Celebrate your child's love of learning

© Wondertime

Dalai Mama Weekly Blog

Ever wonder what Catherine sounds like? Listen to her read this blog entry.

Once you learn to ride a bike, the idea is that you are still constantly making all the little adjustments you need in order to keep your balance — but you learn to make them unconsciously: you lean a bit this way, a bit that way, you tip the handlebars, turn your head a fraction of an inch, and stay effortlessly aloft. And I have actually found this to be true: watching Ben and Birdy tilt and overcompensate and tumble off into the shrubbery, I've realized how much I take for granted not only just my balance but even something like a kind of grace.

Which is why I'm amazed to find that after more than eight years, I can still careen around in my parenting so ham-heartedly, adjusting this way and that way in my ungainly ride through patience and impatience, kindness and inattention, grace and gracelessness. "Can we get cookies when we stop at the bakery?" the kids want to know, and I say irritably, "Oh guys, let's not today, okay? You're going to that birthday party later, and we had lollypops after lunch." And through the fog of the children's utterly silent disappointment, comes my dim realization that we always get cookies at the bakery — to not get them is practically like breaking a promise, and so, unprompted, I correct myself, "Actually, sure. I know that's something you guys look forward to, and you're always such patient, helpful shoppers." And the kids cheer, "Yay!" Sometimes it is more automatic, and for days at a time, I'll be the very model of modern maternal natural, baking buttermilk cakes for cheerful children, kissing rosy upturned cheeks, reading stories and singing lullabies and wearing kindness like a subtly beautiful perfume. And then, at other times, impatience exudes stinkingly from my very pores, clings to me like the kind of body odor that doesn't wash off even after you scrub at it with a loofah. In those times, I take stock and adjust; I revisit and revise; I question and regret and apologize and smack my forehead and wish it were easier. I wish it were easier.

Oddly, inspiration can strike me from nearly any direction: a photograph on someone's blog of a doll's tea party (Beautiful!), say. Or the Gandhi quote in the book Above All, Be Kind, which is due back at the library so thank goodness the epigraph, which is all I've gotten a chance to read, was so inspiring: "If we are to reach real peace in this world and if we are to carry on a real war against war, we shall have to begin with children; and if they will grow up in their natural innocence, we won't have to struggle, we won't have to pass fruitless idle resolutions, but we shall go from love to love and peace to peace until at last all the corners of the world are covered with that peace and love for which consciously or unconsciously the whole world is hungering." (Beautiful!).

Or even the way our gentle new neighbor speaks to her dogs: "Hey Pe-li!" she calls, in a singsong. "Hey, He-ra!" It means: Quit humping Birdy's leg! or No barking! but she never speaks sharply to them; she simply uses a consistent tone of voice (like those mountaintop "Ri-co-la!" commercials, if you remember) that calls the dogs to attention about their behavior. "I wish I were one of Carol Rose's dogs," Ben sighs, and then adds quickly, "I mean — not forever. But for, like, a day." I understand. "Should we try it?" I ask, and then say, "Hey, Ben-ny!" The kids laugh, but yes, they want to try it. And for a few days it works great: "Hey, Ben-ny!" I say, and Ben stops tipping so far backwards in his chair and smiles. "Hey, Bird-y!" I call while she stands for dreamy, unmoving minutes, staring up at the branches above our skylight with a toothbrush in her hand — and she smiles, shakes herself awake, and gets to brushing. Maybe our lives could be like this! I think. With an utter absence of fierceness! But the system breaks down. "Hey, Bird-y!" I say, because she's gotten back in the habit of screaming when Ben grabs her or sings too loudly or tries on some other behavior from the catalogue of Birdy's Dislikes. "Hey, Ben-ny!" But Ben knocks into her by accident when he's opening the fridge, he goes to play the piano and the volume's up too high, he speaks aloud about snakes, and Birdy screams and screams and screams, says, "Oh! I forgot!" when I remind her to say, "That's too loud" or "That scares me" instead.

Finally I trade in the call to attention for the call to shame, speak sharply to her, say, self-righteously, "I've had enough of the screaming!" and Birdy is miserable and confused for the rest of the night. And I am miserable and confused to — awake in the night to a sudden panic that someone will grab Birdy in the park and she will remember only that she got in trouble for screaming. So today I will adjust, chase after balance like it's the tortoise and I'm the hare and I can never remember exactly how the story ends.

Editor's Note:
You can also find Catherine's column on Family.com, where you can post comments and she can join the conversation, too.