The last time I nannied for 4&7, 7 locked me out of the house.
I ask him to go inside and open the garage door so we could put our bikes away. I grab the other sports equipment from the car and head toward the garage. No movement of any kind.
I drop the stuff I'm carrying and go around to the back. Door locked. I move toward the door on the other side of the patio. 7 stares at me through the glass, waggles his tongue, and draws the blinds. I don't need to check the knob to know that it's locked, but I do anyway.
Dignity is important. But not important enough to sit outside until their dad comes home.
I squeeze through the dog door at the back of the house, finding a startled 7 in the back room. He has made a grave error in his calculations.
"7," I say, with as measured a voice as I can manage.
He runs. I follow him.
"7, go to your room right now."
"NO!"
"NOW."
As he slams his door, I realize that I have disobeyed the cardinal rule of discipline: I didn't tell him why he's in his room. I mean, he probably knows, but I didn't say anything... from 7's perspective, he's probably in there because I came straight out of hell to ruin his summer.
And if he actually thinks that, the cardinal rule of discipline wouldn't have done anything.
Well shit.
Seven minutes later, I give 7 a lecture and tell him to go make himself lunch. They don't like to eat the food I make... to quote 7 from a few weeks ago, "You are really bad at making food in the microwave."
And while 4 is eating enough blueberries to give himself diarrhea, and 7 is sulking his way through a plate of chicken nuggets, we hear the first clap of thunder.
The storm escalates into something impressive - my lightning phobia kicks in and I tell them we're going to a room with smaller windows. They pick 7's room. Before he walks in, he grabs the case of Curious George books.
"Read to us."
So I read to those boys during a thunderstorm. Curious George follows ducks, gets sprayed by a skunk, goes to the zoo, plays in the snow, and in general causes petty chaos.
Everything works out for George.
And everything works out for us, too. I wouldn't call it "happily ever after," but it certainly works out.
It's good and bad all mixed in together. All of it. Everything is.
One time I was binge-ing my way around the internet, and I found a Jennifer Lawrence interview about the movie Silver Linings Playbook. She said something to the effect of: "I like dark comedies more than any other kind of movie, because they're the most like real life. It's not like you never laugh when something bad is happening to you - and the other way round, too."
I typically choose to see things as wonderful or terrible. I typically choose to categorize things so I can deem them wonderful or terrible.
But those choices exile me from an experience that is wonderful-terrible-spiraling-color-all-mixed-up-you-couldn't-have-predicted-this-but-isn't-it-both-miserable-and-lovely-and-neither-of-those-all-at-once.
Here's to changing the way you see the world.
Here's to choice. Here's to grace. Here's to summer.
