Out of Control

 

Second grade. Mrs. Ratcliff’s class. My strife with my elementary nemesis, let’s call him Scott Hilton, grew deeper.  One day, my teacher left the classroom for what she'd call a minute, but would usually turn into ten or so.  The latest fad with my classmates was pulling apart masking tape and pressing it onto each other’s backs.  Couldn’t really tell you why this was our idea of a good time, perhaps because it led to kids twirling around, similarly to a dog trying to catch his tail, in order to see the tape on their back.

 

I grew bored and decided to take it up a notch and wrote “dumb” on a piece of tape and placed it on Scott’s back. Pure comedy. The class agreed. He laughed too until he saw it was me and his face fell as he pulled it off with disdain and read it. He ran up to Mrs. Ratcliff as soon as she returned. Oh Scott. Tattle-telling is not okay. You were never cool like me. Anyway, in a very uncool move, Scott ran or maybe he kind of skipped in a very unmanly way, and relayed the events to her. She asked to see me in the hall. As I walked out the door, I locked eyes with Scott. He had a huge smirk on his face and I gave him a look that implied that what I’d written on the tape was very true.

 

 

However… seeing my teacher’s face brought me from annoyance with Scott to feeling very unsettled that she seemed disappointed and upset with me. I averted my gaze and kind of shuffled my feet as I looked down. She asked why I did what I did and I said, “I don’t know, but he was laughing at it at first.” Not a great explanation and I clearly remember she didn’t understand me and thought I was implying that people who laugh are not too swift.

 

 

“I laugh. Does that make me dumb?”

 

 

“No” and then I felt the tears roll down my cheeks. Still not making eye contact and wondering when this would end. Kind of how I imagine I might react if a cop pulled me over and I knew I was in the wrong. “Just give me my ticket so I can be on my way. Save the lecture. I get it, I know.”

 

 

She eventually sighed and said “Okay, well, I need you to go down to the control center now.”

 

 

The “control center” was my school’s comedic name for detention. You would sit in a room with about eight desks and, I don’t know, get yourself together? Think about your crimes? Pray for forgiveness to the blank walls? Ironically, walking from the hallway into the room housing the control center, you would first enter the rewards room: candy, toys, games, balloons and that’s where you’d go to cash in your good deeds cards. The teacher/monitor would cash in your card with rewards or… if you had to utter the dreadful words, “I’m here for the control center” she’d get a grim look on her face and point her finger behind her, directing you to a small, separate room. Not sure who devilishly came up with the idea of sharing the rewards/punishment programs in the same room. The funny thing is I got stickers for doing good deeds only a little more than I got sent to the room for punishment so she never knew how to react when I came through the door.

 

 

The control center didn’t really work for me. In fact, it provided a pretty good space to plot my next schemes. I wish there really were such a thing as a control center. A place one could go and feel a sense of control.

 

 

“Life is to be lived, not controlled; and humanity is won by continuing to play in face of certain defeat.”
― Ralph Ellison, Invisible Man

 

 

I’ve learned more and more that I really have very little control in life. I’d like to say I completely embrace that, but there are plenty of times where I worry myself sick because I want to have some say in the way my life unfolds. And Finn’s, but in different ways. There are many times when I think of events from when I was young and wish I could protect that little girl. I was remembering this incident because it’s a reminder of times when I’d be engaged in innocent or light situations and something dark or scary would come from it and I didn’t have any control. I’ve been analyzing my past reactions: running away, succumbing, being stubborn, impatient, scared, numb, and/or frustrated. I didn’t feel much reassurance from anywhere and just had to deal with things with a real lack of information and tools. So many of the things that I still think about from that time are scary and don’t seem real. But I also think about the fact that I’m blessed to be a mother today and I hope Finn will feel comfortable talking to me. And I’ll listen. Really listen. And empathize. But I can’t control his life either.

I think a few years ago I’d be wracked with worry and not let him out of my sight for even a second, but I’m a little more relaxed now. I just have to really accept that I have very little control over either of our lives and what will occur in the future. I know that you can only really be happy in the present moment. When I look into his big, wide eyes full of innocence as he gleefully runs around in the grass and talks about his teddy bear, cartoons, books, planes, food he likes, reiterates conversations we’ve had, etc, I just want to protect him, but I know that isn’t the best route either. I have to trust that things will be okay. No matter what.

A little imagination... and, by a little, I mean a lot

This is a cake.  Finn's creation:

 

When I wasn't sure how this all fit into my concept of a cake, he patiently explained that the "helicopter plane" was the cake, the railroad crossing was the candle, and the other two items remain unclear but "The Diggingest Dog" and that blue pot lid MUST be included.  I tried to put another book there before and he said, "No, NO.  Diggingest Dog, Diggingest Dog!"

"Ooooh, that looks tasty.  Can I have a bite of your cake please?"

"No--Teddy's."  And he very tenderly brings his teddy bear to the cake and plunges its face into the helicopter. 

With a smile, "Here you go Teddy."

 

 

He loves Woody from Toy Story.  I'm convinced all two year olds do.  Finn noticed some similarities between Woody and Pinocchio.  He noticed they both have long noses and are puppet-like.  He likes to clomp Woody across the hardwood floor and sing "There are no strings on me!" 

He loves pretend play and thinks it's hilarious to substitute things like his hairbrush and toy maracas for a hot dog and ice cream cones.  He'll implement story lines from his books or movies into our discussions and it blows my mind.  He has an excellent memory and recall for details.  Sometimes I'll take a moment because I'm taken aback by it and then I usually have to smother him in kisses.  Buuut I think he kinda likes it.

And last night when I was putting him to bed his eyes were twinkling and his face was lit up with love and light.  He said "Night, night mama.  Sweet dreams."  I can't put into words how that feels.  It just makes my heart soar with pride and joy.  I'm not sure I ever want him to grow up.  I hope he keeps a Peter Pan spirit always...

The apartment

I have an apartment.  It feels... like a dream.  It doesn't seem like my reality.  I found an apartment, I signed a lease, and I'm currently moving my stuff into it.  So it's real, buuuuut...  I've never lived in an apartment.  I've never been solely responsible for rent and bills. 

It's an unravelling journey.  A pull from the universe to let go of who I'm supposed to be and become who I am.  All the events which have lead me to where I am today as I carry box after box up a flight of stairs and walk into a strange place which is "home" have allowed me to not carry pretense anymore.  That's something I can let go.  The universe isn't short on wake up calls--I just became really good at not listening or hitting the snooze button. 

The work I've had to do and will continue to have to do is messy and deep.  Sometimes I want to retreat back into my former state of oblivion.  It was easier then, but not really.  Not really at all.  Today I wrote down the words, "What is this?  I feel real.  I feel worried, but I also feel brave.  Something has changed--I can feel it." 

I'm much more in tune with how I feel, rather than what people might think.  But I still have miles to go.  I still self sabotage, I still get impatient, I still have insecurities and pain.  I still have strong feelings of doubt, worry, and anxiety.

But today I feel kind of proud.  I've stretched myself more than I ever have.  Today, I'm just going to feel grateful for that.