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momtemplative · 4 years

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Tell a Story Bout That.

Imagine a really shitty moment. One that burns going down and lingers far longer in the memory than would be preferred. Then think of the inner work that is required to be able to move forward in life without that dimwitted moment hanging on to your psyche like a parasite.

Now, imagine the best goddam thing that’s ever happened (regardless of girth or outward-noticeability), a moment that knocked your socks off, injected joy into each individual vein and capillary as if watering an entire forest of deeply rooted pines, individually.

Now, imagine each of those examples as bookends to the typical spectrum of moments that live in the space in-between; they are faded or exaggerated in color, they are loud and mute, they are buoyant and too dense to float. They congregate to create the hours, days, weeks and years of life.

Imagine if you could choose who got to narrate the moments of your life—select them from a line-up: Drill Sergeant Who Demands Productivity. Saccharine Auntie Who Inspires Complacency. A Conglomerate of Pre-Recorded Childhood Messages as Performed by a Young Version of Yourself.

OR. Firm but Wise Gym Teacher. Big Brother who Adores You but Won’t Stand for Your B.S.

I sometimes imagine, often while doing something utterly tedious, that the narrator from the cartoon, Caillou, is sports-casting from the ethers (if you aren’t familiar, imagine a the voice of Supreme Grandma, who appreciates the growth and effort of every minuscule choice): Heather feels proud of herself for picking up the house and making the space clean and enjoyable for her family. Even if she is bone-tired, she is committed to picking up bits of play-doh from the carpet without fuming at her youngest child. Well done, Heather!

For months now, following many of the moments in her four-year-old life, from the most mundane to the most impactful, Ruth will say, “Tell a Story Bout That.”

The fizzy water went flat after being left out all night. Tell a story bout that.

GG (great-grandma) is dead now. Tell a story bout that.

The nurse was way too rushed when giving me a flu shot. Tell a story bout that.

I broke mom’s ceramic bird then felt bad about it so I was mean to Opal. Tell a Story Bout That.

I saw my teacher in the library parking lot and I felt strange. Then I felt bad about feeling strange. Tell a Story Bout That.

It feels as if her mom and dad’s re-telling and interpretation of a story from the Life Of Ruth completes the proper cycle of an experience. As if, until that happens, many of her experiences of life are left lingering in the larva phase.

So, Jesse and I currently have the great honor of curating the narrative voice for many of the experiences of our young daughter. (Some require a singular re-telling, while others beg for dozens.)

Sometimes it feels like the job of a theater producer. You, Ruth—who threw the doll at your friend’s head, you stand over there, please! You, Ruth—who, in the same story, was brave and apologized to your friend and asked what you could do to make it better, you bring your Brave Ass up front here, we want you in the FRONT. You all, the other, subtler themes—you can fill in like a chorus. How you took space for yourself so that you could come back to playing with your friend feeling resolved an settled. How you made the choice to share on your own accord only moments later in the playdate. How you responded to problem-solving and care, rather than public shaming. How, even later still, you were able to use your words, instead of throwing a heavy, plastic, princess doll at your friend’s head again.

All these pieces come together as the Whole of a Moment. What Jesse and I take liberties in, if you could even call it that, is what we choose to focus on, where to linger, how to frame it.

Of course, we engage her for input. What did you think happened there? What was your place in the situation? How did that feel for you?

But most times, she wants to give the mic back to us. And most times, (barring moments of high-stress driving or a mouth full of food) we are happy to oblige.

(Ruth: tell it again! make it longer!)

In the future, she will be subject to a litany of voices who want the job of narrating her world, who want to tell her story for her, scene-by-scene. Some of them will be genuine and some will be short-sighted assholes who feel bad about themselves. If we have the opportunity NOW to offer her experiences back to her through the lens of, say, a holistic picture with her best interest in mind, then hopefully that part of her will be more likely to reject the Nasty or simply Un-Self-Aware Other options that come at her in the future.

I guess you could say she’s in training.

Before I met Jesse, my main life-moment-narrator was myself. And, let’s just say, I was lacking in training. (Insert the Caillou-grandma-narrator who has my back here: she was doing her best even through her most vile critic was herself.) Friends would come in and out, but none of them really had the talent to frame my choices and actions with kind, if strengthening, words. I walked around with a head full of how could you do that again? and why did you say that? Goddamit will you ever get this?

So, if someone entered the picture and offered something that matched my narrative—Yea, you really fucked up there.— I never thought to request a different perspective.

Enter Jesse. His interpretive lens only allowed kindness, often with teeth, which is something fierce kindness requires when re-learning is taking place. This is something he made clear very early on. If I had any interest in passing my (or his, for that matter) life-moments through filers of harsh cruelty or intentional lack of insight, then I’d need to venture elsewhere. His narrative voice was exponentially more generous than my own. And unrelenting.

In the beginning, I didn’t believe it. I requested my own versions of Tell a Story Bout Thats from Jesse, simply to hear about something I’d said or done through HIS filter. You did the goddam best you could and it’s getting so much better. You didn’t know, how could you have known? You are so beautiful, damn it, don’t EVER say anything else, you hear me? From where I stand, sure you made a mistake, but don’t we all? It wasn’t malicious or intentional. So cut yourself some slack.

Those words were not quick to integrate. They took time and persistence (as in, years. Go Jesse.) to germinate and finally take root. But the important thing: they did.

I typically don’t keep company with jerks, but if someone were to frame something I said or did in a harsh way, their words would land in an audible thud at my feet. Cultural messages are more challenging, more subtle and cunning, since they are everywhere and nowhere at once. If I look in the mirror and notice a middle-aged-face wrinkle, my mind may poke at thoughts of self-judgment. I may buy a new cream.

But I am very aware of how far I let those little toxic narrations go—knowing full well that the thoughts and stories I allow into my mind will wind up in the water that my daughters drink from, too.

March 1, 2020.

#momtemplative #HeatMamaWords #TellAStoryBoutThat #RuthStories #MindfulParenting

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