the silent stick game

On a recent meditation-related internet wander, I found this very cool website with all kinds of creative ideas for practicing yoga and mindfulness with kids. I ended up drawing from this activity for a meditation blog I write for work, and then trying it out at home with Frances and Gabriel.

 

I called it the silent stick game, and we played it with toothpicks I found in the back of the pantry (last used in the creation of paper helicopters). Each person playing silently places one stick on the table when it is her turn. With every turn, another stick is added, and a collaborative picture slowly forms.

As I might have guessed, this was a challenge for both kids. Gabriel is still too young to abide by rules like no talking and waiting for turns, but Frances and I gave him a pile of toothpicks to work with on his own, which kept him happily employed. Frances was initially disturbed by the fact that she would not have ultimate control over the image we were creating, and by the absence of discussion. My daughter undertakes very little in life without talking about it at great length before, during, and after the endeavor in question. I knew this would be on the growing edge for her.

But the rolling pile of rainbow colored toothpicks on the table proved so enticing that she endured the discomfort and tried out the game in earnest. Success! It was a pleasure to surprise each other, to discover something unexpected, and to watch Frances relax and enjoy being creative in a quiet, collaborative way. I must confess, we were far from silent, but we didn't direct each other either.

 

We played a couple of rounds that resulted in an angular flower and a wacky-haired dancing person, then both kids enjoyed making their own stick pictures for awhile. I loved the quiet, charged air of focused energy in the house - while it lasted. In the future, I don't think I will try this on a tabletop that hovers over a green shag rug made of countless toothpick-sized lengths of wool. Nor will I get over-confident and leave the kids playing with hundreds of pointy toothpicks while I start dinner. (Hopefully I will remember a certain two year old's proclivity to throwing things when frustration hits.) But don't be deterred; I am sure all of you are wiser and more cautious than I am in these sorts of circumstances. Try the silent stick game for yourself and tell me how it goes! 

doing stories

I present to you 2010's most triumphant innovation in our family's world of creative play: a baking dish filled with dry beans and lentils for Gabriel's tiny construction vehicles to dig and dump. He has spent countless happy hours engrossed in his construction-themed tales, operating the machinery and adding new props to this Pyrex dish-turned-portable theater like shells, acorns, and plastic animals.

And this is The Cup, home to many delightful creatures including horses, dinosaurs, a wiggly snake and a diminutive Spider Man who is in a permanent crouch, forever ready to spring into action. All of them are willing actors. Sometimes when we are in the kitchen together Gabriel will tell me that he'd like to do some stories. I take down the play dough and The Cup off the shelf, and he gets busy making play dough islands, trucks, and roads and populating them with the cup inhabitants who invariably fight, build, and wreck stuff.

That's what my kids do. They do stories. Nowadays Frances like to use paper, pens, and art supplies to do hers, but she still likes a good satisfying round of play dough storytelling too. She tells stories to her pals, the embroidered birds on the shower curtain, every time she uses the bathroom (if you are ever visiting us and wondering where Frances has disappeared too, that is the first place to check). She spends long stretches of time lost in making books featuring protagonists with names like Scary McSee. 

Sometimes I feel like my job is to create an environment that will facilitate my kids' storytelling and story-listening, and then get out of the way. Put out a dish of split peas in a quiet room and let them go at it.  When they tire of that we can read a stack of books together. I am just as hooked as they are; one of the greatest joys of parenting small children for me is the daily consumption of children's books. (It is unfortunate that the pleasures of reading aloud are usually reserved for librarians, teachers, and parents of younger children. I hope my kids will indulge me and tolerate reading aloud together til college. And beyond.)

When my kids do stories, I watch them become pint-sized masterminds controlling a tiny universe, creating and destroying at will. How satisfying! Story making is a kind of counterweight to the relative powerlessness they cope with in a universe run by adults with their maddeningly arbitrary ways. I like to think it gives them a sense of agency in the big wide confusing world, just as it did - and still does (hello blogging!) for me.

every happy family is happy in its own way

Socializing in Annapolis is so often planned. People live farther apart, our St. John's friends have demanding schedules, there is a lot more school to contend with, and the end result is that when a family comes over, it becomes an occasion to clean the house and make some nicer-than-usual food. It's so different from visiting in Lancaster. We knock on friends' doors without calling first. My kids hop on and off the neighbors' porches in their pajamas. And we all enjoy being welcomed into the warm kitchens and lived-in living rooms of friends.

These spontaneous moments of shared, messy regular life offer a window into the mystery of how another family works - the inner logic and boundaries that give a family its cohesive shape. I have been intrigued by families since I was a kid, but now that I'm a responsible party in my own family (I'm so culpable! They will tell their therapists about me someday!) I can get pretty weird and twisted up inside. My old anxiety-driven perfectionist impulses start making grumbling noises.

I admit it: I have succumbed to feelings of inadequacy before the many happy, strong families we are lucky to call friends. Instead of taking inspiration when I see a friend modeling a novel way to engage a child, organize a meal, or encourage positive behavior, I sometimes think: why don't I do that?  I tabulate the multitudinous errors of my mothering. I settle into making mental lists of all the things I will do better. It is so disappointing when that happens! The competitive parenting vibe one encounters at the playground or preschool with relative strangers is one thing. But to recognize those feelings of competition, judgment, and anxiety with friends completely sucks. The cruel gesture of objectification required to compete with another person is extra problematic in family friendship. Being a parent is hard enough! Why would I mess with the much-needed solidarity?

At a certain point during the holidays though, the grumblings quieted, and I was able to appreciate that our friends and family's differences are a beautiful thing. Besides sharing different pursuits, work, books, music, passions and relationships, other families share with us a different internal organization, because they are made up of different people. I know, it is nuts that I am only wrapping my head around this idea now. Happy families are not alike, after all. How could they be?

I have a five year old who gags on vegetables, has an insatiable appetite for all things theological, screams in terror because she hears a mysterious noise on the way to the kitchen, writes poetry that takes my breath away, and sits in the bathroom talking earnestly to the birds embroidered on our shower curtain that she has named John and Michael. As if I could employ the same disciplinary tactics or bedtime routine with her that a friend does with her equally extraordinary and one of a kind kid!

When I can accept and embrace our particularity and strangeness, I can learn from the dear friends in our life without feeling threatened or judged. I can take inspiration from their generous, unique example, letting it fill my sails with a strong wind so that I might continue in my own direction.

Today was the first regular day back, after a week away packed with family and friends, and we did so many deliciously regular things. Gabriel and I dropped Frances off at school, went to the Rec Center, and played at a friend's house. I set up a better work space for myself during naptime, and made hot chocolate for the kids after school. We pretended to be birds in a nest on the couch, snuggled in the big blue blanket, reading stories. There is much for us to learn and do as a family, and many ways to grow. If I can loosen my grip a bit, our dear friends will help us with that. But it is also nice to know that being ourselves, right here and now, is a-okay. 

1.1.11

Even though our thermostat has been set at 48 degrees for the past week and there were sad old dishes waiting for us in the sink, even though our goldfish Jim was barely alive and belly up in his bowl, and despite the rainy darkness pressing all around our lonely-looking house when we pulled up this evening, walking into this place felt like falling into a deep, warm embrace. We all heaved a satisfying, happy sigh of relief. Finally - home!

We spent many days at my mother's in Lancaster surrounded by beloved friends and neighbors. And do you know what? I wanted to go home. We all did. How strange! It seems we are finally shifting our center to this fledgling life we are slowly but surely building by the Bay. I know it is a good thing, but it still made me a little sad. Grief works in unusual ways, washing over you from unexpected directions when you least expect it.

Even so, it was a good week, full of simple pleasures. 

 We read books about trucks over and over.

With bated breath and an awed smile, Frances fed her new baby cousin Caiden.

 Many girls drew lovely pictures during a dinner with neighbors.

 Gabriel took pictures of me with his kaleidoscope at the farmer's market.

Frances gleefully discovered my charm necklace from 1987 on a "treasure hunt" through some neglected desk drawers. My old love of 7Up, baseball, and skiing came flooding back! (Not really.)

Onstage at the Fulton, after the show. Our dear friend is playwright in residence at the theater and gave us a memorable tour that included trying on Liesl's dress, climbing the set mountain, and wearing red clown noses in the actors' dressing rooms.

Happy new year, friends. May 2011 bring you happiness, health, and the peace that comes with being truly home.