I used to say that my oldest daughter was born a well-adjusted 35-years-old and has only grown wiser and more mature since. Since I’ve now hit 35, I think I’ll adjust that to a well-adjusted 45-years-old, because I’m still hoping to meet that benchmark by then. My youngest, conversely, was born at the tail end of a tidal wave, and she’s still riding the crest each day. Some days it’s hard to watch, because it’s a tough way to navigate life, all ups and downs, and it’s hard to parent, because you’re constantly trying to span the difference between order and discipline and shelter and safe harbor and compassion. And I have to say, I get it, because I’m more tidal wave than alpine lake myself.
For all her ebb and flow, my youngest has a depth that sometimes catches me off-guard. She understands, on a level that doesn’t seem consistent with a 7-year-old, that she has demons to fight. “Can I talk to you on the spinny chair?” she’ll ask, and we’ll have a cuddle conference about what’s on her mind. A couple of nights ago, she was distraught because she was afraid that she was “becoming one of the bad kids.” And while I certainly don’t think she’s on a downward spiral, especially given her penchant for introspection, for the first time this year, we have a good behavior treasure box to choose from as reinforcement for positive days. “I try to make good decisions, Mommy; I really do. But then I see Jack making bad choices, and it looks like more fun, and then I want to do that instead.”
I share this story not so that in 30 years she can resent my internet overshare, but because I think it’s amazing and honest and universal. I try to make good choices, but the bad choices look like more fun. Short term, bad choices are enticing. We know the bad choices aren’t going to end well, but, well, they’re just so tempting.
As sometimes comes up on this blog, I’m trying to make better choices. 2015 was my year of good choices… for the most part. Let’s say it was the year of, more than less, better choices. It turns out, I feel a lot better if I eat real food and exercise. If it comes in a box from the tempting middle of the grocery store or has a shelf life of more than a week, maybe two tops, it’s not going to make me feel better in the long run. Wheat, dairy, corn, excess sugar… by trial and error, I’ve figured out that those are bad decisions for me. And yet… I tried, again, this week to reintroduce pizza. I really, really miss pizza. I don’t mind eating spaghetti squash when my family eats pasta, and I don’t miss having a bun to hold onto a hamburger. But pizza looks like a party that I wasn’t invited to. It seems unfair that before I gave it up – or rather gave up the wheat and the dairy – I didn’t know that pizza and I didn’t get along. I felt borderline awful all the time, but I still had a solid, comforting relationship with pizza. This week, I tried gluten free crust, no cheese, with pepperoni, banana peppers and a sprinkle of feta. I mean, yes, feta is dairy. But only a LITTLE bit of dairy. Even without the traditional mozzarella, that pizza tasted so good. Good is actually not the right word. It was a homecoming. And then, it wasn’t. And I felt awful.
This week has been difficult in general, and I recognize that it’s ludicrous to compare my impersonal heartache in the last week to those who lost friends and loved ones, to those who are spending another week on the run from that same craven terror mechanism, with no known destination beyond “away from here.” Last week’s attacks on Paris were gut-wrenching. Having lived within a few miles of the Aurora movie theater shooting, I know a community can wake up in the morning to find itself a headline, suddenly living in the before and after. Before, we were another Denver suburb, and after, part of a national conversation. Paris will have any number of before and afters and my heart breaks for them. But it was the national outcry against the refugees fleeing that same unthinkable violence that made me forget that in 2015, I make good, or at least better, choices. I was – am – soul-sick and angry and incredulous, and those emotions seem to go better with five pieces of leftover Halloween candy and a glass of wine than with an apple and a run. We’ve been sharing a lot with you, my children mentioned, pointedly. Ah hem, well, yes. And I put a roof over your head. So we’re even, mmkay?
And so I drifted this week. Sometimes bad choices look like more fun. It’s staying up late even as you do the math in your head, If I go to bed in the next 30 minutes, I’ll still get 7 hours of sleep. Okay, so if I go to bed by midnight, I’ll still get six hours of sleep. Crap!, how did it get to be 12:40am?! And sometimes bad choices look like the embodiment of a security blanket. I don’t know how to deal with my disappointment in the world around me, so I’ll turn to those things that have never disappointed me… a pile of Reese’s cups, a baseball-sized serving of candied cashews and – seriously, did my husband really choose this week to decide we should try box wine? – because that box never runs dry. Or at least, it hasn’t yet… it’s only been a few days, so if it had, this would be a blog on a different topic.
I’ve been running – jogging – pretty regularly for 5 months or so now. And I have a very specific exercise agreement with one of my best friends that mandates 3 days a week of exercise. “I’m 0/3,” I texted her this morning. “It’s cold.” We have an Even Steven policy, and I was already one down. She was sympathetic, but when she ran later in the day, she was unambiguous in her text back, “Even Steven… go.” I’m simplifying it a little, but at its heart, it was what I needed. I’m 1/3 now this week, and I feel better for it. I haven’t raided the Halloween candy, and I’m drinking water instead of wine. I’m rebounding into better choices.
Why do we embrace what we could avoid? Why do we know the consequences, but turn blindly into them? I couldn’t really offer my daughter any true wisdom about learning to make better choices as we grow older, because it’s still hit or miss for me, from choosing to atrophy on the couch in a pile of candy wrappers or choosing the shoes I know for sure will hurt my feet within 20 minutes of putting them on, to choosing sharp, cutting words with those I love most when what I really mean is, I’m tired, I’m disillusioned, and I need to nurse my wounds for a little while.
But what I actually told my little one was, We all make bad choices sometimes. It doesn’t mean we’re bad people, but it means we can keep trying to do better.
So, I’m trying to do better, again. And if anyone wants to provide me with a good behavior rewards box, I’m open to negotiating terms.