Here are the moments as I live them:
Sheets of freezing rain are battering the windows. The chill is bone numbing and I cannot find its source. The thermostat is mysteriously broken again and I flick it, to no avail. As for the noises I was hearing, for now, they’ve stilled.
It’s not yet daybreak, and the mind plays tricks and I know it. So I turn on lights, I get the coffee started, and then I hear it again – scratching and jostling. It’s in the walls, it’s over my head, or maybe it’s only the wind. Or my imagination.
I wonder if I should wake my sons.
I decide to wait it out another hour or two, to sip my coffee, to climb back under the covers, to talk myself around the fear. And I hunker down.
The personal lens
Last evening’s activities dragged on and hiding my irritability was impossible. My first-born took refuge outside in the cold, by the fire pit with friends. My younger son was chipping away at a series of application essays, checking with me periodically, and made his deadline before midnight, with 40 minutes to spare.
I was exhausted. I was pissed.
My experience of recent days is one of stress and biting my tongue. The experience for my sons? Apparently, something else entirely.
Stormy days, or not
“Quite a storm the other night,” I remark, and they both look baffled.
“Just rain,” one of them answers, and now it’s my turn to be surprised. Then again, they both slept through most of it, and their rooms are situated on the front of the house where there are no branches to bend and scrape against their windows. As for the mysterious malfunctioning thermostat, my elder son fixed it, then rolled his eyes.
And last night night, after midnight, my younger son was sketching. Calmly. He seemed utterly unfazed by what I perceived as a long, unpleasant weekend.
Whitewashing the past, recreating the present
This morning, I thought about how we whitewash the past in memory, and more than that, how different our experience of the present can be. It’s one thing for memory to be revisionist; after all, as time passes, we gain insight, we lose details, and we are constantly fashioning and refashioning a version of ourselves that we can live with, and even admire.
Yet I hadn’t fully realized the extent to which the “now” can be unsettling for one, and register no particular impression for another. Or, as in the example of this weekend, these past days and nights have been aggravating and stressful for me, and within hours of a seemingly similar experience, dismissed as “no big deal” by my son.
And I ask myself – is everything a fiction? To some degree, are we perpetually reshaping our moments, even as they’re happening?
Telling our tales, recreating our realities
To the extent that we are all guided by a self-protective lens, by our rose-colored glasses, by illusion as we settle into it, by a positive attitude or perhaps a more critical one, I recognize that my experience of raising children will be colored not only by my role as their parent, but by my nature, by the interplay of other factors taking place simultaneously. Consciously. Subconsciously. Without question, they live their moments in our home differently than I.
Just as they tease me (or ignore me) on certain issues, maybe I should take that as a good sign. With the years, they will gain the perspective of adulthood, revisiting their upbringing with a discerning eye – one that is kinder, one that is sharper, or one that softens the past, just as we each, apparently, reinterpret the present.
I find relief in this possibility. Pleasure even, in its inevitability. Or maybe this is all another fiction, simply because it is something I need to believe.
© D A Wolf
Was it Alfred Adler who pointed out that we construct our lives as a work of fiction? Or maybe some Greek. Anyway, I’m glad I’ve discovered your blog, BLW. It’s certainly expanding my horizons.
Wolf to Wolf, appreciate your stopping by! I hope you enjoy reading and commenting. (You have a great site to visit as well!)
Yes – Adler! And as that just made me think of psychologists, if you don’t know his blog, pop over to Privilege of Parenting and read Bruce. But prepare yourself to be immersed (for a very long time) in gorgeous prose and a very special view point written by a very special man. I think you’ll enjoy it.
Trim the branches sweetie. Both physically and metaphorically. But then, you’d need a new source for stories? :O)
Great idea about trimming those branches, Gandalfe. We’ll need a good ladder… As for story inspiration, it’s everywhere, isn’t it?
“And I ask myself – is everything a fiction? To some degree, are we perpetually reshaping our moments, even as they’re happening?” I love this BLW. I sometimes think that what if I am part of another’s dream, the strings are pulling in directions that I think I understand, but I wonder sometimes if it is my own interpretation of what is happening. If I allow myself to believe in the alternative, that life is fiction or controlled in a way I can’t control, I just might lose hope.
Fiction is certainly a part of it, each of us living different lives in exactly the same moment. Life experiences, age, perception, they shape our moments and mould them into our interpretation. I’m sorry to hear you’ve had a few days of struggle. I hope brighter days are ahead. Remember, sometimes we can learn from our children. xo
Great post, I know I am one who whitewashes the past by trying to focus on the good parts. I don’t dwell on the bad because I spent too many years in misery by doing that. I had to reach a point of letting things go. So, I’m not sure if I’m whitewashing or not…I remember much, but I choose not to talk much about it. Hmm…now I’m going to be psychoanalyzing myself for the rest of the day!
It’s all science fiction, is what it is! The way we draw associations, compile composites to remember is fascinating – and can create all kinds of doubt.
I’m usually pissed when I’m exhausted. And frustrated when what for me is a distinct experience is, for someone close to me, something less than that.
Hoping you’re rested up and more relaxed – some calm after that storm.
Fiction, yes, and personalities. I know my reality is sometimes separate from Ben’s–I sweat the small stuff while he remains calm. Perhaps this balance is what keeps a family together.
If I had done any Psychology other than Skill Acquisition and Research Methods, I’d actually know whether what I’m about to write is complete rubbish, or supported by some theory. It seems to me, our experience of things is tied to our emotional state at the time, and perhaps the actual events could be either disturbing/unremarkable/wonderful, depending on how we’re feeling. And yeah, I can see why you’d be feeling overloaded and stressed. It’s a particularly freezing winter, it’s busy with the boys doing their doings, you’ve got your own set of stuff to carry on with; but just the same, the boys are doing their things without too much worry – and that’s a worry! We mothers keep overseeing things – maybe quietly and unnoticed, but we’re still keeping an eye on proceedings. I get slowly more and more frazzled in situations like you’ve described, and even though I know it isn’t helping, I JUST – CAN’T – TURN – OFF – THE – STRESS!!! (Oh, sorry, I’m OK now)
And however do you manage it with FOUR, Di? (Of course, Nicki has juggled six. OMG. Every time I think of it, I can’t imagine. Someone should make her queen for a day for a year! OKAY. You probably aren’t old enough to remember that and I don’t know that you ever saw that show in your part of the world.)
Uh, no, I have no idea what that refers to. Unless it’s Sesame Street? Where I grew up, we only had two channels, and one of those was the ABC – like CBC in Canada, or the BBC. So, no.
As for coping… I conveniently left out the part where I am reduced to a weeping heap after most visits > 4 days if I am the hostess. I didn’t want to send you over the edge, or make you lose faith in me. But since you asked, and the post is about reality, I felt the confession was in order.
Not Sesame Street (but not to worry). As for being reduced to a weeping heap, good to know I’m not the only one, Di. Maybe we should all start admitting to those days/weeks, and we’d feel better?