Where did My Inspiration Go...

Last week, I spent the bulk of my time editing.

My son had a project in English.

It was supposed to be a journal of his life and suffering. The premise was to imitate an author who wrote about his life and explained that suffering allowed him to see the world more clearly, to recognize how societal norms perpetuated pain and suffering. The kids were then supposed to look at their own lives for patterns to discern about the nature of reality.

The trouble is, he's fourteen and grew up in a reasonably normal home. He wasn't abused. He's never seen his parents fight where they threw things. He's never done drugs. He has friends. He's had academic and personal success already in his life, getting a scholarship and making honor role consistently in grammar school. We've never lost everything, had to sell his baseball card collection or had more than the emotional equivalent of a skinned knee in terms of life experience that might have traumatized him.

Unless you count the summer of Lyme disease, that rotted, but it was second grade. It's been a while. I think he's over it.

So the topics: The first time I tasted Alchohol, The first time I defied Authority, The First Time He Got in a Fight, the First Day of School, had a sing song element to them that made my son sound like Polly-Anna.

His great conflict to date? Refusing to eat refried beans served by his parents. This was his great suffering.

First day of School? Preschool memory of meeting the person who would become his best friend.

First taste of Alchohol --he made it up, since the teacher said "Receiving the Eucharist didn't count." I said, "Didn't count for what?"

Trying to pull something of depth out of a surface driven life that is essentially at this point unscathed and unscarred, we focused on his blessings. But I pointed out that if his premise was that only through suffering could one come to understand the true nature of the world, I should serve him beans daily.

He said I was full of beans.

Spin Doctor Cycle

My children’s memories of their childhood reality won’t be helped by these blog stories. I used to worry about the mythic nature of these tales. Then I remembered, my own kids’s stories about their family life are often mythic and don’t help matters. I’m just hoping that in the end, what they remember is they laughed a lot, Mom was nuts and that they were always loved and never lonely. Reading their memoirs when they grow up should be entertaining at least.

The First Spin…damage control

In front of the inlaws, our oldest, who had suffered a broken arm when he was two, asked, “Hey Mom! Do you remember that time when I was hit by the car?” My head wheeled around so fast, I hurt my neck. “NO!” I said. “That never happened!”

“Yes it did.” He remained convinced. The grandparents were eyeing me with some concern. “It happened at a McDonald’s near our home. You were walking with me.” In his defense, he was five at the time.

“You must have dreamed it sweetie.” I explained.

Everyone relaxed when he thought about it and said “Oh yeah.”

The Second Spin…Marketing is Everything

It happened again with my daughter turned nine and her father took her out on a date. They went to that famous toy store with the giraffe and had dessert out. She came home with a stuffed collie named Luke. She thanked her father and trotted upstairs to bed with the fluffy black dog in her arms.

The next morning, her grandparents called to wish her a happy birthday and to ask if she had done anything special. “Yeah.” She said flatly. “But I didn’t get to stay up till midnight.”

“Oh? What did you do?”

“Got some food. And then we went to the store.”

“And?”

“And I got a stuffed dog.”

“I see.”

Prompting kids to give more details over the phone sounds desperate but I did it anyway. I wanted her grandparents to know what a good birthday she’d had. “Tell her what you named it.” I suggested.

“I found the dog and it was a stray. It wasn’t where it belonged so it was probably old. I named it Luke.”

As embarrassing and frustrating as both of those situations were, the children have now learned that Spin works both ways…

The Third Spin…A spoon full of Sugar or in this case, Rodgers and Hammerstein

Ten days before Christmas, I summoned the children to the living room. “Presents for you.” I said and turned on the “Presentation of the Children” from the King and I. “Line up.” My oldest clapped his hands a la Yule Brenner. They obliged.
I left the room and waited for the musical cue.

Returning to the first child, I bowed and handed him his laundry. He played along. He bowed, took the basket and marched up in tune to the music. The musical selection was sufficiently long enough to allow six baskets to be delivered in grand fashion. There were two baskets left but since it wasn’t like the two babies were going to put away their stuff anyway, I got the point across. They laughed in good spirits but I overheard my second son saying to his sister as he carried his basket up.

“For Christmas, I’m going to give her some folded socks.”

This is how great memoirs aren’t written.