I hate paperwork.
I mean I really hate it. I loathe, detest, despise, abhor, hold in abomination, execrate it. Okay. Enough of Roget. (I can't expect to teach the fourth grader how to use the thesaurus if I'm not willing to pick it up myself.) Anyway, I think I've made my point. I just hate paperwork. It is one of the most baneful inventions known to mankind, much like the internet which we're all using right now. And like the internet, it is here to stay.
However...I am happy to report that I have discovered a way around it in at least one area of life.
You know all those parenting and education websites, so full of altruistic purpose and on a mission to make parenting somehow accessible, meaningful, fulfilling, and, well, easier? The ones with those lovely chore charts for parents, labeled or unlabeled charts, full-color or black & white charts, choose your preferred theme, etc.? The ones you need to go hunting for in the first place and spending time and ink (money) printing out in the second place, and never quite seem to get around to using in the third place? Yeah, those.
As well-meaning as they are, they are just another form of good old-fashioned paperwork. Ugh. All they do is remind me how utterly inept I am at filling them out, staying on top of them, remembering what they were for in the first place, and where we might have lost them along the way.
NO MORE. I have arrived! I stumbled upon a little trick similar to one used by a home schooling group in which we participate each week, and I am willing to share it FOR FREE(!) with the whole world.
My two youngest children have been waking up with their alarm in the morning, getting dressed and having breakfast, making their beds, tidying their room, picking up a bit around the house—all without being asked—and completing even more homework than I've asked of them.
So what is this "magic bullet?"
Tickets. The kind you get at carnivals and as door prize tickets at fundraisers. And money, too, so I guess this system is not entirely free, but at least I'm not the one you'd be paying.
Each chore or correctly completed assignment earns the child one ticket, which she diligently and happily stores in a little ziploc baggie under a magnet on the refrigerator. At the end of the week, they can redeem their tickets for money or small prizes.
In the beginning, I had three little baskets of inexpensive goodies such as games, notebooks with pens, art supplies and whatever else I thought might appeal to them. There were three different levels of these prizes, and they were happy. Then we graduated. I told them that they could save up their tickets to get money. If they could handle the agony of waiting to build up 200 tickets, they could exchange them for a twenty dollar bill!
That idea proved to be so exciting that my 10 year-old asked how much money she could get for each ticket (getting the gears going in these young minds is a desirable thing). We worked it out so that each ticket is worth 10 cents, but I wouldn't work with anything under five dollars. At least, that was how it worked until I decided that maybe making them wait to accumulate 50 tickets was asking too much of their childish natures. So, I've been making occasional trips to the bank to take out money in denominations of 10, five, and, most importantly, one dollar bills. Lots of them. This way, I can be prepared each Friday to make the trade, even if they've only managed to earn ten tickets.
The system has, happily, been working nicely. Without any chore charts or other paperwork to muck things up. When the girls finish a task, they ask for the ticket. In the baggie it goes, and we're done. Next assignment. Repeat.
This week we've had a ticket epiphany. They both received a doll for Christmas and have fallen in love/lust/obsession with the American Girl dolls with their mind-bogglingly pricey accoutrements, and my husband and I have been holding out for months, pleading too expensive, no room in the house, too many toys already, etc.
Well...they are now collecting tickets to purchase the above-mentioned items from their own earnings. No withdrawing money from bank accounts, just good old-fashioned work, saving and scrimping, foregoing more immediate gratification for the sake of the end goal.
And no paperwork.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Spirals
Life happens in waves, swirls, and especially spirals.
We learn a lesson and assimilate parts of it,
only to forget some of what we learned.
Then we come back around
to the same point on the circle,
to the same lesson,
to relearn what we forgot.
Only it isn't really a circle,
which, in its own way, is static.
We see that what we've really come to
is the same point on a different plane,
a different depth.
The previous lesson is reinforced,
the lost remembered,
and new material introduced.
And we begin the process again,
going ever deeper
with each passing of the original point.
If we're paying attention,
our understanding and experience
bring us to much richer depths as well,
and the spiral has not been wasted on us.
We learn a lesson and assimilate parts of it,
only to forget some of what we learned.
Then we come back around
to the same point on the circle,
to the same lesson,
to relearn what we forgot.
Only it isn't really a circle,
which, in its own way, is static.
We see that what we've really come to
is the same point on a different plane,
a different depth.
The previous lesson is reinforced,
the lost remembered,
and new material introduced.
And we begin the process again,
going ever deeper
with each passing of the original point.
If we're paying attention,
our understanding and experience
bring us to much richer depths as well,
and the spiral has not been wasted on us.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Girl Scout Cookies
Well, yesterday we picked them up. All 231 boxes of them. My industrious Junior Girl Scout immediately set to work, with the help of her six-year-old sister, putting together the individual orders in bags of all sizes. She carefully marked each bag with its future owner's name and the total amount due for the cookies since, of course, Girl Scouts don't collect any money until the boxes are being handed over.
All very well and good; I cannot fault her for being on top of things right away.
My house, however, groans a different tune. I realized when I looked round the corner from the kitchen where I was making dinner that my living and dining rooms have become The Cookie Depot. There is a motley assortment of bags and boxes all over the floor, as far as the eyes can see or the feet can trip. Now, this would not ordinarily be a problem, but it so happens that tomorrow evening we are having friends over for dinner, and the next day will see another friend coming to spend some time after having been away for quite a while. And the soonest we can really begin to distribute the cookies is, of course, the day after the second visit. Sigh.
What can I say? Nothing, really. My scout sold more than any other girl in her 20-girl troop. We applauded her for a successful cookie season. We want her to feel proud of the job she has done, and to complain about the spread of carbohydrate happiness at this point would only seem to negate a portion of all that praise. So, we'll step around cookies, help her collect and keep track of her funds, and say nothing much. It will mostly be over and done by Monday anyway.
But oh, the timing of it all. I'm sure our friends will understand.
All very well and good; I cannot fault her for being on top of things right away.
My house, however, groans a different tune. I realized when I looked round the corner from the kitchen where I was making dinner that my living and dining rooms have become The Cookie Depot. There is a motley assortment of bags and boxes all over the floor, as far as the eyes can see or the feet can trip. Now, this would not ordinarily be a problem, but it so happens that tomorrow evening we are having friends over for dinner, and the next day will see another friend coming to spend some time after having been away for quite a while. And the soonest we can really begin to distribute the cookies is, of course, the day after the second visit. Sigh.
What can I say? Nothing, really. My scout sold more than any other girl in her 20-girl troop. We applauded her for a successful cookie season. We want her to feel proud of the job she has done, and to complain about the spread of carbohydrate happiness at this point would only seem to negate a portion of all that praise. So, we'll step around cookies, help her collect and keep track of her funds, and say nothing much. It will mostly be over and done by Monday anyway.
But oh, the timing of it all. I'm sure our friends will understand.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Coffee, Antiques, and Homeschooling in Leesburg
Since August my two younger daughters and I have been coming to Leesburg for a weekly class that the older one is taking as part of her home school curriculum for this year. A 45-minute trek, one way, for us could have made the weekly trip a real ordeal were it not for the fact that we have found so much to do while we are there.
I usually try to get in some work with the K-1st grader while the other is in her class. In the beginning that meant going straight to the fantastic, truly state-of-the-art Rust Library in downtown Leesburg. But then we discovered King Street Coffee, a delightful little coffee shop right on King Street (of course), populated by antique furniture, works for purchase by local artists, and friendly regulars, people we feel as if we have come to know despite the fact that we really haven't.
My guilty secret here is that every week at King Street Coffee I buy a sugar cookie and whole milk at 10:00 a.m. every time for no other reason that that my six-year-old asks for "the usual" when we go there. I buy coffee in a mug for myself, and I even have my own little punch card that will entitle me to a freebie the next time I'm in there. The owner, Kimberly, is quite friendly and accommodating, and the six-year-old asks to go there every week, even though she is usually too "shy" to speak to anyone.
We take small puzzles, books to read, cards for games, and we just sit there. Right there, with the puzzles, books, and cards, you have some very important learning tools.
Through puzzles, we learn spacial relations and attention to detail; we learn about color, art, and composition; we learn patience and the satisfaction of a job well done. Last, but certainly not least, we have a chance to work together and enjoy one another's company doing something relaxing, which is no small feat in our busy schedule.
Books, of course, teach whatever you want them to teach. Reading and writing are the first items that come to mind. Beyond that, the sky truly is the limit. Today we learned about cheetahs, pandas, and how obnoxious a bossy, if fictional, sibling can be (and, hopefully, to avoid being one).
A good game of cards can teach a few things as well. Not to worry, we haven't pulled out any pennies or nickels, so gambling is not what we're learning here. Strategy, however, as well as facility with the basic digits, paying attention, a little bit of memory work (One does have to remember what cards have been played by one's opponent, after all, and to guess how many she might be holding.), and taking turns are on the agenda.
Who says that just living life is not an education?
As for history, we have recently begun taking delight in a local antiques shop on Route 50, not far from my older daughter's class. The owner is incredibly friendly and helpful, even setting aside for the girls any coveted American Girl Doll items that happen to pass through. I have always loved antiques, but at the moment, I am especially fond of them. They are a part of history, after all.
We have observed, up-close and first-hand, the peculiar "honey pot," the wooden box-like contraption that served as a personal, ensuite toilet (chamber pot) in the days before indoor plumbing and septic or sewer systems.
I saw a beautiful old hand drill last week that I had a feeling I should have bought then and there. I was right. It was gone this week when I was finally ready to buy it. I'd like the girls to get into old-fashioned wood working this summer, and I would like to do it without resorting to electricity, which can be dangerous in so many ways for young ones. I'll have to keep looking and be prepared to buy next time. Come to think of it, I didn't see the old school desks when I was last there, either. Sigh.
There are tea carts, dry sinks, buffets, mechanical playing-card shufflers, old glass ink and medicine bottles, old fashioned, outdoor water pump handles, and various and sundry old tools and cooking implements, books, and magazines. Old china sets, drink ware, and marble-topped tables just beckon for someone to claim and love them. I wish I could. Alas, my house is not big enough for people and antiques to reside side-by-side without someone or something ending up broken and kicked to the curb.
Old and not-so-old bedroom sets that I would love to purchase for one of my under-sized rooms claim that they have my name written all over them. I have yet to see my initials anywhere, I tell you, and it makes me want to cry. Not really. I do have more self-control than that. For now.
Recently, I bought a set of eight martini glasses that came from the estate, I am told, of a retired military man. He passed away early last year (Memory Eternal—the Orthodox Christian way of saying "God rest his soul."), and the antiques store found itself awash in rooms full of cherished items collected from around the world over the span of a long military career. He had retired 40 years earlier.
My husband's new old martini glasses were but a dent in the collection. We had been looking for something a little different from the bathtub-sized glasses that nearly fall off the shelves at us in the major chain and department stores, and these fit the bill nicely. They appear to be from at least as long ago as the 1950's, though I have not been able to find any information or photos online that could give me a clue as to their identifying features and age. I can tell that they are glass, not crystal, and we do like them, which, in the end, is all that really matters. I hope the gentleman who once owned them would be happy to know that they are being used and appreciated long after he intially purchased them.
That's one of the things I like about antiques. They connect us to people and places past. We'll never know them, but we have the connection all the same. That connection is one of the reasons I like Leesburg so much, too. And it seems that my children are learning their lessons after all, if their eagerness to return every week is any indication.
I usually try to get in some work with the K-1st grader while the other is in her class. In the beginning that meant going straight to the fantastic, truly state-of-the-art Rust Library in downtown Leesburg. But then we discovered King Street Coffee, a delightful little coffee shop right on King Street (of course), populated by antique furniture, works for purchase by local artists, and friendly regulars, people we feel as if we have come to know despite the fact that we really haven't.
My guilty secret here is that every week at King Street Coffee I buy a sugar cookie and whole milk at 10:00 a.m. every time for no other reason that that my six-year-old asks for "the usual" when we go there. I buy coffee in a mug for myself, and I even have my own little punch card that will entitle me to a freebie the next time I'm in there. The owner, Kimberly, is quite friendly and accommodating, and the six-year-old asks to go there every week, even though she is usually too "shy" to speak to anyone.
We take small puzzles, books to read, cards for games, and we just sit there. Right there, with the puzzles, books, and cards, you have some very important learning tools.
Through puzzles, we learn spacial relations and attention to detail; we learn about color, art, and composition; we learn patience and the satisfaction of a job well done. Last, but certainly not least, we have a chance to work together and enjoy one another's company doing something relaxing, which is no small feat in our busy schedule.
Books, of course, teach whatever you want them to teach. Reading and writing are the first items that come to mind. Beyond that, the sky truly is the limit. Today we learned about cheetahs, pandas, and how obnoxious a bossy, if fictional, sibling can be (and, hopefully, to avoid being one).
A good game of cards can teach a few things as well. Not to worry, we haven't pulled out any pennies or nickels, so gambling is not what we're learning here. Strategy, however, as well as facility with the basic digits, paying attention, a little bit of memory work (One does have to remember what cards have been played by one's opponent, after all, and to guess how many she might be holding.), and taking turns are on the agenda.
Who says that just living life is not an education?
As for history, we have recently begun taking delight in a local antiques shop on Route 50, not far from my older daughter's class. The owner is incredibly friendly and helpful, even setting aside for the girls any coveted American Girl Doll items that happen to pass through. I have always loved antiques, but at the moment, I am especially fond of them. They are a part of history, after all.
We have observed, up-close and first-hand, the peculiar "honey pot," the wooden box-like contraption that served as a personal, ensuite toilet (chamber pot) in the days before indoor plumbing and septic or sewer systems.
I saw a beautiful old hand drill last week that I had a feeling I should have bought then and there. I was right. It was gone this week when I was finally ready to buy it. I'd like the girls to get into old-fashioned wood working this summer, and I would like to do it without resorting to electricity, which can be dangerous in so many ways for young ones. I'll have to keep looking and be prepared to buy next time. Come to think of it, I didn't see the old school desks when I was last there, either. Sigh.
There are tea carts, dry sinks, buffets, mechanical playing-card shufflers, old glass ink and medicine bottles, old fashioned, outdoor water pump handles, and various and sundry old tools and cooking implements, books, and magazines. Old china sets, drink ware, and marble-topped tables just beckon for someone to claim and love them. I wish I could. Alas, my house is not big enough for people and antiques to reside side-by-side without someone or something ending up broken and kicked to the curb.
Old and not-so-old bedroom sets that I would love to purchase for one of my under-sized rooms claim that they have my name written all over them. I have yet to see my initials anywhere, I tell you, and it makes me want to cry. Not really. I do have more self-control than that. For now.
Recently, I bought a set of eight martini glasses that came from the estate, I am told, of a retired military man. He passed away early last year (Memory Eternal—the Orthodox Christian way of saying "God rest his soul."), and the antiques store found itself awash in rooms full of cherished items collected from around the world over the span of a long military career. He had retired 40 years earlier.
My husband's new old martini glasses were but a dent in the collection. We had been looking for something a little different from the bathtub-sized glasses that nearly fall off the shelves at us in the major chain and department stores, and these fit the bill nicely. They appear to be from at least as long ago as the 1950's, though I have not been able to find any information or photos online that could give me a clue as to their identifying features and age. I can tell that they are glass, not crystal, and we do like them, which, in the end, is all that really matters. I hope the gentleman who once owned them would be happy to know that they are being used and appreciated long after he intially purchased them.
That's one of the things I like about antiques. They connect us to people and places past. We'll never know them, but we have the connection all the same. That connection is one of the reasons I like Leesburg so much, too. And it seems that my children are learning their lessons after all, if their eagerness to return every week is any indication.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Time Out of Mind
Like a sulky, overextended student, I have been escaping the duties and responsibilities of my position and running to my poison of choice this week. In the middle of the afternoon, no less. Worse than that, I have even had my two young children join me in my escape. Turn me over to the authorities.
Or don't. My chosen mode of running away, it so happens, is the world of British Sitcoms. The mother of all such sitcoms for my family is, and has been for many years, As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. We've seen most of the episodes multiple times and keep our eyes out for the ones we've never come across.
The first episode I ever watched seemed deadly dull. Ordinary things happening to ordinary people, and this was supposed to be funny? But for some reason I kept watching anyway. I soon realized that the show had a way of elevating the mundane to the level of light, uplifting comedy. Everyday foibles that we humans tend to exhibit become the stuff of gentle, though loving, mockery. We are delighted to see perfectly respectable adults behaving in ways that we, and people we know, sometimes behave, and the best part is that on the show, at least, they are always caught doing it. They always learn a lesson . . . if only for that episode.
The Hardcastles—the couple portrayed by Dench and Palmer—are like good neighbors, people you'd like to know and have coffee with. When we're not laughing at the silly misunderstandings in which they often find themselves, we find ourselves agreeing with the sometimes serious and sage advice that comes through their interactions. They make us feel safe and that at least things are right in some corners of the world. There is a settled stability to the characters and their everyday comings and goings that reflects the everyday, ordinary life of most of us, which, to those of us not reading about ourselves on a supermarket tabloid, is a most reassuring thing.
Never mind that the show ended in 2002 with a reunion special in 2005. Some things are simply timeless, the predictability of human interaction being one of them.
Indeed, the steady, mature pace of the show and of the lives of the Hardcastles allows us to slow the frenetic pace of modern life for 20 or so minutes, turn off the news and the noise of the outside world and just breathe. In the range of possible methods of escapism, I think it's a pretty healthy one. And if my children choose to join me in this escape, I have no problem with it.
Or don't. My chosen mode of running away, it so happens, is the world of British Sitcoms. The mother of all such sitcoms for my family is, and has been for many years, As Time Goes By, starring Judi Dench and Geoffrey Palmer. We've seen most of the episodes multiple times and keep our eyes out for the ones we've never come across.
The first episode I ever watched seemed deadly dull. Ordinary things happening to ordinary people, and this was supposed to be funny? But for some reason I kept watching anyway. I soon realized that the show had a way of elevating the mundane to the level of light, uplifting comedy. Everyday foibles that we humans tend to exhibit become the stuff of gentle, though loving, mockery. We are delighted to see perfectly respectable adults behaving in ways that we, and people we know, sometimes behave, and the best part is that on the show, at least, they are always caught doing it. They always learn a lesson . . . if only for that episode.
The Hardcastles—the couple portrayed by Dench and Palmer—are like good neighbors, people you'd like to know and have coffee with. When we're not laughing at the silly misunderstandings in which they often find themselves, we find ourselves agreeing with the sometimes serious and sage advice that comes through their interactions. They make us feel safe and that at least things are right in some corners of the world. There is a settled stability to the characters and their everyday comings and goings that reflects the everyday, ordinary life of most of us, which, to those of us not reading about ourselves on a supermarket tabloid, is a most reassuring thing.
Never mind that the show ended in 2002 with a reunion special in 2005. Some things are simply timeless, the predictability of human interaction being one of them.
Indeed, the steady, mature pace of the show and of the lives of the Hardcastles allows us to slow the frenetic pace of modern life for 20 or so minutes, turn off the news and the noise of the outside world and just breathe. In the range of possible methods of escapism, I think it's a pretty healthy one. And if my children choose to join me in this escape, I have no problem with it.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Midstream in a Rushing River
The middle of life.
Kids, younger and older; college and kindergarten. Parents, thankfully still alive and well. The pace of life seems relentless. The weekends are barely memorable blips on the screen passing by at lightening speed. Can't stop too long to linger over a memory newly created because the next task is immediately before you and multi-tasking is the tallest order of every day. Divide your attention so that you can get a mediocre little of a lot of things done. At least, that's what it feels like.
Confession time. Truth? I've had a terrible week in some ways. I've snapped at my kids because they weren't doing enough school/house/whatever work. I've snapped at my husband for the same reasons. I look at my calendar and see very few, if any, blank spots. Even though I'm a "Stay-at-Home" mom and effectively work for myself (on an operational level, at least), I do have formal responsibilities—tasks I've taken on within different groups for the sake of us all, to participate, to give back. In and of itself, this is not a problem. I mean, other people do it and seem to manage, right?
So what's the problem? Is there a problem? Well, for one thing, I'm not perfect, and THAT's a problem. I can't do it all, all the time, and do it superlatively. What's my problem? I know, I know, that part is called perfectionism. But that's not all, is it?
No, there is also the fact of being in the middle of life. Things, including me, are changing. The physical plant is changing management and distribution systems, isn't it? It's in a transitional phase, and how many of those go off without a hitch? I'm not sure whether I'll still have a job after all is said and done. No, that's not true. I likely will still have a job for quite a few years to come, but I may well end up being demoted, turned into middle management. Wait a sec . . . that's what I am now. Huh.
Fortunately, I do believe, based on experience and observation, both my own and others', that the dark night of the soul doesn't last forever. There are too many things left to do in life as long as I have breath and the benefit of my faculties. This, too, shall pass, and when it does, I will just get up, shake the dust from my fallen self, and keep going, however imperfectly, remembering once again to clear the calendar here and there for the sake of those roses I've been too busy to smell.
Kids, younger and older; college and kindergarten. Parents, thankfully still alive and well. The pace of life seems relentless. The weekends are barely memorable blips on the screen passing by at lightening speed. Can't stop too long to linger over a memory newly created because the next task is immediately before you and multi-tasking is the tallest order of every day. Divide your attention so that you can get a mediocre little of a lot of things done. At least, that's what it feels like.
Confession time. Truth? I've had a terrible week in some ways. I've snapped at my kids because they weren't doing enough school/house/whatever work. I've snapped at my husband for the same reasons. I look at my calendar and see very few, if any, blank spots. Even though I'm a "Stay-at-Home" mom and effectively work for myself (on an operational level, at least), I do have formal responsibilities—tasks I've taken on within different groups for the sake of us all, to participate, to give back. In and of itself, this is not a problem. I mean, other people do it and seem to manage, right?
So what's the problem? Is there a problem? Well, for one thing, I'm not perfect, and THAT's a problem. I can't do it all, all the time, and do it superlatively. What's my problem? I know, I know, that part is called perfectionism. But that's not all, is it?
No, there is also the fact of being in the middle of life. Things, including me, are changing. The physical plant is changing management and distribution systems, isn't it? It's in a transitional phase, and how many of those go off without a hitch? I'm not sure whether I'll still have a job after all is said and done. No, that's not true. I likely will still have a job for quite a few years to come, but I may well end up being demoted, turned into middle management. Wait a sec . . . that's what I am now. Huh.
Fortunately, I do believe, based on experience and observation, both my own and others', that the dark night of the soul doesn't last forever. There are too many things left to do in life as long as I have breath and the benefit of my faculties. This, too, shall pass, and when it does, I will just get up, shake the dust from my fallen self, and keep going, however imperfectly, remembering once again to clear the calendar here and there for the sake of those roses I've been too busy to smell.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Insecure, er, That Is, I Mean Romantic Love
Romantic Love versus True Love is a subject I've pondered occasionally over the years, and I finally feel compelled to put some of those thoughts down here. Over time we, in our culture, have developed some ideas that I think are worth fleshing out and following to their logical conclusion.
Let's start with the idealized version of "romantic love" or being "in love". The typical experience, I would say, begins with noticing someone who appears to attract you more than the average, to the point where you develop a radar whenever this person is in the general vicinity. At some point, you find yourself looking for this person to be present wherever you are. Soon, you begin to hope that you will see them or run into them more frequently. Eventually, there develops an almost obsessive feeling of wanting to place your physical person in the path of this special someone at every opportunity. Am I right so far?
Alongside the mental and emotional experience, though, there is a physical experience happening as well. The eyes and ears become more alert, the heart rate picks up at a nanosecond's notice at the mere thought of seeing this person, and when you first see him or her after some absence, it feels as if the burst of adrenalin suddenly pulsing through your entire midsection is going to cause your entire body to explode. The mouth may become dry, the breathing somewhat labored, the palms of the hands sweaty or even itchy, and the mouth refuses to form the words it would normally have no problem pronouncing. Sound at all familiar?
Now, let's look at what we'll call "settled, mature love", or "True Love." What? It's boring many of you would say? Hmmm. Maybe you're right. The heart no longer beats violently in the chest. Speech is no longer difficult and may even be too easy at times. You don't spend all your time thinking of this person and what the next planned outing might be. The palms remain unremarkably normal. No adrenalin. Nothing out of the ordinary to speak of. Life goes on.
Is it over? Has the flame gone out? Many these days would answer, "Yes." They would throw in the towel on a relationship that they considered to be past its prime. Too bad. They'll never know what they are missing.
I have observed over the years, by watching mature marriages as well as young love, that there are distinct stages to love relationships:
The Young Love or Pony Love Stage: Love is immature. It is fresh, new, unpredictable, unstable, untried by adversity, fun, euphoric. In short, it is a thrilling roller coaster ride. And as we all know, roller coaster rides last all of maybe two minutes. The romantic stage of love last approximately two years, maybe less.
The only way that this thrilling stage of being "in love" can exist in the first place is because of its basic insecurity and instability. Does she love me? Will he call me? When will I see her? What if he's found someone he's more interested in than me? These may or may not be questions solidly in the forefront of the mind, but they are there nevertheless.
Once those questions have been answered and the relationship moves into a more secure, more stable phase, there is far less uncertainty and even a comfortable predictability to our interactions. Things are mellowing out, cool, cozy . . . comfy . . . satisfying . . .
. . . until we realize that this has been going on for some time. Wait—what just happened? When did it happen? Why did it happen? Where is the thrill? Where did it go?! Bring it back!
Well, here is what happened.
Your relationship became stable. You learned that you could count on one another (assuming your relationship is not dysfunctional—not a topic for this post).
Is this not what you wanted? Did you want and expect that this would be the most passionate, most enduring love in all of human history? Did you think that only a life of romance awaited? Of course! It must! After all, how else do people stay married 40, 50, even 75 years? Oh, they stayed together out of habit. It was just tradition and societal expectation that kept them together. Of course.
Please forgive my teasing. Here is the straight talk. The relationship became solid and stable, and the highly erratic, unsustainable feelings that we call romantic love settled down, giving way to a comfortable predictability which, to many is far more satisfying that what preceded it.
Unfortunately for many others, especially in our times, the roller coaster has become an addiction. The adrenalin rush brought on by the insecurity of new love is taken to be the desirable norm rather than the fight-or-flight response that it truly is. It is no different, in many ways, than a drug addiction. They will seek the thrill regardless of the consequences to themselves or others. It is the thrill of the chase, the hunting or being hunted. They can't get enough, and as soon as the thrill of one relationship is gone, they will move on to the next, and the next. They will spend the better part of their lives, and certainly the majority of their youth, playing this no-win game.
A stable relationship, on the other hand, allows for a progression of the individual. If you think about how much time and energy are spent on "new" relationships, it makes sense that once those resources are no longer required for romance, they can be used for personal growth and the deepening of the bond between the couple. In other words, rather than merely covering shallow, wide expanses of interpersonal territory, development of the couple's relationship can become deep, even profound to the point of the sublime.
But Romance Hoppers won't ever know that, will they?
Some wise up, some do not, bringing to mind the 1973 song "Desperado" by the Eagles. Have a listen. Have a good day. If you're on that roller coaster, consider getting off it. If you've left it behind, cheers, and I hope you soar.
Let's start with the idealized version of "romantic love" or being "in love". The typical experience, I would say, begins with noticing someone who appears to attract you more than the average, to the point where you develop a radar whenever this person is in the general vicinity. At some point, you find yourself looking for this person to be present wherever you are. Soon, you begin to hope that you will see them or run into them more frequently. Eventually, there develops an almost obsessive feeling of wanting to place your physical person in the path of this special someone at every opportunity. Am I right so far?
Alongside the mental and emotional experience, though, there is a physical experience happening as well. The eyes and ears become more alert, the heart rate picks up at a nanosecond's notice at the mere thought of seeing this person, and when you first see him or her after some absence, it feels as if the burst of adrenalin suddenly pulsing through your entire midsection is going to cause your entire body to explode. The mouth may become dry, the breathing somewhat labored, the palms of the hands sweaty or even itchy, and the mouth refuses to form the words it would normally have no problem pronouncing. Sound at all familiar?
Now, let's look at what we'll call "settled, mature love", or "True Love." What? It's boring many of you would say? Hmmm. Maybe you're right. The heart no longer beats violently in the chest. Speech is no longer difficult and may even be too easy at times. You don't spend all your time thinking of this person and what the next planned outing might be. The palms remain unremarkably normal. No adrenalin. Nothing out of the ordinary to speak of. Life goes on.
Is it over? Has the flame gone out? Many these days would answer, "Yes." They would throw in the towel on a relationship that they considered to be past its prime. Too bad. They'll never know what they are missing.
I have observed over the years, by watching mature marriages as well as young love, that there are distinct stages to love relationships:
The Young Love or Pony Love Stage: Love is immature. It is fresh, new, unpredictable, unstable, untried by adversity, fun, euphoric. In short, it is a thrilling roller coaster ride. And as we all know, roller coaster rides last all of maybe two minutes. The romantic stage of love last approximately two years, maybe less.
The only way that this thrilling stage of being "in love" can exist in the first place is because of its basic insecurity and instability. Does she love me? Will he call me? When will I see her? What if he's found someone he's more interested in than me? These may or may not be questions solidly in the forefront of the mind, but they are there nevertheless.
Once those questions have been answered and the relationship moves into a more secure, more stable phase, there is far less uncertainty and even a comfortable predictability to our interactions. Things are mellowing out, cool, cozy . . . comfy . . . satisfying . . .
. . . until we realize that this has been going on for some time. Wait—what just happened? When did it happen? Why did it happen? Where is the thrill? Where did it go?! Bring it back!
Well, here is what happened.
Your relationship became stable. You learned that you could count on one another (assuming your relationship is not dysfunctional—not a topic for this post).
Is this not what you wanted? Did you want and expect that this would be the most passionate, most enduring love in all of human history? Did you think that only a life of romance awaited? Of course! It must! After all, how else do people stay married 40, 50, even 75 years? Oh, they stayed together out of habit. It was just tradition and societal expectation that kept them together. Of course.
Please forgive my teasing. Here is the straight talk. The relationship became solid and stable, and the highly erratic, unsustainable feelings that we call romantic love settled down, giving way to a comfortable predictability which, to many is far more satisfying that what preceded it.
Unfortunately for many others, especially in our times, the roller coaster has become an addiction. The adrenalin rush brought on by the insecurity of new love is taken to be the desirable norm rather than the fight-or-flight response that it truly is. It is no different, in many ways, than a drug addiction. They will seek the thrill regardless of the consequences to themselves or others. It is the thrill of the chase, the hunting or being hunted. They can't get enough, and as soon as the thrill of one relationship is gone, they will move on to the next, and the next. They will spend the better part of their lives, and certainly the majority of their youth, playing this no-win game.
A stable relationship, on the other hand, allows for a progression of the individual. If you think about how much time and energy are spent on "new" relationships, it makes sense that once those resources are no longer required for romance, they can be used for personal growth and the deepening of the bond between the couple. In other words, rather than merely covering shallow, wide expanses of interpersonal territory, development of the couple's relationship can become deep, even profound to the point of the sublime.
But Romance Hoppers won't ever know that, will they?
Some wise up, some do not, bringing to mind the 1973 song "Desperado" by the Eagles. Have a listen. Have a good day. If you're on that roller coaster, consider getting off it. If you've left it behind, cheers, and I hope you soar.
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