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.

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.