I feared, when I divorced and moved out, how the changes in our living space would affect my kids. I moved from a large house with a playroom and an enormous backyard that was within walking distance of a park and their school... to an apartment. Granted, this apartment is larger than the first house I lived in as a child. The kids have their own rooms (never mind that they still choose to sleep together each night and just rotate rooms). It has a fun double length balcony that looks out over a large grassy courtyard area where the kids can play safely. It has a pool where we swam all last summer and had friends over for swimming and dinner. It is within walking distance to the river where we can skip stones and cast a line in the water to fish and where there is a bike path. But even those things don't matter as much as this little art wall. It's the little things.
"It's good to be back," said William when we walked in and he took a look at the train tracks from his train set in his room while he set down his backpack. "Can I sit at my desk to play on my computer?" asked Lizzy as she headed to her pink and purple and turquoise room. We began our Friday night tradition of finding something to watch and having a TV "floor picnic" on the living room rug. And then I started the Art Wall. It will be nicer one day. Not just taped up pictures. I want to find board or cork or some other funky and fun method of letting them place their art on the walls. But right now it doesn't matter. I looked at the wall and suddenly this small apartment became joyful. "look at all the memories" William said. And then it became more than joyful. The apartment became huge. And it became home. Because it contains what I love inside. My family. My lights. My children. How can something that contains the little things that amount to the enormity of love I have in my heart be anything but huge?
I read today a quote that said, "It is perhaps a more fortunate destiny to have a taste for collecting shells than to be born a millionaire." I talked to the kids a bit about this. How, for me, it's not things or riches or luxury that make us happy... but the little things. Saying thank you when they clear their plates. Letting them know I'm happy to see them. Learning to fish again and fishing together. Hiking to waterfalls even in the rain and assigning points on our path funny names. Playing a silly electric football game that makes us laugh. Making an Art Wall with nothing but scotch tape and items they made here or at school. Being lucky enough to find my boyfriend Jason, who is a fellow "shell collector". He too doesn't have huge wants, but instead finds joy in things like fishing, making up silly nicknames, baking cookies with his kids, playing dolls with Lizzy when William needs a moment alone with me, educating William on the finer points of WWE wrestling. He doesn't know it, but he's a champion of building beauty with small words. He always asks us about our day. He says thank you if I help with dishes like I've done something huge, even after he's cooked AND coached his son's practice AND worked a hard day as a Life Skills teacher. I hear him talk to his kids about their homework or the book they're reading. In spite of others always thinking he's disengaged or anti-social because his ADD leaves him often needing the TV on AND his laptop open AND his phone in hand...he'll ask me about some client or friend I mentioned a while ago when I thought he wasn't listening. He inspires me as much as he says I inspire him. All of us...we're collecting shells... little things. But we'll build something huge with them. A lifetime of joy and memories.
I forget, though, that this pendulum swings two ways. As Lizzy and I hung up the pictures, she wavered a bit as she tried to stand on a chair. "I'm clumsy," she said. My head snapped up. "No Lizzy. No... don't say that. Don't call yourself that and don't ever let me call you that again. Don't let anyone. You hear it enough and you'll be what you hear. You're a 5-year-old on a wobbly chair honey, that's all." Just like all those little pictures taped up on the wall make something huge, little comments can erode like tiny drops of water can eventually erode mountains.
This week was a lesson in that slow erosion for me as I watched someone I love very much struggle with how comments that were echoes of what he has heard often in life can break someone down quite easily. And as we talked about how the negative words can be all you come to believe... I suddenly became aware of how much negativity I grew to believe of myself. Little words... thrown out in passing, as jokes, as advice... they became huge. I believed and became the girl who was weird, clumsy, awkward, ugly, sloppy, messy, careless, forgetful. And I realized, I'm doing the same to Lizzy, both kids really, if I'm not careful. I lovingly call her my tornado. Tell people how you can tell where she sits at a table from the mess, etc. To me, those qualities are endearing. But to her, they are tiny cuts that make her doubt herself and her self worth. Tonight I focused on complimenting her kindness, her creativity, her humor. I must remember to do the same with William. Not call him my "drama queen" or my "serious one" or my "little old man". I must remember to praise his thoughtfulness, his hard work and his huge heart that often, in his discomfort, he hides away. Little words can cut. I must make my little words ones that build huge monuments, not ones that diminish huge lights. I will consider my words like my art wall. I will throw out small pieces of beauty to make one huge picture that makes me and my children joyful. Rather than ripping little pieces away slowly with negativity.
Tonight, as she hopped out of her shower in a hurry for us to get to squeeze in one more family show, Lizzy said, "I made up a song and dance for you mom." Lizzy can get pretty detailed at times, so I sat and waited for some crazy-long song while she merely da-da'd a couple notes and shimmied a little. This time, her song and dance were tiny. But her huge smile, the look of expectation in those enormous green eyes, made that tiny song and dance a huge moment of joy for me.
It's the little things, folks. Remember to tell your kid good job the one time they remember to put their shoes in the right place rather than saying "ugh! you always forget." Remember to say to your partner, "that was thoughtful of you to be careful not to shrink my shirt" rather than "you never do ANYTHING right" the time a red sock sneaks into the whites. Remember to praise the thoughtful hug your kid gave you rather than tell them they're always your trouble maker. Remember to stop and listen to the story about your child's imaginary friend even if it means you start dinner 5 minutes late rather than telling them not to say that or people will think they are weird. Remember the fact that your partner mowed the lawn or took out the garbage or emptied the dishwasher or took an extra 5 minutes to make sure you walked out the door with a cup of coffee, don't lump the one night they are too tired to do more than sit into the entirety of their being. Don't focus on the size of your house, but the enormity of love and memories you can fit in it. Don't worry that you can't buy your kid every toy, because the half hour you played Candy Land with them instead of washing dishes means more than that toy that they'll forget about tomorrow. Take walks with your kids and let them bring home a rock. Spread paints or dough or frosting or whatever out and make a mess WITH your kids. Pick up worms. Find lady bugs. Splash in puddles. Watch something your partner wants to watch even if it isn't your cup of tea. Try their interests or at least LISTEN with interest when they talk about them. Don't "hmmmm" absentmindedly, ASK them about their interest.
Collect shells folks. Explore. Build huge riches out of tiny little moments that cost nothing or very little except some of your time or creativity.
Some of the tape is already peeling a bit from my art wall. The wall doesn't resemble something nifty and perfect you'll see on a Pinterest page or a Pottery Barn catalogue. But it contains tiny brush strokes and crayon markings and a couple of my first attempts at painting a canvas. And it's so beautiful to me right now... I really don't want to move. I think I may fall asleep right here on my couch. Looking at all the memories.
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