Surprise. I still haven't found my way around.
On Saturday, despite a whirlwind of soccer games and commutes to the same, I found time to pack Elspeth into the car to drive her to a birthday party for one of the girls in her class. It should have been an easy drive; I've done it before. . .but never by myself. Though I created a device to help me remember the way: Stottle[myer] down until you smack into Lincoln at which point you [Cal]Dart toward home, the device only worked one way, and not the other unless I could reverse it, which is hard to do when driving, and, Martin insists, hard to do whatever the circumstance. "I just remember the way to go," he's been known to say, and then he'd whip out north, south, east and all that nonsense that has never, ever, ever made any sense to me. I hadn't even heard of people navigating that way until I went to college in Chicago and my roommate looked at me as if I were an idiot. (Of course, that's after I led her to a grocery store that I'd walked to multiple times, instructing her to turn right, and then turn right, and then turn right again. Finally she looked at me as if something important was dawning on her: "We're walking in a circle," she said, and never let me show her the way anywhere again.)
Anyway, I make it through life now by coming up with handy-dandy (and fun!) ways to remember dates and lists and directions. So dart into Lincoln until you Stottle. . .should not have been that hard, but it was. I started out the wrong way altogether (forgot to dart), turned around, and tried again. Then I missed Stottlemyer twice and ended up motoring down the road. . .back home again. Elspeth sat patiently in the back seat clutching her gift bag and coaching me, "You can do it, Mommy. Just try one more time."
But of course, the more streets I missed, the more flustered I got until finally I drove all the way home again, parked, and dragged my defeated body inside to where my sister was waiting with the other kids. "You drive her," I said. "I got lost three or four times."
She pulled on her shoes and dashed out the door, and Elspeth reached her birthday party, which was being held at a gymnastics facility, only twenty minutes late. At home the telephone rang. It was Heather. Elspeth was overwhelmed by the crowds of kids flipping and jumping and kept plunging her head into Heather's legs and begging her to stay.
So they came home again. I fully expected Elspeth to wander in the door, defeated and sad (like her mother), but instead she bounded in, holding a treat bag high in the air like a trophy. "Look what I got!" she triumphed. Then she licked her lollipop and we watched The Electric Company on TV.
My small incompetency loomed over me for much of the day, but now it strikes me: why can't I be more like my daughter--accept the occasional personality snafu and enjoy myself regardless? We're always pushing our children, and ourselves, to overcome, overcome, overcome, and most of the time we do. But sometimes--well, let's face it--most of the time--I end up a bit lost and need help. And occasionally, just occasionally, after school and soccer and behaving themselves, our children need to return to the warmth of their parent and have a snuggle and a lollipop.
Anyway, I make it through life now by coming up with handy-dandy (and fun!) ways to remember dates and lists and directions. So dart into Lincoln until you Stottle. . .should not have been that hard, but it was. I started out the wrong way altogether (forgot to dart), turned around, and tried again. Then I missed Stottlemyer twice and ended up motoring down the road. . .back home again. Elspeth sat patiently in the back seat clutching her gift bag and coaching me, "You can do it, Mommy. Just try one more time."
But of course, the more streets I missed, the more flustered I got until finally I drove all the way home again, parked, and dragged my defeated body inside to where my sister was waiting with the other kids. "You drive her," I said. "I got lost three or four times."
She pulled on her shoes and dashed out the door, and Elspeth reached her birthday party, which was being held at a gymnastics facility, only twenty minutes late. At home the telephone rang. It was Heather. Elspeth was overwhelmed by the crowds of kids flipping and jumping and kept plunging her head into Heather's legs and begging her to stay.
So they came home again. I fully expected Elspeth to wander in the door, defeated and sad (like her mother), but instead she bounded in, holding a treat bag high in the air like a trophy. "Look what I got!" she triumphed. Then she licked her lollipop and we watched The Electric Company on TV.
My small incompetency loomed over me for much of the day, but now it strikes me: why can't I be more like my daughter--accept the occasional personality snafu and enjoy myself regardless? We're always pushing our children, and ourselves, to overcome, overcome, overcome, and most of the time we do. But sometimes--well, let's face it--most of the time--I end up a bit lost and need help. And occasionally, just occasionally, after school and soccer and behaving themselves, our children need to return to the warmth of their parent and have a snuggle and a lollipop.
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