The Full Christmas Moon

I took one deep breath for every step (he) took away from me. That's how it is with the firstborn, no matter what kind of mother you are - rich, poor, frazzled half to death or sweetly content. A first child is your own best foot forward, and how you do cheer those little feet as they strike out. You examine every turn of flesh for precocity, and crow it to the world. - Barbara Kingsolver in "The Poisonwood Bible."

Day 314. While flipping through the Christmas edition of one of the few magazines I subscribe to, I discovered another blogger with a commitment to post every day for a year. It is San Francisco artist Lisa Congdon. Her blog, collectionaday2010.blogspot.com, features a picture of her "carefully curated collections" every day. Hum. I just read further and learned that Lisa's book, "A Collection a Day" will come out in March. That was fast. As far as I know, my book will not be coming out in March. Probably not in April, either. Not that I'm attached to publishing a book or anything . . .

It occurred to me that I have not blogged a story for quite some time. Today I was reminded of one of my favorites from my son's childhood. It happened around Christmas, so the telling seems timely. As I recall, this was the highlight of my 1993 Christmas letter. I never was one of those moms who sent pictures of the family dressed in matching plaid sweaters. I'm fairly sure my son has never even owned a plaid sweater. And if he did, I am certain he never actually put it on.

At the ripe old age of just over three, my son was told "No" for perhaps the first time in his life. In my defense (to the completely legitimate questions about my suitability as a parent that undoubtedly just entered your mind), the child did spend a majority of his toddlerhood in Children's Hospital. We were decorating the living room for the holidays. My son, rapidly recapturing the time he missed indulging his "Terrible Two's," was bossily "helping" me with every single bow and bell. We had just finished arranging his hefty collection of Christmas stuffed toys along the back of the love seat ("hefty" being the operative word here - there is nothing like an extensive hospital stay to rake in an array of plush bounty that rivals the Disney Store). I had stepped into the kitchen to take something from the oven when he asked if he could hang the fragile, hand-painted ornaments I had collected during my teaching trips to Germany. I said, "No - wait for me to come in and help you" and continued shoveling cookies onto the cooling rack. It got very quiet. That should have been a clue.

I slid the next batch of cookies into the oven (in 1993, you couldn't buy gluten-free cookies in the store), shut the door, set the timer, and walked back into the living room. Stopped and stared. Stood and stared some more. My child was nowhere in sight. I tried to summon a stern parental voice and failed completely. Instead, I burst into laughter. Collapsing into a helpless puddle of mirth upon the tinsel-strewn rug, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. My startled toddler emerged from his bedroom and warily watched as his mother helplessly tried to compose herself. Sitting cross legged on the floor, I motioned for him to come sit on my lap. Together, we gazed up at the love seat.

With the lightening fast speed only a chagrined toddler is capable of, my son had executed a swift and thorough protest to his first experience of "No." In the time it took me to shove a dozen cookies into the oven, he had systematically turned every single one of his stuffed animals (the ones we had just finished artistically arranging into a cheerful holiday greeting committee) around backward. With precision indicative of the excessive loading of OCD genes inherited from his mother, he had effectively turned a row of colorful, happily smiling Christmas creatures into a linear arrangement of backsides. A 21-bun salute. The top of the love seat now proudly displayed a line of stuffed posteriors. I was the intended recipient of what we still fondly refer to as "The Full Christmas Moon."

Talk about making a statement. My child has always been a clear communicator. Still is. It doesn't take guesswork to know when he is displeased. For the record, we left the stuffed animals that way the entire holiday season. As oppositional acts go, this one was way too creative to prematurely correct. Besides, the moment of intervention sort of passed about the time I fell to the floor cracking up.

I recalled this story because I was told "No" today. Since my stitches won't come out for another couple of weeks, my partner insisted I phone the surgeon's office to ask if it would be medically safe to ride the mountain bikes this weekend. Grumbling and embarrassed for troubling her office, I complied. It never occurred to me she would say anything other than, "Sure, go, have fun!" Not thirty seconds after I left my question with the receptionist, my cell phone rang with an answer: "The doctor really doesn't think that would be a good idea. She said we need to be conservative so that you can heal, and you should wait until the stitches are removed. It could be really bad if you fell on your face." I was most displeased. I thought about marching to her office and executing a Christmas Moon, but reconsidered when I remembered this person will be cutting on me again in February. Resigned myself to a couple more weeks of riding the trainer around my living room. At least there are decorations to look at. And several stuffed animals smilingly posed along the back of the love seat.

I'm not sure where, exactly, the Zen is in either of these stories. But I'm not worried. As I demonstrated in yesterday's blog, Zen is everywhere. Even during a Full Christmas Moon.

Gassho,
CycleBuddhaDoc