deal in drugs and all sorts of horrid things. She realizes how silly it is to be so upset with her man over the way he so tidily folds his boxers. And my life is like that. It seems like such serious business, the living of our individual lives. Still, I'm aware of my tendency to dramatize (thanks, Dad, for the tater tot incident), and can snap myself out of these little bouts. I recognize the unspeakable beauty of what life has handed me, and I count myself lucky. I'm mostly grateful, and mostly happy.
Still, this is my biggest struggle, this trying to make my kids see what they have. Is there any way to do that without taking it away? "For when do know anything as utterly as when we lack it?" I guess Dad would laugh at this, after battling the six of us for so many years and seeing us turn out all right (I assume he thinks we did in fact turn out all right), and in the toughest moments that's where I take courage from. And it's really all about scale, right? Don't we pretty much adjust to the level of lemons we get? I hope so, and I hope that by teaching my babies to make that lemonade over the small and insignificant things, they'll be able to step up if it starts raining lemons. Right?
This comes two days after a discussion about lemonade, and how to make it if life hands you the proverbial lemons. During this discussion, of course, RL mostly bemoaned the fact that if she does manage to look on the bright side, I probably won't even know since she'll likely be at school, so I won't reward her for it. What's the point? She is not my most optimistic child.
The thing I keep thinking about lately is this feeling of entitlement that radiates off my children. Lemons? Life has handed them two parents who are highly educated, hard working and utterly devoted to them. They live in a country where they have rights, freedoms, opportunities--not to mention electricity and plumbing--and I'm talking to them about making lemonade. It more than once occurs to me that this is ridiculous.
I'm guilty, of course, too. Someimes, I don't feel happy. And I indulge in a little self-pity. If I didn't have so much to do for everyone else, if my husband were more sensitive, if my children were better behaved, and the kicker--if my mom had lived. It reminds me of the scene from Bridget Jones's Diary where she's in some foreign jail with all these women complaining about boyfriends who beat them, sell them, make them deal in drugs and all sorts of horrid things. She realizes how silly it is to be so upset with her man over the way he so tidily folds his boxers. And my life is like that. It seems like such serious business, the living of our individual lives. Still, I'm aware of my tendency to dramatize (thanks, Dad, for the tater tot incident), and can snap myself out of these little bouts. I recognize the unspeakable beauty of what life has handed me, and I count myself lucky. I'm mostly grateful, and mostly happy.
Still, this is my biggest struggle, this trying to make my kids see what they have. Is there any way to do that without taking it away? "For when do know anything as utterly as when we lack it?" I guess Dad would laugh at this, after battling the six of us for so many years and seeing us turn out all right (I assume he thinks we did in fact turn out all right), and in the toughest moments that's where I take courage from. And it's really all about scale, right? Don't we pretty much adjust to the level of lemons we get? I hope so, and I hope that by teaching my babies to make that lemonade over the small and insignificant things, they'll be able to step up if it starts raining lemons. Right?
