Drowning doesn’t look like drowning.

I found this link courtesy of Patti Digh. I post it here partly as a late summer public service announcement, but also because it got me to thinking.

(I know… what else is new?!?)

The whole thing is well worth reading, but here’s the two-sentence takeaway:

Drowning is almost always a deceptively quiet event. The waving, splashing and yelling that dramatic conditioning (television) prepares us to look for is rarely present in real life.

This article struck me for a couple of reasons. The first is that it confirms that I probably really did save someone from drowning once.

Ten-year-old saves boy from drowning… film at eleven!

Well, not really.

I’m pretty sure I did prevent a drowning (or at least a near-drowning) but it wasn’t nearly as dramatic as the rescue that the author describes.

When were in elementary school, my sister and I spent several summers in day camp at the Y and every afternoon in the pool. It was a typically busy day at the pool, which was full of kids from the day camp along with everyone else who’d come to enjoy a respite from the brutal Texas heat. I was hanging out in the pool, laughing, splashing and playing with my friends.

This pool was L-shaped where the long side was basically a 25 yard lap pool with diving boards at the far end and the short side was a shallow ‘kiddie pool’ area. There was a rope separating the two parts of the pool, and a step down from the kiddie pool into the shallow end of the lap-pool.

There was a design flaw in this set-up that I noticed even as a kid.

The step and the rope were not lined up, making it possible to duck under the rope and still be on top of the step in the shallowest water. About 8 inches beyond the rope the step dropped off to the depth of the lap pool which was about 3 feet at the shallowest end. If you didn’t know it was coming, that step came as a rude surprise! And if you were short, that step could feel like a cliff.

So there I was, playing tag or marco polo in the shallow end with my friends and I looked over and saw a ‘little kid’ (which means he was maybe 4 or 5? I don’t really remember) on our side of the rope. He was just standing there and at first he looked like he was just blowing bubbles in the water which came to right his nose.  I didn’t really pay too much attention because he didn’t really look like he was in trouble. He was just standing there blowing bubbles. There were lots of kids in the pool and I was playing with my friends.

Besides, there were plenty of lifeguards all around and if there was a problem they would handle it, right?

But then I looked again and something must have seemed odd to me. Maybe I noticed that he wasn’t really moving much (which as we all know is pretty rare for kids in the pool!), or that he didn’t seem to have a grown up nearby. I can’t say exactly what made me think that something was wrong. And I don’t remember whether I said anything to him or not.

What I do remember is simply picking him up by one elbow and putting him back up on the step. I don’t recall what happened then, but he seemed to be OK, and I went back to playing with my friends.

And that was that.

After I’d done it, I realized that I might have done something important, and at the same time, completely unremarkable. This was certainly no dramatic rescue, like I’d seen on TV.

And really, what had I done?   Lifted a little kid back up onto a step.

Not exactly heroic. And it barely seemed worth mentioning to anyone.

And yet there’s something about this story that tugs at me. It seems to be a perfect example of the way that our actions can be both monumental and mundane at the very same time.  This paradox seems to be at the heart of motherhood and life in general, because I see it everywhere I turn.

Drowning doesn’t look like drowning part 2

The second thing that struck me about this article is that what the author says about drowning in water is also true about drowning metaphorically.

When someone is having a big struggle in their lives, it rarely looks like what we see on TV.

When couples fight, it rarely involves drinks tossed in the face or dramatic scenes in front of family and friends. More often it seems like we don’t necessarily know anything is going on until someone mentions that they have a new phone number because they’ve moved out.

So what does drowning look like?

It doesn’t look like flailing around. Or someone screaming “Help!”

People who are drowning look remarkably ‘normal.’ They’re upright. Their heads are above water.

Drowning in life seems to be quite similar to drowning in water.

People go quiet. They don’t show up in the usual places. They don’t seem to hang around and chat like they used to. There might be a catch in their voice when you ask how they are. Or their eyes aren’t as bright and shiny as they should be.

Could you be a hero?

Is there someone in your world that might be drowning without anyone noticing? Someone who’s gotten awfully quiet lately? Someone who looks like they’re keeping their head above, water, but just barely? Someone whose eyes are looking a little glassy?

Look closely and you might be surprised.

You might also be surprised at how easy it is to give someone who is struggling a hand. You don’t have to be a superhero or even a trained lifeguard to save the day. A simple phone call or invitation to coffee might be all it takes to lift someone back up on the step so they can breathe a little easier.

Your turn:  Got any thoughts on drowning (literally or figuratively)?  When was the last time you did something heroic (even if it didn’t seem that way)?

Please share in the comments!

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This has been a hard couple of weeks.  School is out and I still haven’t quite found my feet yet.

I was super crabby yesterday because it seemed like nothing went according to plan.  I’d start do to something, and get interrupted.  And this went on all day long.  Not a single thing on my substantial list got done, despite my best efforts.  At the end of it, I was so frustrated and fed up I couldn’t stand myself (and no one else could stand me either!).

The only consolation is that I know I’m not alone, because I’ve talked with clients and other moms who are also feeling ungrounded and at loose ends.

Why does the end of the school year and the beginning of summer throw us into such a tailspin?

I had a huge lightbulb moment a few weeks ago as I was reading Kathy Waddill’s The Organizing Sourcebook: Nine strategies for simplifying your life.

Her take on what ‘being organized’ means rocked my world- in a good way.

She says that being organized is when your systems match your life as you are currently living it.  Being disorganized results from a mismatch between your systems and your real life.

No wonder….

No wonder things are a little topsy-turvy right now.  Real life has changed rather substantially from a couple of weeks ago and the systems haven’t yet caught up.

My regular times for doing things have gotten all messed up, and so I’m spinning around trying to remember what I’m supposed to be doing and figure out when I’m going to get it done.  Some things just haven’t happened (like writing for the blog.)  Others are happening, but much more sporadically and randomly than usual.

A funny example:  Like you probably do, we have a routine in the morning that doesn’t vary too much throughout the school year.  AJ wakes up, gets dressed, eats breakfast, brushes his teeth, makes sure his backpack is ready to go, and we’re out the door.

When we don’t have school, he wakes up, maybe gets dressed, maybe not.  Gets himself breakfast and… hardly ever remembers to brush his teeth.

And honestly I can’t really give him a hard time about it, because it’s so built into the morning routine that without the regular sequence of events, I forget to remind him.

And it’s not just the daily routine that’s gotten thrown out of whack.  The milestones of the week have dropped out or changed.  Our violin lesson has been on Monday for two years, and this summer it’s been changed to Tuesday.  I’m still confused and am terrified I’m going to space out one week and miss it!

I’ve been doing the same yoga class on Friday mornings for a good long while too.  But with swim lessons in the morning for the next couple of weeks, that’s not going to happen.

So, yeah… out of whack all over the place!

My old systems aren’t matching my new reality.  And I’m not really happy about it at the moment.

In the next couple of posts, I’ll give some suggestions for how to bring things back into alignment, but for now I’d love to hear your thoughts on the transition between school-year and summertime.

What’s the hardest thing for you about this time?  What do you do that helps?

Please share in the comments!

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It’s such a cliché that kids grow up fast.

In the season of graduations and such, some of the transitions are clear and sharply defined.  These tend to be those associated with ‘official’ categories of one sort or another.  The pre-schooler heads off to kindergarten.  The 6^th grader to middle school.  And so on.

Traditional communities, including religious traditions have rituals that mark the different stages of life- moving from childhood into adolescence and then adulthood.  In our contemporary and largely secular way of life, we’ve lost some of these markers for the different phases of life.

I’m interested in this because my son turned ten in December and since then it’s been more and more apparent that he’s no longer a little kid

Some of it is physical.

All of his classmates look so much bigger and older all of a sudden.  The girls are developing and the boys are growing like weeds.  AJ is up to my shoulders now, and we’re taking bets on when he’ll be taller than me.  Right now his feet are nearly as big as mine, so I’m sure it won’t be long.

But the physical changes are only the tip of the iceberg.

Other signs that he’s no longer my ‘little boy’:

• He closes the bathroom door.

• If I want to kiss him goodbye before school, it has to be in the parking lot, NOT on the playground.

• I think he’s hearing dirty jokes from his friends.  I’m not sure if I want to know what they are or not!

• It’s hard to tell his t-shirts from mine.

He smells.  His friends smell.

One night not too long ago he had a friend sleeping over.  Finally it got quiet in his room and went to check that they were really asleep.  As I opened the door, I had to laugh because the room was filled with eau de stinky boy.  And I realized that it was going to get worse and not better for the next few years!

He’s managing parts of his life on his own

Not too long ago, he was in the shower and realized that he didn’t have a towel.  Instead of calling for help he dried off with a hand towel.

When he wanted to play a more advanced song in his violin recital, I told him he could talk to his teacher about it.  And he did.  We called the teacher up and I handed the phone to AJ.  He calmly and confidently explained to the teacher that wanted to play a different piece.  They talked for a few minutes and the teacher agreed.  He busted his butt to learn the new piece in time for the recital and surprised his teacher with how quickly he was able to get it up to performance quality.

Other people are treating him differently

For many years, the hostess would automatically bring a kid’s menu to our table.  Lately they’ve been asking if we need one.  If it’s one of those places that has a ‘big kids’ menu, sometimes he’ll order something from there, otherwise, he orders from the regular menu.

His doctor asked him if he wanted me to stay while she examined his private parts.  This time he said yes.  I imagine it may be the last year he does.  She didn’t even offer him a sticker afterwards, and I’m pretty sure he would have declined.

The latest:  when I took him to the dentist last week, and the hygienist gave him his new toothbrush- she gave him the same kind she gives me and my husband.  Not the kid kind with power rangers on the handle.  Wow.

The Fiddler on the Roof soundtrack was a favorite in our house for quite a while, so with apologies to Jerry Block and Sheldon Harnick, I made up a few new verses to one of the archetypal songs about kids growing up.

To the tune of Sunrise, Sunset

When did he turn into a big kid?

He has outgrown his jeans AGAIN!

One minute he’s my little muffin,

Now he’s TEN!

When did he get to be so smelly?

When did his language get so crude?

What will it take to teach him

Not to be so rude?

When did he get to be so hairy?

Is that a pimple on his face?

Don’t know when I became

This big dis-grace.

When did he get to be so thoughtful?

When did he learn to be so kind?

Who knew the heart that would be bursting

Would be mine?

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset

Swiftly flow the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness and tears…

How about you?  What ‘unofficial’ signs of growth and maturity have you observed in your kids?  I know this post is very boy-centric, so I’d love to hear from moms of girls what you have  noticed.

What verses would you add to my adaptation of Sunrise, Sunset?

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This is the second post in a series inspired by a conversation on crusts.  Yes, I’m talking about the things you cut off your kid’s sandwich.  Or not.

You can read the beginning of the series here.

Actually the series is about the stories we tell ourselves and it turns out that for me anyway, there were all kinds of stories tied up in the whole crust debate.

One of my stories was that I would not raise a picky eater.  Another was that that kids who won’t eat sandwich crusts are either picky eaters or on their way to becoming picky eaters.

When I stopped to ask myself why being a picky eater was such a problem, I saw more stories:

• Picky eaters make life difficult for others (because it takes extra effort to work around their dietary whims.)
• Picky eaters have a hard time when they are in environments that aren’t prepared to deal with their quirks.
• Picky eaters are fussy and demanding in other areas of their lives and make things difficult for those around them.

And then there were the stories about moms:

• Moms who cut off the crusts are overly indulgent and are enabling picky eating.
• Moms who cut off the crusts have no backbone and will get run over by their kids in all kinds of ways.
• They are setting themselves up for years of catering to someone else’s preferences and creating more work for themselves.

But one of the most surprising stories I uncovered was the idea that if my kid turned out to be a picky eater, I had failed somehow as a mother.

When I see all these stories spelled out in this way, I can see that some of them are a little absurd.  (like raising a picky eater would mean I’d failed as a mother?  Hmmm…)

But still these stories persist.

Even though AJ no longer insists on having the crusts cut off his sandwiches, I don’t consider myself out of the woods yet.  I still worry that he’s going to end up being a picky eater, and here’s why.

AJ has never liked tomatoes or onions and as much as I’d hoped he’d outgrow these aversions, it hasn’t happened yet.  These are pretty basic ingredients, and for the most part, I still cook with them.  (Because I’m not going to be that kind of mom.)

But it does kind of annoy me to see him pick them out or hear him complain about their presence.  When I dish up a bowl of soup and he’s nudging aside the tomato and asking if this little bit is onion or celery, I begin to think I’ve failed in my goal to avoid raising a picky eater.  (Triggering the ‘I’m a failure as a mom’ story.)

The Usual Error…

I love tomatoes and so find it completely baffling that anyone, especially a kid of mine, could not like them.  For a while I thought it was that he hadn’t had a really good tomato.  After all, who can be blamed for not enjoying the pale imitations of tomato that one finds in the grocery store these days?  So I kept trying.  I bought the luscious heirlooms from the farmers market.  For the last few years he’s helped to plant and water the candy-sweet cherry tomatoes in our own garden.

And still…. Not a fan.

The funny thing is that his reluctance to eat mushrooms seems perfectly normal to me.  I would never apply the label “picky” to a kid who didn’t eat mushrooms, because honestly, who could expect a kid to enjoy mushrooms?  I don’t especially enjoy mushrooms, but that doesn’t make me a picky eater, does it?

You see where I’m going with this?

We all have preferences, likes and dislikes, and to us these are ‘normal.’  Anyone who shares these preferences isn’t likely to trigger a reaction because they aren’t challenging our familiar story.

When I assume that because I enjoy tomatoes, my son will as well, I’m making what Pace and Kylie call  The Usual Error.

The Usual Error is the assumption that other people are just like you.  This is just another one of our stories- and one that we’re usually unaware of.

The possibility of choice

When I become aware of this story, my perspective shifts.  Or more precisely, when I become aware of this story, there is the possibility of shifting my perspective.

If I choose a different story, his picking around the tomatoes isn’t evidence that he’s a picky eater, but rather evidence that he has preferences that are different from mine.

As shocking as this revelation might be, it gives me much more flexibility in how I respond.

If I stick to the story that my kid is a picky eater, my attitude about accommodating him is very different that if I shift to the story that he has preferences that are different than mine.

I still have to decide whether to put the tomatoes in the soup, but all those other stories that come with ‘picky eater’ and ‘failure as a mom’ drop out of the equation.

The advantage of reframing things in this way is that it becomes much less personal and the judgments much less permanent.

It may be a fact that my son prefers not to eat tomatoes, but as we all know, preferences can change over time.  But more importantly, this story leaves his essence (and mine) out of it.  A kid’s preferences about food needn’t have any implications for his character or his ability to get along as an adult.

Nor does this preference call into question my success or failure as a mom the way that ‘raising a picky eater’ does.

Neither story is ‘right’

And neither story is wrong.

But these stories have very different consequences for my relationship with my son, and for my understanding of myself.

I can stick to my stories about picky eaters and the moms that enable them if I want to.

Or I can change my story.

What about you?  What’s your story?  Are you sticking to it?

Please share in the comments!

This post was inspired by a conversation on Amber Strocel’s blog about crusts. You know- the things you cut off your kid’s sandwiches, or the things you don’t.

So before we go much further, let me ask you a question:

What is your position on crusts?

The kids who eat them and the kids who won’t.  The moms who cut them and the moms who don’t?

Everyone I know has a position.

But here’s a more interesting question:

What’s your story about crusts?

What’s your story about kids who insist on having them cut off? What’s your story about moms who cut or don’t cut them?

Here’s Amber’s take:

my real internal struggle comes over bread crusts. Before I had kids I swore that I would never be the kind of mother who cut the crusts off sandwiches. Cutting off crusts represented drudgery and subverting my desires to someone else’s. I believed that crust-cutting would create demanding, spoiled children. My mother never cut off my crusts, and that made me the person I am today. Or something. It was a theory.

I think this resonated so strongly with me because my story about crusts, the kids who won’t eat them and the moms who cut them was so very similar.

What is so striking is that in just a few sentences, Amber captures a whole lot of story about crusts.

Cutting off crusts=   Drudgery

Subverting my desires

Creates demanding children

Creates spoiled children

(Here’s a thesis project for some graduate student in child development: is it true that children whose mothers cut the crusts off their sandwiches turn out to be picky eaters? Are they more demanding in other areas as well? Is eating crust-free sandwiches correlated with demanding, obnoxious behavior in later life? Are children whose mothers don’t cut crusts more or less likely to suffer from malnutrition in early childhood? Are they more adaptive and well-balanced? Happier, healthier and better-looking?

And for a graduate student in women’s studies: How does crust-cutting behavior correlate with a mother’s other autonomous activity? Inquiring minds want to know!)

I propose these thesis subjects as a joke- but also to point out that we have stories about the alleged meaning and consequences of this behavior, but no actual evidence.

Facts and fictions

Here’s the thing. Whenever something happens, we immediately concoct a story about it. We observe a fact, and immediately come up with some interpretation of that event. It’s just the way our brains work. And this interpretation is a story we tell. We tell ourselves stories to explain what we’re seeing, hearing, experiencing. We tell a story that puts the event in context. We must do these things to make sense of the constant stream of sensory input we receive.

And then we treat our interpretation, our explanation, our story as the Truth.

And then…. We forget that we made the whole thing up. That there might be other possible stories to explain the same data.

All further thoughts, feelings and actions proceed from this (perfectly obvious!) Truth.

Data that appears to conflict with our interpretation might go completely unobserved. If we do see something that seems to conflict with our version of the Truth, it is often written off as insignificant, irrelevant or anomalous.

But as I read the comments following Amber’s post, and composed my own reply, what struck me most was the fact that we all had our stories about crusts, the implications of kids eating/refusing to eat them, and strongly held views on what it meant to be ‘that kind of mom.’

As I wrote in my comments on Amber’s post, I caved rethought my strategy on the whole crust issue when (once again!) theory collided with real life.

I realized that when I left the crusts on, AJ would eat about 3 bites out of the middle and leave the rest of the sandwich untouched. When I cut the crusts off, he’d eat the whole thing.

The thought of wasting food was much more problematic for me than cutting the crusts, so I cut them.

For other commenters, getting their kids to eat something was more important than standing firm on the crust issue.

The point isn’t about who’s right and who’s wrong here. The point is that virtually no one was neutral on the issue. We all had our stories. And these stories have legs. They have ramifications for our thoughts, our emotions and our actions.

My story about crusts

The crust issue hit home with me because I always swore that I’d never raise a picky eater. When I stopped to ask myself why, here’s what I saw unfold in my thoughts, my emotions and my actions.

Our stories inform our thoughts

If I cut off the crusts, AJ will be a picky eater for the rest of his life. I’ll have to cook separate meals for the next 18 years. I’ll never get to cook what I want or the way I want. Picky eaters make life more difficult for themselves and for others. And so on…

Our stories impact our emotions

I resent being pushed around by a pint-sized gourmet. I’m irritated by having to expend extra effort to cut off the crusts. I’m resigned to the fact that if I don’t cut them, he won’t eat much of the sandwich. And I’m feeling like a failure because I always said I’d never be ‘that kind of mom’ or raise ‘that kind of kid.’

These thoughts and emotions combine to influence our actions

If my story is that I’m being pushed around by a tiny tyrant, I’m likely to put up a fight, and refuse to comply. Another story says that wasting food, or not having the kid eat is more important than the crusts. If this story is the one I tell, I’d rather cut the crusts than throw away half a sandwich every day, so I’ll cut them. If my story is that I get irritated by cutting the crusts, I might decide to teach him to cut them off himself. If I’m feeling like a failure, because my son won’t eat the crusts despite my best efforts, perhaps I’ll give in on this one, but not one inch on some other issue ‘that kind of mom’ would cave on.  And of course there are many more possibilities…

Again, it’s not about the ‘right answer’ to the crust dilemma- this is an invitation to observe our own story, and the impact that it has on the way we interpret and act on the situations that we face.

As usual I have more to say on this issue- so stay tuned….

Meantime- what’s your story? About crusts or anything else! Please share in the comments!

Cutie RIP

Funeral for a furry friend…

This week we had a profound experience in our family. AJ’s rat Cutie died. It wasn’t a complete shock, because over the last few months, she had started to look much more frail and old. Her personality hadn’t changed and her appetite seemed good, but her coat had lost its full, glossy look and she had obviously lost weight. She reminded me of a little old lady, the way her bones poked through her skin.

And so while we knew her days with us were probably coming to an end, her death actually came about rather suddenly. And the way it all unfolded leaves me thinking that there are many larger forces at work than we can possibly comprehend.

She died on Wednesday, which, as it turned out, was a snow day. It didn’t have to be. There wasn’t really all that much snow. But nonetheless, AJ was home from school.

We had planned to go skiing that day. But no one really felt like making the drive up to the slopes that morning, so we were slow to get moving.

AJ had been planning to go sledding with a friend. But first he and his dad were going to shovel the driveway.

It’s all these little ‘buts’ that seem insignificant, or even annoying at the time, that have me so aware of the unseen forces- whatever you want to call them- that surround us.

As they were shoveling, I went to my desk to get started on the day’s blog post. Cutie’s cage is just a few feet from the desk and as I was waiting for the laptop to come alive, I noticed that she seemed to be struggling go get from her little cubby onto the exercise wheel.

This seemed odd, so I opened the cage to give her a hand. As soon as I touched her, I knew something was amiss.

Her body was oddly rigid, like maybe she’d had a stroke or something. I didn’t really know, but it was very clear that whatever it was, she wasn’t going to be with us much longer.

I wrapped her in a bandanna because she was cool to the touch and called in the snow crew. “Hey you guys… I think you’d better come in. I’m pretty sure Cutie is dying.”

AJ shed his coat and boots and I gave him the small bundle. His dad and I joined him on the couch and we sat there snuggled together, all still in our pajamas, for nearly an hour while our little friend breathed ragged breaths.

As we were sitting there, all ambitions to write my blog post, work on class materials, check email, etc. evaporated. I was exactly where I needed to be in that moment, and nothing else was nearly as important as sitting with my son while he was sitting with his pet.

I was so struck by the amazing circumstances that allowed us all to be there for that event. I can’t imagine how hard it would have been for him to come home from sledding with his friend to find her lifeless in her cage. Or worse, (for me anyway!) to have her die while he was at school and have to break the sad news on the way home.

We talked a little about Cutie, and a few tears were shed, but it was a largely silent vigil.

And then it was over. One final contraction rippled through her little body and that was it.

When she was gone, we put her gently into a tissue box (one of her favorite places to sleep) to await burial.

Because of all the snow, it didn’t make sense to bury her that day, so we agreed that on Thursday after school we would find a special place for her in the yard.

After a bit, AJ said, “I think I’m ready to get dressed and go sledding now.”

And so we did.

In the car he said, “I’d like to invite my friends over tomorrow for Cutie’s funeral.” We agreed, though without knowing how many would be able to come on such short notice, I cautioned him that not everyone might make it.

I was out at a meeting Wednesday night, but DH and AJ called all the boys in his class to tell them the news and to invite them to the funeral. To my amazement, all eight of them were able to come.

We had a lovely service, and I was really touched by the sweetness this bunch of 10 year old boys displayed.

The whole experience just has me profoundly grateful for the things I get to see and do as a parent that I never would have imagined. And how it’s those moments when I completely surrender my plans, my agenda and my desires turn out to be the moments when I know I’m in exactly the right place, doing exactly the right thing.

What about you?  Have you ever had an experience when it seemed like things were going wrong, but they were actually going exactly right?

Plans, Planning and the Illusion of Control

Like many moms I know, I have an on-again, off-again relationship with making plans.  All the experts tell you that planning is really where it’s at.

And some days, I buy it.  There are those days or weeks when I plot my course and I’m amazed at how easily things flow.  I’m grooving on the feeling of being in control- moving forward and getting things done!  I’m the master of my fate!

Until I’m not.

More often, it seems that I plan my day and it’s been shot to hell before breakfast is even over.  Someone’s sick, something broke, some appointment is cancelled…  and whatever plans I had for the day just got completely scrambled.

Annoyed and frustrated, I write off making plans as a sucker’s game.  A waste of time best left to the hopelessly naive or desperate control freaks.

So I turn the reins over to the universe for a while.  I take a laissez faire approach- meeting each day as it comes.  I still keep track of the big stuff- doctor’s appointments, writing deadlines, client meetings, etc.  but otherwise I just move through the days doing whatever presents itself as the most urgent or interesting thing at the moment.

This usually works at least for a little while.  Sure some things fall through the cracks, and some things never make it to the top of the pile, but no major disasters befall us.  People get fed (though there’s more mac and cheese than I’m really comfortable with) and everyone gets where they need to be (though not always with what they need to have).  All the essential errands get run (though with a few extra trips for forgotten items).  Etc.

And then something big comes along.  Maybe it’s deadline week.  Or maybe I’m starting up a new class or work project.  Maybe some household appliance malfunctions and needs to be replaced.  Whatever the cause, more and more things start to stack up and I find myself stressed out by all the things that suddenly need my attention NOW!

Now I’m into overwhelm and feeling totally out of control.

I’ve finally figured out that the quickest way out of overwhelm is to make a list of everything on my plate and take a look at when I might get it done.  Voila, I’m back in the land of the plan, and having the plan helps me calm down and regain my equilibrium.

Maybe you’ve had a similar relationship with plans and planning.  On the one hand, it’s hard to imagine life as a mom without some kind of plan in place, on the other, I don’t know of another role in which plans are so doomed to failure.  It’s like that old joke: Plans- you can’t live with them, and you can’t live without them.

An important distinction

I recently heard something that shifted my perspective on plans however.  I was listening to Charlie Gilkey of Productive Flourishing and he made a distinction that I had never quite grasped before.  Quoting Eisenhower, he said, “Plans are useless, but planning is essential.”

Plans are useless…

Well no shit, Sherlock!    But honestly, I was so relieved to hear someone finally say something like this.  Because in all the reading I’ve done on time management, organization, etc.  everyone always says you have to make a plan.  No one ever says, “Oh and by the way, this plan that you’ve spent so much time creating is utterly useless.”  But that’s what it seems like, especially for a mom’s life.

If you’re expecting to execute your carefully crafted plan exactly as written, you’re almost certainly courting disappointment.  Anytime your plans involve other people, animals, machines or the elements, you’re dealing with matters far beyond your control.  That’s just life.

The thing I came to realize is that the problem is not that reality interferes with or alters our plans.  The problem is that all too often, we think we’ve done something wrong if our plans don’t unfold exactly as we imagine them.  Either we think we’ve made a faulty plan or we think we’re at fault for not doing what we’d planned.  So we blame ourselves.  But we don’t stop to ask whether the plan was still appropriate or relevant.

If you plan to take a picnic to the park and it’s pouring down rain, common sense would tell you to change your plans.

That one’s easy.  I know.

But so is this one:  If you end up ordering pizza instead of cooking the meal you had written in your menu plan because you were talking your son through an hour of geometry homework- that doesn’t count as a failure of your plan either.  This is success of the highest order.

Success is not executing a plan in every detail, but in responding appropriately to the situation in front of you.

Planning is essential

And being able to respond to the situation in front of you is what planning is all about.

Here’s my take on why planning is useful:

• Planning helps you get the lay of the land. (What’s happening?  When?  What do I need to have or do for these situations?)
• Planning helps you identify the big, important chunks of life and make sure they don’t get lost in the shuffle.
• Planning enables you to identify the fixed commitments (those people, events, etc, that everything else revolves around), and the flexible ones.
• Planning helps you identify and prepare for the most likely scenarios (Going out with a toddler?  It’s a good bet you’ll need a diaper or two and some snacks.)
• Planning also helps you indentify and prepare for alternative scenarios.  (You think you’ll be home before naptime, but better bring the blankie just in case!)
• Planning can give you some degree of choice. (You can choose when to do certain things, or in what order.)

And perhaps most importantly, planning can help lower your stress level by helping you to feel more in control of things.

The big distinction between plans and planning is that planning is active- it engages us with the world as we currently understand it.  But once made, the plan itself is static.  Which means that while the world is still changing, the plan is not.  No wonder plans are useless!

Is there any way to come up with plans that won’t dissolve into dust and leave us feeling like we’ve failed the minute they come into contact with the real world?

How planning is like cooking

I think you can tell a lot about someone by watching them cook.  Do they read the recipe carefully, all the way through and assemble their ingredients on the counter before they start?  Do they flip the page if they discover that they are out of fresh rosemary?

Or do they open a couple of cookbooks, read through a few recipes, get the basic idea and start to cook?  Throw in a little of this and a little of that, stir, taste, and adjust until it’s just the way they like it?  No fresh rosemary? No problem.  Would dried rosemary work? Or would the fresh basil be better?

Let’s just say that some people are more comfortable with more structure, and some are comfortable with less.

If you’ve been reading this blog for very long and are still digging it, I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you’re one who needs a fair bit of room to move.  With that in mind, I have a few suggestions for how to approach planning so that you can enjoy the illusion of control for all it’s worth, and not beat yourself up when reality intervenes and your plans don’t go as planned.

If you think of plans like recipes, sometimes you need more precision and sometimes you need less.  Even I follow a recipe fairly closely when I’m baking because I know that a half teaspoon of baking soda can make a big difference.  When I’m making stew, or chili- I’m not going to measure the cumin!  I’ll just eyeball it.

I also think of a plan as a container.  Sometimes it’s a small container with a specific place for every item.  Sometimes it’s a bigger container and there’s more flow and movement.  Whatever kind of container I’m working with, there are four principles that help me make a plan that works.  Conveniently I’ve been able to find words for these that start with the first four letters of the alphabet!

Alternatives- Most of the time I do better with a plan that leaves me with some choices.  For example, I might plan 6 dinners for the week, but not what night I’m cooking which thing.

Buffers- When I make a plan, I’m much better about building in extra time or space between activities, events, etc.  When things inevitably take longer than I think, these buffers save me from additional stress.

Consolidate Decision-making – Making decisions takes enormous amounts of brain-capacity.  Consolidating your decision-making is much more efficient and you can see how the parts all fit together.  The reason menu planning is so helpful is that instead of deciding 7 times per week “what’s for dinner?” you decide on 7 dinners at once.

Draft- I consider all my plans to be drafts.  Works in progress.  Another ‘D’ word that works here is ‘dynamic.’  A plan has to evolve to meet the current situation.  Thinking of plans as drafts means that they are constantly being revised based on changing data.  Side benefit- with this understanding, a plan never fails- it just gets revised more thoroughly!    This also gives me room to consider possibilities that I don’t even know about.  If we get invited to go sledding on a Saturday morning, I’m very likely to ditch the plans for chores and housework.

Just like a recipe, a plan is there to serve you, to make your life easier and more enjoyable.  If you don’t like a recipe- change it!  If a plan isn’t meeting your needs or the needs of your family- change it!

So now it’s your turn….does the distinction between plans and planning shift your relationship with this whole idea?  What works for you/doesn’t work for you in making plans?  Got any helpful hints to share?

Please let us know in the comments!

If you live in CO, check out the workshop I’m doing in a couple of weeks! Click here for all the details!

This week in the business section of our newspaper, Liz Ryan, a HR veteran and career coach wrote a great column called, Mission:  Kill the ‘just’ .

Her point was that she hears people all the time dismissing their activities outside the paid workforce with that little word, “just”.  As in, “I’ve just been at home with my kids for the last few years.”  Or, “I’ve just been doing some volunteer work.”

I hear it come out of my own mouth all the time.  When I tell people I write for a newspaper, I’m quick to say, “but it’s just a small local monthly.”  Or that I have a coaching practice, “just a small one for now.”

It shows up in other ways as well.  Sometimes when my words come out more harshly than I intend, I’ve been known to say, “I’m not grumpy, I’m just tired.”  As if being tired isn’t enough to warrant being less than completely chipper.

As you can see from these examples that little word serves to diminish whatever it is applied to.

When I looked it up in my dictionary, the synonym for this meaning of ‘just’ was ‘merely.’  How’s that for a dismissive word?

It’s especially outrageous when you actually stop and consider what a woman who is “just” a mom actually does.  I won’t belabor the point, since I’m guessing most everyone reading this post has seen Erma Bombeck’s widespread job description.

There is also this which shows a list of all the different ‘job functions’ that moms perform in any given day or week.

If you enter the number of hours per week you spend on each of these various tasks, this site will calculate your ‘annual salary,’ and even print you out a paycheck.

On one hand, I can appreciate the impulse that lies behind this site.  Calling attention to the fact that the things that we do all day long: childcare, cooking, housework and taxi service have monetary value is important.  For my zip code, the median annual salary would be about $125K.  In my world, that’s nothing to sneeze at, and since I’ve had something of an untraditional career track, it’s way more money than I’ve ever made.

But honestly, if someone printed out and gave me the fake paycheck that you see on this site, I’d be pissed off.

I understand that it’s a way to try to show moms that they are valued, but what we’ve forgotten is that there are categories of value that are not captured by a strictly economic view.

Warning… Philosophy Ahead!

I promise  not to indulge in a long philosophical rant, but I can’t help quoting Kant here…  (from the Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals)

In the kingdom of ends, everything has either a price or a dignity.  What has a price can be replaced by something as its equivalent;  what on the other hand is raised above all price and therefore admits of no equivalent has a dignity.

As obvious as this claim might be, it is not the foundation of our economic system.  Our current paradigm holds virtually nothing as above price.  Even human lives are given prices in many different domains.  Safety regulations are built around complex calculations which balance the cost of things like seat belts and guard rails against how many lives are likely to be saved.  The insurance industries have their own metrics of costs and benefits, etc, etc.

The annual salary calculation operates precisely on the view that the work mothers do has a price.  That is, it can be replaced by an equivalent.  If I’m not around to cook the meals, someone can be hired to do so.  And for some of the tasks moms do, this model seems to fit.  I’d be really happy to be replaced by a housekeeper most of the time!

My hope is just to point out that the assumption that everything has a price is not the only possibility.

We have all been taken in by a model of what is valuable that has been skewed by it’s attachment to an economic system that has no place for things like human relationships and building community.

So in urging moms to drop the ‘just’ from, “I’m just a mom,”  I’m partly urging us to recognize all the work that we do to keep our families fed, clothed, and ferried.  These tasks are enormous and they have value.  But their value has a price.  They can be outsourced and compensated in monetary terms.

I’m actually going for a much bigger point.  I would like to urge all of us to recover the dignity of being mothers.  To realize that much of what we do to keep our families intact, healthy and whole admits of no equivalent.  This world of intangibles could never be outsourced, and offering money (assuming anyone would) would simply be an insult.

But just because something is beyond price doesn’t mean that it should go unrecognized.  But if money isn’t the appropriate currency, what is?

One word.  Respect.

Dignity commands respect.

But guess what?  If we don’t respect ourselves and our work, no one else will either.  I think this is what struck me so powerfully about Liz Ryan’s piece.  In urging job seekers to “Kill the Just,”  she was exhorting them to have a little respect for the time and energy they had spent in other realms, and for the experience and skills they had gained along the way.

So ladies, please.  A little respect for ourselves.  By insisting on our own dignity, we shine a light that allows others to find their own as well.

What say you on the subject of respect?  How do you see moms dismissing themselves and others?  How do you see moms standing for the dignity of motherhood?  Please share!