Nothing Matters

I don’t often talk or write about my thoughts on parenting, because I don’t think my notions are especially hallmark or socially acceptable. In the beginning I blogged about my experiences, but I stopped when I realized parenthood isn’t a nostalgic journey that I feel compelled to capture in a beautiful scrapbook. Instead, for me, bringing up a child usually feels more like drowning and it takes all of my energy and concentration just to try to keep our heads above water. This weekend, however, I got a fleeting glimpse that my little swimmer is truly learning to tread the waters on his own.

You see, my son has a superpower. He is able to utterly ignore any and all instruction directed at him (at one point I actually had his hearing tested to verify this) yet, at the same time, internally process and store everything he’s ever heard in a secret place in his head, which exists behind a sign that I can only assume reads “No parents allowed.”

He is an unyielding perfectionist. However, this trait doesn’t manifest itself as a compulsion to get things done correctly or a drive to succeed. Instead, for him, it presents as a vortex of negativity and frustration… one I fear he may battle his entire life. If something he is focused on fails to meet his high expectations, he explodes in disappointment, often destroys the offending project in his rage and bitterly vows to never try again. This is maddening for all of us, and no amount of encouragement appears to make any helpful difference.

But this tough little boy of mine is also quite tender and sensitive. At times he craves quiet solitude. He really needs it. It is the only thing that seems to heal him and allows him to retreat into that secret hide-out in his head where he finally lets himself hear all the positive things we keep saying to him.

So, this brings me to my point: It seems to me that boredom is vital. Our culture can be outrageously over stimulating, and I believe it is important that, as parents, we let our children have idle time to build up forts where they can hide away to center themselves to slowly define who they really are.

I miss the days I grew up in, when children were allowed, even encouraged, to be outside playing freely with other kids all day long. It breaks my heart that I cannot give my boy that taste of freedom without running the risk of harsh judgment or the possibility of prosecution for child neglect. That doesn’t mean, though, that I should fill all his days with structured lessons, social dates, and otherwise enriching activities. It’s equally important that he be allowed plenty of time to just do nothing.

I’ve started making “nothing” a priority as often as I can. My son seems to relax the most when he feels wet sand in his hands. So I veto the trip to the pool and the playground and together we go exploring secret shores along creeks where he can simply sit in silence with the sand and just “be.” I watch him as he falls into a sort of trance and slips away to that secret garden of his.

He isn’t boisterously happy or busy having fun in those moments. Instead, he is calm and contemplative, and that is precisely my goal. I cannot build up this child of mine. He is miserable because he and the world he lives in are not perfect and the voice in his head can be viciously critical. I cannot change that for him. He must discover his own equilibrium, tame his own demons, forgive himself and find the courage to accept mistakes and even failure. Which brings me to my story…

The boy and I spent some time this weekend painting in an adult coloring book with watercolors. The book was intended as a gift to help me calm down, but, the truth is, I hate coloring and always have. I despise crayons – the way they feel, the way they smell, their fat crumply tips and their crappy, clumpy color distribution. The ordeal of having to choose, then commit to, color combinations stresses me out  and don’t even get me started on the aspect of staying within the lines!  So, I decided it would be more fun for us to paint.

I crack open the book and assign the picture on the left to my son while I begin to tackle the one on the right. About an hour later, he is all done and asking if he can help me. I almost lose my cool – of course NOT!  Quickly, I pull out another page from the book to keep him from touching mine. As I’m struggling with my own vicious inner perfectionist, my boy is pleasantly chatting with me. However,  I’m so focused, it takes me quite a while before I really listen... and then realize how profound his words are.

“Mommy, I’m making her skin blue. People aren’t really blue, but that’s okay, because I am the artist and that is what I want it to be. Artists don’t have to make things look like they really are, just however they want to. Mommy, it’s okay that you are not in the lines, because it’s your artwork. It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful. People can make mistakes and it is still okay. That looks wonderful, because you tried your best and it shows. Don’t try too hard; just enjoy it!  You need my help, because you will not finish alone...you are too careful. And I am a good finisher.”

Somehow, just sitting there painting side by side, I was allowed into his secret fort for just a little while. And I learned that it is filled with wonderful things said by those who love him. His inner perfectionist may be deaf to these words, but my son HAS heard them, and hidden them away, and has no problem lovingly sharing them with others.

I cried.

I wonder if he will ever learn to listen to the words himself? Perhaps… if he is ever a father.