I took a few days off. With no notification or explanation. And guess what? I'm not going to explain myself now. Is that wrong? All I will say is that I was wondering over these past few days if I would be able to write productively, or at all, if I didn't know that I had to write here, and guess what? I didn't. So the blog's back on. Big time. Because boy do I need to be writing. It feels awful not to be.
To ease back in, I will relay an anecdote from a ride on the bus last week with another mother and daughter, whom Lily and I both love.
We are seated across from each other: me and Lily, this mother and her girl, who's a year older than Lily, almost exactly. It's been a long day for everybody. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, Lily bursts into tears, remains quietly sobbing. What's wrong? I ask her, putting my arm around her shoulders, raising my eyebrows at the other mom. She sniffles and finally is able to get out the words: It's my pants. I just hate all of my pants. Did she say "pants?" I ask myself, because it makes no sense to me, this has never come up before, she is not particularly into clothes, and she happens to be wearing really cute new pink linen pants that I bought knowing she would love them because I am prone to pink-aversity, meaning she knows this was a gift from the heart. Yes, my pants, she wails, quietly, as we are, after all, on the bus. Why? I sputter, at a loss. Because they're plain. They have no patterns. Every other kid in the world has patterns on their pants. I resist the urge to spout the "if every other kid in the world jumped off a bridge" chestnut as I notice that our young friend in the seat facing us is wearing camouflage pants. Aha. Honey, I say, as comfortingly as I can manage considering the ludicrousness of the situation, I think we can find you some pants with patterns. This is a solvable problem. Just then the wearer of the coveted camouflage pants starts to sob a little herself. Her mother's eyebrows shoot up too. What's wrong? the mother says, and we all await the answer. Of course. I should have seen it coming. Are you ready? Here it is. I want my pants to be plain.
There is a parenting lesson here, inherent to this story, but I will leave it unanalyzed, will let the pants, in this case, speak for themselves.
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5 comments:
Yay, you're back, Amy! The pants story reminds me of a similar one when I was getting a divorce. I lamented to a friend about the divorce's impact on my kids. The friend and her husband had a supportive, happy marriage; they were both professors in Chicago. When the youngest of their four children, who was in her 20s at the time, started acting out, she told her parents how boring they were and what a problem that was for her. "You're just so normal!" she cried. Oh yes, the mother/my friend, taught and wrote books on the sociology of the family. And, she told me that there will always be something for kids to be unhappy about.
Welcome back, Amy. As someone who had a crappy start to the year and did little to no writing, I know how awful it feels not to write. This past week, Nunzio and I finally got back in a groove and have almost finished the screenplay we're working on.
Also, love the pants story.
Hmmm, those pink camo pants sound strangely familiar. This story completely captures "the grass is always greener" phenomenon that so many individuals struggle with in Western culture. More of a life lesson than a parenting lesson, I think.
Glad to see you're back. xoxo
It amazes me how quickly your blog has become an eagerly anticipated part of my morning routine. Whew, I feel better today.
I love, love the pants story and love you too.
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