Teaching values is a full contact sport

In my line of work, I see all kinds of kids, all kinds of parents, and all kinds of families. I see fully involved parents (working, single, privileged and disadvantaged) with well-rounded kids. There are also plenty of kids who struggle in the "building good character" department. And that can be for a number of reasons.

I've been teaching for more than 10 years. My first year, I wore myself out planning perfect lessons late into the night...lessons that rarely turned out the way I expected. I struggled to survive and made few personal connections with my students. It concerned me that the content just wasn't being covered because we never seemed to get anywhere.

Basically, I was playing football as if it were tennis...or long-distance running. Any profession that involves kids, including parenting - because let's face it...it's probably the hardest job on the planet, has to be handled like a full-contact team sport. I'm not saying we should literally be tackling each other...but follow my metaphor for a bit.

In a team sport, there's a coach or a captain and each of the remaining players has a particular function. Everyone has to do his or her part, or the team will fail. We've all seen those players who seem to think they are playing the game by themselves. The MVP's who become the face of the team. It flies in the face of what team sports are about.

Adults who work with kids (or raise them) are the coaches and captains, and the kids are the players. Some players are naturally good. Others take more one-on-one. Some are good leaders and will become captains or coaches themselves. Still others are much better at taking direction and running with it; they are cooperative and know how to succeed as a unit. Some need to be taken down a few notches as their egos grow, and a few need to built up and supported until they find their own abilities.

Our teams benefit from all types of coaches and all types of players. Some are better paired than others, but no matter what our style as parents, as long as we are trying, we are doing the right thing.

Unlike a football team, however, we can't trade our players, and not all of us have a fantasy team. We have to make the team we have the best one we can. We take them as they are (and ourselves), and we turn them (and us) into the best damn team we can.

History is full of really hard working coaches with heart and determination. Inspirational movies are made about them all the time. And if you've seen any of them, it's hard not to see that creating a successful team is less about playbooks and rules and in-born talent, than it is about trust, connection, and never giving up.

Sort of like families.

And how we train our little players is up to us. We have to mold our coaching style to their needs (even if it means some intense soul-searching on our parts). Some kids need tough coaches. Other kids need patience and a lot of time. Some need a lot of praise. Other need to be left to struggle it out on their own.

And when it comes to values, character building...well, we teach those in the same way we teach anything else. Character is a skill, like any other. We aren't born knowing right from wrong, how to be empathetic, how to work with others. Without training, I believe we'd, like animals, do whatever we had to survive. We'd lie, cheat, and steal our way to a full belly and a comfortable home.

We have to be taught why we should be good. We need to see what good looks like, not just be told. We have to practice it a million times and see success with it to really understand why it's better than taking the easier way.

And that's where we, as coaches, tend to go wrong. We talk a lot. We expect the team to listen. We might even show them our brilliantly drawn out plays. We might tell them loads of stories about how we learned to do it. But, we don't spend as much time just having them run the plays over and over and over and over.

We're much better at it when our "players" are young, especially before they can really talk. We play charades and "show" them everything. And then, when they become verbal, we starting talking at them incessantly, but we often stop "showing" them. Or we might assume that now they can speak, they understand our words. But we would be mistaken.

If it were that easy, we could just sit our kids in front of a video about sharing and afterwards they would miraculously just start sharing, willingly.

But, it doesn't work that way.

Today, my little player wants to sit on his computer and play video games all day. I he were left to his own devices, that's just what he'd do. I could tell him not to, and just sit here typing away. He'd stop, because he has no choice, but he wouldn't be internalizing the lesson of why he shouldn't spend his whole day that way.

It's my job to physically show him and let him practice it. We can go on a walk or a bike ride, and he feels better, more energized. We can make muffins, learning about fractions and following recipes. Or he can head outside and play with his dogs, climbing trees and playing with sticks and frogs. Anything that gets him away from the computer and shows him that other things are just as fun...or more so...that's how he will learn why he shouldn't be on the computer all day. Me just telling him to stop makes me the bad guy...the killer of fun. The rigid authority figure who just doesn't understand.

I can't just say stop, and assume the lesson will be learned. I have to say go to something else, and then go with him.

It's a lot of work, yes. It's takes patience, which is in short supply in this family. And it takes full contact. Hands-on activity.

Sometimes we place too much importance on productivity

Okay, maybe I'm being dramatic. Being productive is a good thing, right? I mean, it's such a positive word. We like being called productive. We like feeling productive. And for fanatical planners like myself, we like dreaming about and pre-scheduling all the productiveness we can. 

I don't know about you, but I plan to the point of obsessiveness, and I become irrational about completing things and checking them off my list. My calendar and my "To Do" list often rule my life. And...I'm pretty damned productive...most of the time. Until I'm not. Until I've scheduled, planned, and "produced" myself right into a corner where I rock myself back and forth and mumble under my breath.

Some people are naturally high-strung or easily stressed out. I'm going to assume (maybe wrongly) that more women fall under this category than men, because many of us truly try to "do it all". I think that may be why I only feel "normal" during the summer, when I'm not "working" (I put that in quotes, because any stay-at-home mom knows their job is just as tough as going elsewhere to work). Suddenly, I'm not doing it all. I don't even have to try. I can have a clean house and still have time to write, or sit on the couch and read, or do something fun with my son. 

At 3:05 last Friday, my life changed. My students, bless them, boisterously ran out the door, yelling, chasing each other; some were hugging and crying (even though they will see each other in a few days or text each other ten minutes after they part), because, let's face it, middle school is the land of self-initiated drama. 

I'm still a lot like them. Maybe that's why I stay there. Because, even though they don't make a darn bit of sense to a lot of people, they do to me (most of the time). 

This isn't so helpful for the people around me who are not daily mired in the beautiful insanity of "tweendom". They don't get it. And I'm afraid, that means, sometimes they don't get me.

But, in the summer, when I'm away from it all, I change. I'm not driven by the needs of 90 young people. I only have one. I'm not planning, and copying, and meeting parents, and phone-calling, emailing, grading, counseling, poster-making, website-building, tidying, going to meetings and workshops, trying to fit in a work out, a dog walk, homework help, house-cleaning, raising a child, yard work, running errands, keeping a budget, and trying desperately to find some time just to sit and relax, without 42 things that need to be done running through my brain.

Summer is when I reclaim my balance and my mental health. And for better or worse, it's when I reclaim my place in my family. 

It's common that we dislike doing at home what we have already had to do all day. Housekeepers might have a messy house. Mechanics might drive a nearly broken down car. Landscapers may have an overgrown lawn. Me...I've been "needed" all day. I've answered questions and mentored and discussed and demonstrated from one end of the day to the next. By 5:00, I'm tapped out. 

The problem is...I don't have the luxury of tapping out...so, I keep going - somehow. And I make up for what I couldn't get done during the week on the weekend. It leads to nine and a half months of constantly feeling overworked and knowing I'll never get it all done. Not good for the psyche.

On Friday, I did something very unlike me. I walked out of my classroom and left several things "undone". Yes, I'm likely to pay for it when I return, but, it felt good just walking away. My "To Do" list isn't going anywhere. All the filing and tidying will still be there in August.

And my summer "To Do" list? Normally, by this time, it would already be a mile long. I'll admit...I have planned to get the house in order this first week, one room at a time, cleaning things out and taking several trips to Goodwill, cleaning carpets and dusting places that haven't seen a cleaning rag since last summer. And I have signed my son up for swimming lessons and several day camps (both for his benefit and my sanity). But, otherwise, I'm really just going to work on not caring that my yard isn't perfect and that the dishes aren't done. I'm going to focus on doing things I like to do. It already feels weird. And I'm not at all positive how successful my plans will be. Because, while I'm a pretty darn good planner, but I will admit that rarely does plan A work out. I'm more of a plan B or C or F sort of person. 

It works sort of like this:

Idea + Implementation = Success (this is the ultimate goal)

Idea + Attempted Implementation + Moving on to Idea 2.0 + (Blood + Sweat + Tears) + Attempted Implementation = Good Enough (though possibly quite far from what I had initially expected)

And this can be done quite quickly. In the classroom, I can go from Plan A to Plan F in the course of about 30 minutes, depending on how the planets are aligned, how many announcements come across the loudspeaker, who's broken up with whom, changes in the schedule, snow falling, power outages...you name it.  I've learned over the years how to "let go" of things. I make plans, sure...every teacher does. But I make them knowing full well they'll be changed by lunchtime. I do all my planning in pencil and have a collection of large erasers. I'm flexible, and I've learned to re-plan on a whim. At home, I'm more resistant to changing my plans, and I can doggedly hold on to them until I've nearly driven myself mad. Maybe it's a product of having to give up so much control at school. I'm sort of a control freak...and I've got to have at least one outlet for my neurosis. Or do I?

I'm working on learning to walk away from things when they don't work out the way I want them to. Take some time away. Re-evaluate. Come back later and try again...or not. I'm working on living at home the way I do at work. Plan in pencil and deal with it gracefully when those plans fall through, accept that several living things call this place home and it cannot look the way I expect it to, and embrace the fact that the mess means this house is well lived in and activity abounds. Their idea of clean is not the same as mine...but, it's good enough.

Making myself (being a working mom who works out)

Quite honestly, I hate exercise. I can admit I like the after effect some days, but often, when I work out at the end of the day, it just makes me feel more exhausted, rather than energized and ready to face the rest of my evening.

But...

That's it, really...there's always a lingering, finger-wagging "But". The alpha conjunction, ever vigilant of the possibilities and ever-ready to point out the other side of the argument.

I'm painfully aware that as I age, it's becoming harder and harder to stay in shape. It's so easy to say I have housework or errands, or papers to grade. The excuses are plentiful. And even when I do all the things I must to motivate myself (pay for a membership to guilt myself, financially, into working out so I'm not wasting my investment...sign myself up for marathons...schedule out my weekly workout in my planner...) I still talk myself out of it.

For now, it's really a day-by-day thing. A daily goal to do "something"...anything really. Walk the dog, run, walk, go to the gym and do weights, yoga...whatever.

And I know I'm not the only one. This whole, working full-time, being a mom, being a wife, and trying to have all my sh** together everyday seriously makes a girl feel inadequate on the best of days. I can usually do ONE thing well in a day. My house can be spotless, but I'm still in my pajamas and my son's played video games all day. I've spent time with my kid, but the house is a mess and there's a giant stack of essays that didn't get graded. My husband is happily satisfied (more on that later in another post, promise), but the kiddo had to go to grandma's and the laundry is piled ceiling-high. I've just run 3 miles and have worked up an admirable sweat and an adrenaline-caused glow, but I'll be going to bed at 8:00 leaving all the housework for another day.

So, yes, I know I'm in good company. In fact, I don't even have it as hard as some moms (especially single, working moms or moms of multiples). And I can admit, that during the summer, when it's just me and the boy, and I have no work-related constraints, I find it just as difficult to motivate myself to work out.

I have this good friend from junior high who's running the Boston Marathon today. I'll be tracking her progress via text today (using a really cool "follow your favorite athlete" app). It's ladies like her that make me feel hard-pressed to complain. She's a teacher, too...so she works really hard, multi-tasking like a fiend all day and fulfilling the demands and needs of hundreds of people (mostly young and rather attention-greedy). She teaches athletic classes after work. She has two kids. She runs at 4 in the morning to fit it in. She goes to church. She doesn't drink. And though I've never been there, I suspect she has a nearly immaculate house.

She's my hero and my nemesis all in one.  And what it comes down to is...every woman has her hurdles to jump, her mountains to climb, her obstacles to overcome. Mine is often self-motivation. I stress easily, criticize myself on a whim, and then find myself tired and irritable, cleaning the house and telling everyone around me to "wait"...including myself.

Life is short. And it's easily to lose one's priorities amidst the ocean of readily available obligations. Some of us have better compasses. Others of us, just have to fight through it on a daily basis, reminding ourselves to be kind to ourselves and just keep going.

So, today (don't know about tomorrow - I'm not setting myself up for failure on this), I'm going to focus on what matters. My family, my friends, my animals, my students, and myself. The living things that care if I forget them, not the inanimate objects and responsibilities that only have a demanding voice because I let them.

P.M. update...

So, I did NOT workout. I came sooooo close, but I caved to my husband's bad mood (I'm terribly easily drawn off course in that way), and instead found myself tidying up the house, nursing a child with a headache, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for dinner, and drinking a beer while taking care of the bills (which are almost late). 

And even though I could really get down on myself, I'm trying hard to be forgiving and less critical of everyone, including myself. I got a lot done today...I graded a whole set of 90 papers in between classes and after school, I cleaned off my desk at school, I took care of about 20 student needs (I won't go into specifics), I ran an errand (yes, a WHOLE errand), and picked up my son from after school club. I did a dozen house chores, and now here I am, actually writing.

So I wouldn't call today a total failure. Just not a monumental success.

There's always tomorrow. 

Okay, actually there's no promise of that...today is all that matters and all that I am sure to have. So, if there IS a tomorrow, I'll try again. If not, today could have been worse. So, I guess I'm okay with that. We have our health, we have each other, and that's enough. 

Holding my tongue

There are many times when what has come out of my mouth should never have been allowed to enter the air. I'll admit I have a temper with a hair pin trigger, and I can be pretty snarky and sarcastic. I say things before I think, and then hours later, after considering all the facts (even if I don't have them all), I wonder if maybe I went too far. Maybe I didn't give the other person a chance to really explain, and so I took away a truth that really didn't exist for anyone but my "jump the gun" self.

I work with pre-teens. And they can most certainly be ornery with their interactions with adults. In fact, they can be just plain mean. It's hard to remember, as some of them are actually bigger than me, that they are really just "little kids" in "big bodies". And while some of them have been raised right, learning appropriate and increasingly mature ways to deal with their emotions (namely anger and frustration and hurt, since those tend to elicit the most outwardly negative reactions), others have not. In fact, a growing handful of them have only seen models of poor emotional control from the adults in their life.

I'm thinking of one young man in particular. I'll leave out the specifics of course, but suffice it to say, he's a child of a broken home. He spends time at dad's house for a week...and then mom's and new stepdad's for a week...and so on. Mom and step-dad are newly married and both have new jobs that keep them busy for large portions of time. Dad is admittedly learning to balance things at home. But between them is this angry young man with pent up emotions. Add hormones and you have a recipe for a very dangerous weapon of mass destruction: a pissed off, out-of-control teenager with no outlet.

The outcome is this...every time the boy is faced with any sort of frustration (a bad grade, being asked to stop a behavior, other kids in class) he blows. And the blow ups are increasing in frequency and severity.

Now, add that to a class room with a teacher (me) who keeps things pretty controlled and has quite particular expectations (basically, there just isn't room for any B.S. in my presence). I mean, obviously, I like kids...or I wouldn't be there. And I'm pretty understanding of their drama. I get it. But, I lose it with kids like this, because I'm at an absolute loss. I'm not a counselor, but it's apparent that this child needs help...he's in crisis. And he's chosen every adult in his presence as a target.

Enter the second problem: I don't make a good target.

Recently, after an altercation with another adult in the building, he made a run for it...out the side door and off campus. That led to a 911 call and the police were dispatched to find him. He tried to take them on with a stick he found on the ground.

When I heard this, my first reaction was to laugh out loud. Really? A stick? What were you thinking, son?

But, then I began to really consider things. A child with this much anger (whom I really don't think is mentally ill) has got to have a reason for it. What on earth is going on in this young man's life to cause these violent outbursts?

In my experience, violence begets violence. An angry child comes from an angry parent. A violent child (without mental health issues) is acting on fear. So what is this boy afraid of?

So, let's circle back. I've got a temper. And yes, my dad does, too. I had a great model for that. But, he's also a pretty loving parent and always has been, so it balances out...I think. I look at my own son and wonder, what does he think when he see me not dealing with my anger in a constructive manner? And how will this manifest later in his life? I don't see him running off campus, taking on the police with whatever he can find on the ground...but I do wonder if he'll direct his anger appropriately.

And it definitely gives me pause. What can I do to help myself hold my tongue? If for not one else but him...and might I be able to smooth over some situations with other children if I laid on a bit of sugar with my biting wit? I mean, they need boundaries and expectations, and even more than that, they need someone to hold them to it. I'm pretty good at that. But, my military upbringing doesn't always have to manifest itself in "drill sergeant" communication styles.

I blossomed out of sheer determination as a child. My brow furrowed, my lips pursed, my breath audible. I took my "coaching" as a challenge. Sure I got mad. I stomped. I huffed. And I showed them...by doing exactly what they expected.

These tactics don't work on all kids. In fact, with teens, it can actually do the exact opposite...especially if they don't feel loved or connected. See, I had that. Even though I was pissed off and felt misunderstood, I knew that no matter what my parents were behind me. Both of them. So many kids today don't have that. They just have the tired, worn out, angry parent who teaches them there is not alternative and that there is nothing good to look forward to.

A tongue must speak words of encouragement and love to balance out the words of criticism and anger. I'm not saying we should all be dripping compliments and "I love you's" at ever turn. Kids (and adults) need both. And I really don't think kids should never see us angry. After all, that's how they learn that we struggle with it, too. Take for example a child who sees his parents argue...but then hours later they are smiling and happy with each other. He learns that arguments can be solved and that relationships should be strong enough to weather them.

So while, I do need to find ways to control my temper (especially its outward display), I'm not sure it would be in anyone's interest to completely control the emotions that lead to that temper.

Embracing a messy life

They leave little messes all over the house. They're there when I get home from work; they're there when I wake up in the morning. I notice them with a growl and a sigh as I step over them to get to the coffee maker, or move things on the couch so I can sit down and enjoy my first cup. When I walk into my son's dark bedroom to wake him up, I trip over them. They pile on my office floor. And strewn across the dining room table at any given time, there they sit, making me crazy. Those little clutter piles, shoes, books, drawings, bags, stacks of mail, all the contents of my husband's pockets...they annoy me to no end. But try as I might, pushing my family to the level of order that I require just doesn't work.

Oh, they try. Sometimes. But, they forget. Not because they don't value a clean home (they appreciate that more than they know) and not because they take for granted that mom will take care of it because she's a neat-freak like that (although I do think they assume that occasionally). No. They just don't need it to be as tidy as I do. When their stuff is in a pile by the door, it's easily accessible and won't need to be found in the morning when they need it. That pile of odds and ends and change from my husband's pockets? We'll it's going right back in, so why would he put it away?

I'm not saying no one should clean up their stuff. I couldn't breathe if everyone just gave up putting their things in the proper places. And I'm pretty sure they'd all be concerned if I up and stopped the record player that is my litany of requests to "put it where it belongs....and if you can't find a home for it, you'll have to get rid of it." My son has become a genius at finding "homes" for things. For, in his little mind, nothing is meant to be thrown away. Every little scrap of paper, tiny plastic toy, and t-shirt that no longer fits is dear to his heart. And he comes by his "packrat" mentality honestly. My husband is nearly as bad.

And then there's me. I'd just as soon put it in a bag and drag it to the thrift store as put it away -- one. more. time.

That's not to say that I don't create my own clutter. Because I surely do. I think they annoyance comes, though, from knowing that I'm the only one who's is really bothered by it...and therefore, I'll be the one left to pick it up...or request that it be picked up by someone else. There is actually a chore in our house called "clutter patrol"...and it has to happen on a regular basis. Mostly because the little messes drive me crazy and make it seem as if the house is actually dirty, which it isn't.

Oh sure...I could really become a Nazi about the whole thing. I could rant and rave and groan and buy bins and label them and neurotically require everyone to put everything away in it's properly marked spot. But I know that will be an impressive failure. Why? Because even now, the dirty socks sit right beside the laundry bin...on the floor. The back pack is 3 feet from the hook where it should be hanging. The "properly marked spots" already exist. It's just that no body seems to care about them. Maybe if I made it a game and gave away prizes...or if I added a monetary incentive...or if I threatened someone with an early death...I could get them to put their stuff away...every time.

That got me thinking...why do I try so hard to keep it all together? What exactly is the point? Especially when, no matter what I do, even if I can control my own messy life and keep some semblance of outward order, I most certainly can't control anyone else's.

It's not that I'm planning to stop asking everyone to put their things away. Someone has to do it, after all. But, I can let the little messes stop bothering me so much. I can look away sometimes. Even better, I could learn to embrace them.

After all, every little mess is a reminder that someone I love lives here. Really lives here. They leave their mark all over this house, and in all honesty, if those little messes weren't here, my house would lack personality. The clutter in our house is evidence that we are here, inhabiting this space, making it our own. I'd much rather have their little messes than not have them and instead have a home that looks like the airbrushed perfection on the cover of Better Homes & Gardens.

That isn't my life anyway. My life is a blissful, glorious little mess, full of love, and laughter,a nd activity...and we have the clutter to prove it.

Mornings and "snuggle time"

I'm. Not. A. Morning. Person.

I can't stress that enough.

But...there is something about being awake before the buzz of the day sets in. Before the animals begin requesting to go out or be fed (they all seem to like to sleep in as long as possible these days). And before my son or husband wake.

It's quiet. All I can hear is the dog snoring at my feet and the cat snoring beside me on the couch. Maybe the tapping of a few claws on the laminate flooring as another cat makes her way from here to there. A lone meow. The humming of the appliances. The soothing waterfall of the fish tank's filter.

When I wake, there is a routine. There has to be, since my brain must be on autopilot for me to function. I turn on the "less bright" kitchen light, make my coffee, and then shuffle my way to the couch to write by the soft glow of two living room lamps.

I usually have about half an hour of uninterrupted quiet. Which, in any family household, is a blessing and a miracle.

When my son wakes up, I fight the urge to continue writing and remind myself to be present in the moment with him...to suck in every second that he seeks to snuggle with me in the pre-dawn. We've been doing this for a long time. It became a tradition several years back when I was trying to come up with ways to spend quality time with my son during our very busy days. I was feeling like a disconnected parent, doing nothing but directing and dictating, just making it through from morning to evening without killing anyone. So, "snuggle time" became a positive way to begin our day. Fifteen solid minutes of one-on-one closeness.

We don't always talk. Sometimes he tells me about the dreams he had (good or bad). Sometimes we just plan out or discuss the coming day. And it usually ends with him begging for "just one more minute". Sometimes, it irritates me...because my mind is already abuzz with all the dozens of things that must be accomplished in the next hour for us to get out the door on time. "No...we have to get going, or we'll be late."

But, quite honestly, I should cherish that extra minute every single time. There are a lot of things I cannot say yes to. "No, you may not have candy for breakfast." "No, you may not wear shorts to school in the middle of winter." Those things are parenting common sense. But, saying, "No, you may not have one more minute of my time...no more of my attention or awareness...it is now time for me to get dressed and make the lunches and put on my make-up and do my hair and run breathless out the front door while dragging you by your unwilling little arm and ranting about how late we are going to be," seems ludicrous.

So, this morning...and every morning that I can possibly remind myself...I will say yes. "Yes, you may have one more minute of my squeezing and physical contact that you may no longer want in just a few years."

One more minute is the least I can give. If nothing else positive happens today, at least I can say that we had this time. And I'm grateful for it.

Going slow

I have a six-year-old son who is known for being slow. Not developmentally...and certainly not emotionally. But, let's just say the boy moves at his own pace. I like to call it dilly-dallying. His teacher affectionately calls him her "slowpoke" (always bringing up the rear of the line because he's the last to stop doing anything).

And he has a tendency to get slower (if that is possible) whenever we are really in a hurry. Honestly, I think he is the universe's cruel joke on a mom who is almost always late.

See, this is how it usually goes down: after hitting snooze at least 4 times, I finally roll out of bed. Neither my son nor I are stunning examples of humanity in the wee hours of the day, so we spend our fair share of time just snuggling on the couch, talking, reading, anything to avoid getting up and getting going. By the time we finally do get up, it's at the last possible minute and the morning becomes a mad dash to get out the door less than 15 minutes late.

Now, for me, this is usually possible. But for him...the faster I move, the more curt my directives, the more spun-up I seem, the slower he goes. And the frustrating part is - he doesn't seem to care one snippet. He quite happily can spend 35 minutes taking off his shirt, digging through his drawers, getting sidetracked, singing songs, and playing with the cat and still be in his pajama bottoms while I'm standing at the front door, coffee in hand, yelling, "You have got to be kidding me! Have you even eaten your breakfast?!" He'll look at me with a sheepish downcast face that says, No...I was busy having a lovely morning and then you came along and started scolding me and ruined it all...but I'll look really pathetic and sad so you think I'm sorry, since that is apparently what you need at this moment.  Our children are so intuitive. They can read us like a book, which they take a lot less seriously than we do, by nature, of course.

My son is a daily, often upsetting, reminder that I have a tendency to move too fast, and that our society expects it of us. We adults spin ourselves into the vortex of "hurry up and get it done so you can hurry up and get on to the next thing." But our children are blissfully unaware of time. Their internal clock doesn't even seem to exist until after it no longer affects their parents. And then they become us.

Or they don't. Some rebel against time. In fact, I think quite often my son does just that. The more agitated I become, the more he realizes he has the upper hand.

I've been working lately on breathing my way through these moments. And the more I think about it, maybe he has a point. Not that I plan to just start showing up at work or appointments whenever I chose, but I can see a case for taking my time...packing less into a day...and allowing myself to stop living a life everyday that forces me to glance at the clock every few minutes. It's nice to periodically lose myself in an activity. It's nice to be in control of my own time and what I do in it. Even if it can't happen all the time.

For what it's worth, I think my son gets it, even if just subconsciously. I think he sees just how crazy living by the clock makes me...and he refuses to let it do the same to him. Maybe there is something admirable in that. Something I can learn from.