A Worried Weird Word Wednesday

Tags

children. writing, Dani Shapiro, parenting, raising children, weird word, Yiddish

I just finished reading Devotion, a memoir by Dani Shapiro. A friend suggested I read Shapiro’s best-seller Still Writing: The Perils and Pleasures of a Creative Life. I enjoyed that so much that I’ve been on a Shapiro kick, reserving more of her books at the library.

At the heart of Devotion is Shapiro’s quest to “find meaning in a constantly changing world.” Fairly heavy stuff, but Shapiro addresses the topic with a blend of humor, seriousness and examples from her life that clarify her journey.

Our Weird Word part arrives in chapter 88, after Shapiro shares – throughout several chapters – the agony of dealing with her son’s infantile spasms. Extremely serious, these spasms affected Jacob as an infant. Thankfully, medication saved his life, but now that Jacob is in kindergarten, Shapiro wrestles with letting go. Jacob can barely ride his bike down the block or kick a soccer ball with friends, when Shapiro’s hyper-vigilance kicks in, becoming a sort of uber Helicopter Mom whose constant presence is the only thing – she thinks – standing between Jacob and certain disaster.

It’s very understandable, but Shapiro realizes this excessive worry has turned a corner, becoming unhealthy.

“But still – I quietly worried,” she writes. “I zorged, a Yiddish word…which means ‘to create unnecessary anguish.'”

In the middle of a serious passage, I had to smile. There was my Weird Word Wednesday on the page. Zorged!

Raise your hand if you’ve zorged now and then….Yep, me, too.

It’s natural for parents to worry. It’s understandable that Shapiro would feel a sense of hyper-vigilance about Jacob’s well-being. But she realizes she’s doing him more harm than good when she crosses the line, her almost constant presence in his life an attempt to make sure nothing bad happens.

“Vigilance was essential. Vigilance was the only answer in the face of all that could possibly go wrong,” she writes. “Wasn’t it? I tried to make sure that my anxiety didn’t rub off on Jacob, but I’m sure it did.”

In other words, zorging wasn’t helping. At all.

The antidote, Shapiro found, was to live in the present moment. No zorging about what might – or probably wouldn’t –  happen in the future. And it was totally useless to worry about what already happened, because, well, it was over and done with.

How about you? Has zorging thrown a monkey wrench in your life? What have you done to get the monkey off your back?

 

 

 

Frankenhugs

Tags

Frankenstein, grandma, humor, nursing home, raising children, teenager, writing

clipart.com

When our kids were little, they’d jump on my lap without being asked. They stretched their little arms up for a hug, turning their sweet, flowery faces up for a kiss. Their arms wrapped tightly around my neck, and we’d stay that way until I couldn’t breathe anymore, squishing each other and laughing.

Fast forward a decade or so, and things are quite different. For one, my son is taller than I am, and he has this annoying habit of trying to sneak out of the house without giving me a hug.

“Get back here,” I’ll say, false menace filling my voice. “Hugs give you vitamins and minerals.”

The first time I tried that line, he hoisted an eyebrow, clearly skeptical of this time-honored truism.

The second time I rolled it out, he rolled his eyes, but he gave me a hug anyhow…sort of.

Hugs, anyone?

In their mid and late teens, the kids are giving me what I call Frankenhugs. Imagine getting a hug from Frankenstein – stiff and lurchy, arms rigidly extended in an elbow-locked hug devoid of enthusiasm.

I exaggerate…but not by much.

I don’t know when Frankenhugs arrived on the scene – I just remember the joyful, exuberant hugs of old drying up, blowing away like dusty, distant memories. As the kids grew, they’d throw one arm around my neck, followed by a kiss on the cheek.

Then the hugs became side-only affairs, hips touching, followed by a peck planted somewhere on the wall behind me.

I guess Frankenhugs were a natural extension of this, representing the kids’ emerging independence. They’ll give their grandma real hugs, pausing so she can rub them on the cheek and say something sweet before they leave. A real misty moment. But mom? Nah – I’ve been demoted to Frankenhugs, left feeling like a victim of some strange, near-miss kiss.

Back up to when our kids were little – we’d often visit my grandma, who lived in a nursing home. As we were leaving one day, grandma said “you know, everybody thinks I’m living my golden years now.”

Puzzled, I asked her what she meant, because, really, I was one of those people who equated retirement and advanced age with a “golden” time. No worries, plenty of time and money – what’s not to like? Go, grandma, go!

“When I look back on my life, my golden years were the years I spent raising my kids, not my life now,” my grandma said.

Hmmm…Maybe the Frankenhugs aren’t so bad after all.

The Mysterious Disappearance of Mrs. Nesbitt

Tags

children, home, humor, Mother's Day, mothers, raising children, writing

Getting your kids to clean their rooms is a lot harder than it seems. Impossible, sometimes.

When our younger two were tots, I tidied their rooms myself. It was fun balling up their bitsy socks and lining them in drawers, folding striped stretchy pants with ruffles at the waist, and picking up Matchbox cars.

Fun, that is, until our daughter turned three. Suddenly, Eva’s idea of a good time meant emptying her dresser drawers, every one of them, and flinging everything on the carpet. Everything.

I routinely wiped out on Matchbox cars littering the floor, and woe be unto the person who got up in the middle of the night to navigate the mine field of toys on the way to the bathroom.

Being a good new mom, I turned to parenting articles for answers. One magazine suggested that spending five minutes cleaning up every night would give your child a sense of responsibility. Skip the night light! You could tuck them into bed where they’d fairly glow with accomplishment!

I don’t know whose kids were affected by this. Not mine.

Yelling was too much work, and an allowance didn’t dent their desire. Weeks passed and toys piled high; in a desperate attempt to get the kids to clean, I plucked the last card from my Mom Deck of Tricks:

Make something up.

Enter Mrs. Nesbitt. I envisioned a plump lady with iron-grey hair, wearing sensible oxfords and a healthy dose of polyester. She’d be a take-no-prisoners cleaner, whomping dust from couch cushions, thrusting her vacuum wand into the dark corners I neglected. The house would sparkle when she left, all our problems swept under the Rug of Avoidance I was creating.

Even though she didn’t exist, she could still take the blame for things. It all seemed so tidy.

The next time my daughter asked why she had to clean, I cast a pitying glance her way. “Since Mrs. Nesbitt didn’t show up today, we have to do the cleaning,” I said sadly.

She turned back to her room, eyebrows stuck together in a puzzled frown. So far, so good.

Another few weeks went by with me happily blaming Mrs. Nesbitt for the conundrum she unwittingly created. Gotta sweep the floor, kiddo? Blame No-Show Nesbitt. Fold the laundry? Ha! Looks like Mrs. Nesbitt forgot again.

One day, reality struck.

After making her bed once too often, Eva came out of her room, beginnings of a black cloud swirling over her head.

“If you’re paying Mrs. Nesbitt, she should be doing the cleaning,” she fumed, one little foot stomping the ground for emphasis.

Eva’s little foot stomped my heart, too. I couldn’t do it anymore – Mrs. Nesbitt’s gig was up.

“Honey,” I said, bending down, “there is no Mrs. Nesbitt.”

She stared. I waited for a wail of disbelief, to feel her thorns of accusation, but instead, she smiled.

After that, it became a joke around our house. Bed not made? Blame Mrs. Nesbitt! Dog doo lurking in the yard? Must be Nesbitt’s day off!

Mrs. Nesbitt faded away as the years passed, but recently she made a comeback. It was Mother’s Day, and my husband made supper, vowing to wash the heaps of dishes after he returned from an errand.

He pointed a finger my way. “Stay out of the kitchen,” he threatened.

After he left, I filled the sink with water and started scrubbing.

He returned, and with an exasperated look, asked me why I had washed dishes, on Mother’s Day of all days.

I smiled.

“I didn’t,” I said. “Mrs. Nesbitt stopped by…”