My Life Is In Plastic Pieces

It comes with the territory, I know, and I can hear, as if on cue, parents of older children telling me, “You will miss it.  Blink, and your young boys will be grown men.”  Yes, yes, I get it, but right here, right now, in these days where my boys are young and untidy, it feels like my life is being overrun by plastic.

Plastic pieces, large and small, are everywhere in my home.  I feel overrun with the stuff.  Legos, Playmobile people, Star Wars ships, ping pong balls, Nerf darts and blasters and bump stocks (oh my!).  It does not matter how much time is spent trying to contain the plastic, the attempts are futile.

plastic

I know my Mom used to complain of the same thing.  The difference, I think, for my generation of moms is that I can’t just scoop up the stuff and throw it out.  Nope.  Anytime I move to dump a piece of plastic, a forlorn piece of Mr. Potato Head, a set of legs from a Lego minifigure, or its decapitated head, that flame from the Playmobile pirate ship — I have to hold the guilt of knowing that plastic is going to end up in a landfill somewhere, sitting, and decidedly not decomposing, harming our planet.

Oy, the guilt is real.

A solution escapes me.  I could go hard core and start putting all errant plastic pieces in a bin that gets donated when full.  That makes me wonder if I keep the bin out of sight, would the kiddos even miss the stuff?  And how do you donate a bin of random plastic pieces that are basically of no use to anyone without their mates?

“Nothing on this earth lasts forever.  Except maybe plastic.”  Patricia Dunn

Some parents, I know, don’t allow new toys into the home until old toys go out.  Pfft.  That sounds like a lot of effort.  Do I really want to spend that much time thinking and arguing and wrangling over bits and pieces of plastic with two boys who legitimately believe that each and every piece is necessary to their very existence?  I’m too lazy for that ish.

Layered on top of all of this frustration is the reality I live with every day that having healthy children is a miracle that I take for granted.  I know that kids get sick and sometimes die.  Little pieces of plastic should be nothing to me.  I should feel lucky to have those errant environmental hazards in my home.  And it is never, ever lost on me that I have pieces of plastic in my home that have been here three times as long as my dear girl.

The voices inside my head, influenced by a lot of Catholic guilt, tell me that those plastic pieces that drive me mad are a sign of my truly blessed life.  How dare I not cherish each and every single piece of plastic that crosses my path roughly 1,397 times a day?  And, yes, it can be pretty exhausting inside my head.

So, long story short, school me.  Or, pun intended, Playskool me.  How do you manage the plastic in your life?  What are your tried and true tactics to live harmoniously with the plastic?  Teach me your ways, oh mother better at this stuff than I am, cause I need help.

Don’t Kid Yourself, Our Children Are Paying Attention to Current Political News

I talk and think about politics a lot.  Let me clarify that for you, when I say ‘a lot,’ I mean, a whole heaping boatful.

Politics is my jam and it has been since I was a young girl.  I remember watching the television footage of Nixon’s resignation as a four year old.  I got into a verbal sparring match with a second grade classmate who contended she was allowed to cast a vote in the 1976 presidential election when she went into the voting booth with her mom.  (Spoiler alert, she didn’t.)

In junior high, I wore a campaign button for Chicago’s first black mayor, Harold Washington, even though I lived in the suburbs.  And I am a proud former vice president of the College Democrats.  Hell, I married a New Englander who was attracted to Chicago for its politics and theater.  Politics and political discourse is in my DNA.

That said, I work to check myself when I speak about politics in front of my sons.  It is important to me that our sons grow up in an environment where political discussion is as common as putting together a grocery list or having to nag them to pick up their dirty socks.  But it is equally important that they not exist in a culture where those who disagree with you politically are seen as the enemy.  Which, full disclosure, has been pretty damn challenging this past year.

My goal as their mother is to introduce them to the concept that what happens in Washington, DC and Springfield (our state capital) and in Chicago’s City Council has an impact on them in the day-to-day.  How they choose to live their lives will be a political statement.  I want them to know that the personal is political and that the political is personal.  And, most importantly, that they feel they have the capacity to change their world through participation.

This weekend I got a wake-up call from my eight year old about how today’s politics, both national and global, is impacting him.  Trickle down economics is bunk, but trickle down politics is truth, my friends.  Our kids are paying attention to what is swirling around them, even when Mom and Dad (or, Mom and Mom or Dad and Dad or Mom or Dad or Grandma or Aunite or Uncle) works hard to help them feel safe and protected.

Excitedly, my son wanted to show me the pictures he drew on the computer.

story1

story2

These drawings tell a story that kind of took my breath away.  In “The Clash,” there is a horrible one-eyed green monster who is at the center of an epic battle between light and dark, good and bad, yin and yang.  And, mind you, these are my son’s descriptions, not mine.  The little green triangles are the people below, the masses, who await the outcome of the battle, but they are standing in formation behind their leader, the green monster.

Atop the monster is the internal battle of light and dark.  You can see that yin and yang are no longer part of a single unit, working in tandem, but instead, separated and at cross purposes.  They have no more relationship to balance, no need to stay connected.  And next to the broken yin and yang are the white and black flying dragons.  And, no, I have never allowed my boy to watch GoT.  In “The afterworld” — you can see my boy capitalizes about as well as he picks up his dirty socks, he explains that dark has won, evil triumphed over good.  The skies are overcast and stormy while the earth burns.

So, yeah, basically, my eight year old is depicting Armageddon.  That’s comforting . . .

Despite the alarming nature of my boy’s brightly colored vision of Armageddon, I took a deep breath and tried to listen rather that reveal how much I was freaking the freak out.  I got another opportunity to listen as he explained the stories later to my mother-in-law.  His tone was one of pride, not fear, so that helped, but his intention was clear — he was exploring what happens when evil wins.

My takeaway is that my boy is paying attention to what is happening in the world around him.  Despite our efforts to turn the news radio off when it gets too heavy, or be respectful and not stoke fear when we talk politics around the dinner table, he is listening and absorbing the free flowing fear and worry that is potent in the world these days.  Between Twitter tantrums and the growing threat of nuclear war and anti-immigrant fever across the globe, paired with growing nationalist movements and racial tensions and the calvacade of #MeToo stories, not to mention mass shootings that have become simultaneously epidemic and commonplace, being a compassionate, empathic human — the kind so man of us are trying hard to raise, is hard these days.

Our kids know this.  Talk to them, but more importantly, listen.  Get a sense of what they know and how they are feeling.  Do not underestimate their awareness or their capacity to understand politics and its impact on their world.  I promise you you will be surprised.

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Note:  I spoke with my boy this morning, seeking his permission to write about his drawings and story.  His response was an immediate and enthusiastic YES.  Just know that as his mother, I see his creative product as his now, not mine, and writing about it requires his consent.  MTM

Finding Everything I Need in My Sock Drawer: A Story About Seeing the Moments That Sustain Us

It happened this morning.  I was at the sink doing dishes, my older son was being too attentive to one screen or another and my younger son was whining at me, asking for help making puppets.  He wanted to make puppets.  Now.  He needed help, of course, but couldn’t he see me busy at the sink doing last night’s dinner pans?  Nope.  Puppets.  Now.  Right now.

I encouraged him to ask his brother.  He did.  That didn’t go too well, as that screen wasn’t going to watch itself.  The little one was back in the kitchen after a squawk with his brother, still needing that help to make those puppets.  A craft project.  Pffft.  Not my forte, even on my best days.  Okay, kiddo, today’s your lucky day.  Puppets it is!

Improvisation is a mother’s best friend, so I sacrificed a pair of my white anklets I wear when I exercise to use as sock puppets.  HA HA HA!  Yeah, that one was an easy sacrifice.  Exercise, even on my best days, is also not my forte.  I fished out a selection of Sharpies and slipped those socks over my son’s eager hands, showing him how to move his fingers up and down to mimic talking.  He took to it immediately.

We made a little girl with pink curls and a green bow.  She had bright blue eyes and red, red lips that matched her polka dotted blouse.  Her puppet companion was a snake with a long, hissing tongue.  He was hungry.  My boy was delighted.  D-lighted.  Knowing exactly what he needed, he requested help setting up his pop up tent, an Amazon impulse buy a couple of years ago that has been worth its weight in gold.  “I want to make a puppet show for my brother!”

I left my boys, happily engaged now, to return to the kitchen sink.  There were giggles and guffaws wafting back from the front room.  What in the Sam Hill was I doing scrubbing pans when I could be watching the wonder of a four year old putting on his very first puppet show for an audience of one?  Priorities realigned, I walked back to my boys, but not before grabbing my phone to snap a shot.  I sensed this was one of those moments that demanded documentation.

A boy, a tent, his puppets, and a brother.
A boy, a tent, his puppets, and a brother.

I was right.  And so, so glad both that I saw it and that I captured it.  The snake was hungry and threatening to eat the green-bowed girl in one big bite.  Oh no!  “SQUEEEEE!,” she shouted, not wanting to perish in the thin grave of a mean old snake.  The girl fought back and defeated that snake.  “You won’t eat me today, snake!  I am strong!”  Crisis averted, safety restored, sock puppets FTW on a rainy Saturday morning.

The beauty of this moment between these two boys, almost five years between them, happy and laughing, performing and sharing.  Brothering.  Swoon.  This bit of perfection will sustain me for days.  The moment wasn’t about me, but Lordy, it was for me.  And dang if I didn’t need it.

Life is so, so hard these days.  Between hunting trophy elephants and adult men dating teen girls and allies behaving badly, I am too often at the end of my rope.  It is these moments that will sustain me.  I need them.  Badly.  Right now.  Just like my little one needed that puppet.  It’s time to pay more attention to the moments — not only looking for them, but nurturing them, encouraging them, recognizing them.