I don’t know why I’m writing
a blog right now. It’s 6am. I’ve been up for an hour. My mind is racing. I went outside. The birds are composing a beautiful
symphony with frogs on the horns and crickets on the strings. The sky is brightening in this gold-ish
way. Leftover storm water is gently
dripping of the porch roof. And
while I sit and take in the moment… I’m drafting a blog in my head. A Zen monk, I was not meant to be.
But at least my computer is
placed in front of large windows looking out at this scene. So I’ll claim I’m taking it all in,
while I write. That makes me feel
better about myself. And that’s
mostly what this blog is about, feeling better about myself.
I’ve been reading this book
called The Five Love Languages of Children. As you know, I am always
looking for ways to better understand my son, (all my children, but he needs
the most deciphering) and this book was a pretty nice window. Its premise is that there are five main
ways through which we communicate and receive love. And we all have tendencies towards one, more than the
others. They are: Touch, Words of
Affirmation, Quality Time, Gifts and Acts of Service. I won’t go into much more detail, save to recommend the
book. (A quick word of warning: I
do not agree, as the authors seem to imply, that if you do not discover your
child’s love language, he or she will be doomed to a life of low self-esteem, drugs
and venereal diseases.)
It turns out that my sons
primary love language is touch.
Followed by quality time.
And perhaps this explains why, when I think we are having a nice day, he
spoils it by acting out physically against me. He is asking for something he doesn’t even know he
wants. And that he drives me to
spank, even though I never dreamed I would be a mother who spanks, also makes
sense. He wants the contact. And if that’s the way he can get it, so
be it.
Now, I’m a pretty touchy
feely person. Almost to an
annoying point. But yesterday I
tried to really turn up the juice.
I thought I was making a lot of physical contact with all my children,
but I did touch on steroids. Every
time my son came anywhere near me, I reached out and stroked his arm, or
tickled his back, or cuddled him.
I thought after an hour, two hours, half a day of this, he would push
away and get annoyed (I mean, I was starting to annoy myself). But he didn’t. In fact he lapped it up like a little
puppy. More, more, more, he seemed
to ask.
Well, buddy, get ready for a
whole new sport: Full contact life! At every chance I get, I am going to try to
fill his apparently depleted love tank with all the physical affection I can
possibly muster. Do I feel like
I’m suffocating at the very thought? Slightly. Is it worth a try anyway? Absolutely! Are there any negative
side effects? Unknown. But
unlikely.
But that’s all back
story. Here’s what I was
processing in bed, that wouldn’t let me sleep. For years I have searched out validation. I mean, who hasn’t, right? But for me it was in words of
affirmation. I want my husband to
tell me I’m beautiful. I want to
be told that I’m maternal. I want
to be called sweetie and honey and any other name that causes a mental
cavity. I want long, sentimental
letters describing all my amazing qualities. One by one. Preferably alphabetically.
I thought this made me
vain. I thought this made me
weak. I thought this made me
highly uncool, since cool people don’t need anyone to tell them what they
already know. But as it turns out, it
just makes me normal. I want to
feel loved. I feel loved through
words of affirmation. Perhaps
that’s why, after writing each blog, I incessantly check the comments
section. Perhaps that’s why I’ve
turned to writing. Words are
powerful to me. They hold a lot of
weight. They make or break
me. A careless, or even hurtful
action, I can often forgive. But
hurtful words sting me to the core.
And now I know that this is
just me. It's who I am. And seeing that there are
five love languages, chances are that a fifth of humanity is the same. We can’t all be cool like you acts
of service people. Some of us have to remain cheesy and
long for a Shakespearian-type love letter written daily.
It goes back to an earlier
discovery I had which is that it is not my preferences which make me cool or
uncool. (Yes I am somewhat fixated
on the idea (dare I say, hope) of being cool.) I used to think that if I liked my coffee black, that would
make me cooler than if I preferred cream.
Or that if I liked dark, bitter chocolate that would be better than
liking milk chocolate. (What is it about milk that is so inherently uncool?) I wish I
liked oil and vinegars as much as I like mayonnaisy things. But I don’t. And you know what?
It’s just my make up. These
are the things I cannot control.
And truly, if I spent too much energy on changing my personal tastes, I
could not, with any confidence, ever call myself cool. Cool people don't change who they are. They embrace it, and say, "Go ahead, tell me to be someone else, if you dare..." No, I guess cool people don't really talk like that. Maybe I am so uncool I can't even come up with imaginary cool dialogue.
No, the things I have control
over… Rather, the things worth putting energy into changing, are my
behaviors. My mother rage. My listening skills. My relationship to G-d. My kindness towards humanity. My judgments. These are the things that can change. These are the things worth
changing. My distaste for capers
and really dry wine? Just a preference, not a character definition. I can only
take credit for my character weaknesses I have strengthened. No need to feel ashamed for them. They were given to me. It’s what I do with them that
counts.
So with that I say proudly,
“I am a sentimental, touchy-feely woman who loves being told how loved she is.
And there ain’t nothing wrong with that.”
1. The air outside
2. Watching my children on
the trampoline
3. My mom
4. The amazing songs my
sister leaves on my voicemail
5. I still have a little bit
of time before the kids wake up
