Ripe for the Picking

Bug has been hitting lately. He has also become an expert at spitting, pinching, kicking, and making awful faces. This has resulted in three visits to the “principal” at his preschool, countless time outs at home, and at least one instance of missing out on play date with neighbors.

A positive discipline approach was the first line of attack. By modeling the appropriate way to deal with frustration, talking with Bug about his options, and providing time-outs, the behavior was supposed to abate. The opposite has happened. Reliance on aggression when he is feeling off-balance has become Bug’s modus operandi.

The intensity could be an expression of our son’s anxiety over our separation. I will certainly keep vigilant about this possibility. However, friends with four-year-olds and intact families give similar reports. We are probably experiencing a delightful blend of developmental stage and response to circumstances.

Yesterday, Bug was eating his oatmeal and fresh berries at breakfast. He spit at me from his chair. My new approach? Remove something appealing, immediately and with clear explanation. His berries disappeared from the table. When he came to me sobbing and ready to hit me, I said gently, “Little boys who hit and spit do not get to have their berries.”

“But I want it! I want the strawberry!” He clung to my leg and cried with that full-body despair only the smallest children are capable of tapping. I hugged him and told him I was so sorry he lost his berries. Again, though, “Little boys who hit and spit don’t get what they want.”

“But I want it!”

And this is the rub, isn’t it? He wants it. He wants that bowl of berries, wants it enough to dissolve into hysterics. But he doesn’t want it enough (yet) to restrain himself from a choice that will surely result in losing it.

The neurological tasks involved in this extended moment are stunning. Here is a child who wants incompatible things. He wants to have that fruit, but he also wants to be able to express his frustrations in familiar ways. How will he get to the other side of this problem? Numerous times a day, this little boy is pushing up against the edges of his skills and finding them lacking to meet his goals.

Despite constant reinforcement of verbal expression feelings, Bug has not yet practiced this strange language. His toe nudges the boundary between known and unknown. It is surely frightening, and I don’t blame him for wanting to retreat. When he feels distress – Mommy packing for work or a classmate taking a toy – and lifts his fist to pound out the feeling, he has a big chore. He must pause, consider the consequences, weigh options still odd and new to him, and decide what to do.

When Bug finally makes the developmental leap to the other side of hitting and spitting, he will enter yet more strange territory. Over there, he will be green again, having to learn on the job and with little experience how to speak through his feelings to achieve his desired results. He might get it wrong. He might even make things worse. This is very confusing for a little guy.

But, oh, that strawberry.

Does he want his precious object enough to let go of the familiar approach?

Desire is a tricky little devil. I want, too. I want a career lucrative enough to support my child but fulfilling enough to allow me to serve, all while enjoying the process. I don’t have it now. To have it, I have to enter the borderlands. The patois spoken there is disorienting. I know my skills are limited, but I don’t quite know what I am supposed to know. I can write like a fiend, but finishing a piece and publishing it are foreign processes. I can study hard, but how do I produce original research? My administrative proficiency is conversational, but project management, complex budget negotiations, and large team supervision require fluency.

Where the hell does a person begin?

Achieving a “balanced life” is often the excuse for staying put. Doing enjoyable, comfortable things offsets the drudgery of plugging away at necessary tasks.  If I were to undertake developing the expertise necessary for a substantial career, I would have to want it more than anything else. The hunger for it would have to eclipse my desire for long walks every night, open stretches of time to dance and write poetry, lazy weekends with my kid.  I would have to want it more than this trim body and this circle of friends.

These components of my life are not certain to disappear. But many of them might go, and I might not find them again anytime in the next decade. Yet, despite losing those things, I still might not achieve the desired result. I could get it wrong, or the situation of my life could change dramatically enough to knock me off course.

The problem is that the approaches I have used so far keep me hungry for something beyond my reach. The “balance” I have attained fixes me right here to this spot.

Right here, life is manageable and familiar.

Right here, my income cannot support my son.

Oh, that strawberry.  

Prophesy

People sometimes ask, "If a fortune teller said you only had a year left to live, how would you spend your time?"  You are meant to zero in on what really matters, and consider whether or not you are living in sync with that purpose. It is a fun exercise. A little anxiety-producing, too.

I propose an alternate question: What if you knew you had thirty years left to live? Or, say, sixty? What if that tea leaves told you that the next twelve months matter, but only because the choices you make in the year to come will determine the quality of the sixty to follow?

What if you knew today that you would live to be 110?

Don't scoff. It is possible, after all. It is even likely, considering demographic trends. You stand a good chance of sticking around longer than your parents and grandparents. You don't need a crystal ball to know that the cumulative effects of choices -- finances, diet and activity, social connections, occupation, and even attitudes and beliefs -- determine what will become of the protagonist in the story of You.

In my tale, I recognize this body is a machine built for endurance. I try to orient my mind and behaviors towards longevity and wellness. This is all fine. But is it sufficient?

I stand here with a brief glimpse into a future not yet written (yet being written, nonetheless). My husband and I are parting. Bug is growing up. My job is manageable and brings a bit of satisfaction. I dance and write and have friends and family. It is a fine life. Alas, it won't be long before my son becomes a central character in his own story. He will, Inshallah, embark on adventures that will make his mama's head spin. If Madame Suzatska is correct, a good fifty years will still roll out ahead of me once Bug heads out.

Fifty years!

I like my work, but will it propel me to serve and learn and grow during the half century remaining once Bug is no longer my raison d'etre? Is higher ed administration where I can make my best contribution? 

I am at a crossroads. You are too, I suppose, because we are all making formative decisions every day. The quotidian, however, does not have the clarifying power of unexpected upheaval. Divorce is Lasik surgery for the foresight. I can see now that I am, ultimately, in charge of myself. I can no longer hitch my wagon to someone else's mule, then complain when I end up too far down the wrong road. My success, contributions, satisfaction and life situation are my responsibility. Perhaps you read this and say, "Well, duh. We're all in the same boat, lady. You're just figuring this out now?"

I suppose I am. Better now than at the wrong end of that 110 years.

As I write this, I am proctoring the qualifying exam for a dozen doctoral students. They have all just completed their foundational courses, and they hope to move on to developing research fields. Their performance today will determine whether or not they continue in the PhD program. Most are younger than I am. A few are older. A handful have children. Several came from overseas, many from developing countries, to study here. Wherever they are in their journeys, they have all decided to deepen their understanding of public policy and work their hineys off to achieve a degree in the field.

Last night at convocation, the select few who survived the rigors of the program over the previous five to ten years donned their doctoral regalia and received a hood and a diploma. Many in this room today will fall away between qualifying exam and graduation. Those who persevere have greater opportunity, a larger vocabulary, a solid area of expertise. Most importantly, perhaps, they will possess the knowledge that they can accomplish what they set out to do. Whether each graduate has two or six decades remaining hardly matters. Each has the capacity to craft something exquisite in the years ahead.

What am I willing to take on in order to enjoy the next half century or so? Could anything that matters really be too hard?

If I were to take on doctoral studies in a field that compels me, I will be in my mid- to late-forties by the time I walk across the stage. This is chilling. It occurs to me, however, that I could be pushing fifty with a degree in hand and the next chapter in my career underway, or I could be pushing fifty adrift. I will be old someday either way. Which old do I choose to be?

While my students sweat and tap at their computers, I am at work on a goals statement for a graduate application. As an administrative faculty member at a state university, I enjoy the benefit of free tuition. The building right next to mine houses a doctoral program for which I am qualified and about which I am excited. This is a big step I am considering. For now, I am only just considering it. I can take one class in the fall and then, if all goes well, complete the PhD application next winter. Small steps, yes. But as the fortune teller says, the choices I make in the next year will determine the quality of the decades to follow.

What are the characteristics of the protagonist in the story of Me? Excitement? Curiosity? Determination?

How about courage?

Yes, yes, yes and yes.

Bugging Out

It's time. Past time, actually. The temperatures have been creeping up into the 80's here in the suburbs of the Nation's Capital. I may only be a temporary inhabitant of the second floor spare room, but summer is coming no matter whose name is on the mortgage. There is just no more avoiding the inevitable. The storm windows must go up. The screens must come down.

Only two tools are required for the job: a vacuum and a big dose of courage. 

Inside the aged seal of the window frame, a whole community of stink bugs has taken up residence. They have mated, built homes, borne young, grown old, and died. They have hung the carcasses of chosen ancestors in the cobweb drapery of their makeshift castle. They have nested in the dark detritus of their forgotten dead.

The hardy stink bug is a recent arrival in this region of the world. They were first discovered in Pennsylvania in the late 1990's, having made their way to this continent from Asia. With no natural predators in the States, their spread is damaging fruit crops and causing widespread disgust among human residents of the eastern seaboard.

This slow-moving little insect wields considerable power. The stink bug is not stinky when it is just loping around. When you crush one, however, it smells like dirty gym socks. This makes removal an ongoing adventure. As one creeps up the curtains looking for a cozy bed, you cannot just remove your shoe and give it the spider treatment. Overriding the basic bug-smashing instinct is not easy. Instead, you  have to take a deep breath, find a tissue, pick the thing up gently, and ferry it to the toilet. Be sure to flush, however, because they can swim and have no problem gaining purchase as they make their way out of the bowl.

My own four-year-old Bug has no beef with most wildlife in the outdoors. He will pick up a worm with his bare fingers and transport it to a different part of the garden. However, a stink bug on his dresser sends him into hysterics. As the weather warms up and the sun shines on his south-facing bedroom wall, the numbers of visitors making their lazy way across his territory are on the rise. Bug will stay awake until nearly midnight, hollering every ten or fifteen minutes, "Mommy, there's another stink bug!"

No man in the bed next to me means no man to elbow into action. If anyone is going to drown the bugs and slay the dragons around here, it will have to be me.

Which brings me back to the windows.

I take a few deep breath, remind myself that they do not bite, and raise the sash on my bedroom window. Vacuum hose roaring, I demolish the stink bug village. I have declared a scorched earth policy. No insect will safe haven here. Down come the spiderwebs with their gristly ornaments. Even the refugees hiding in crevices stand no chance against the Wrath of Hoover. The townsfolk attempt escape, taking wing and buzzing straight for me in their disorientation. I squeal and try desperately to still the urge to smack at them. I chase them around my bed and body with the hose.

This is just the first phase of the attack. The storm windows still have to go up. As I squeeze the release buttons and lift the pane, a horde of stowaways rains down on me. I scream, drop the pane, vacuum madly, and repeat. I can only get the storm window halfway up before I am simultaneously hyperventilating and hurling profanities at the little monsters. Inside my rational mind, I hear myself saying, They're harmless! They're just stink bugs! This mantra aims to drown out the other voice, the one sneering, This is what you get, lady, for splitting up with your guy. Now MAN UP!

I swallow back tears that have no place here. This task must be done. The second floor is famished for breeze. No one is going to tackle this for me, so I had better get used to it. These days, I air up my own tires and pull ticks from the dog. Divorce exacts its price. Not all fees show up on the invoice.

After a few centering breaths, I reach past the climbing, falling confusion of insects and squeeze the latches once more. I only lift the pane a few inches before another flurry of bugs falls down on my exposed forearms. I scream but don't let go, pushing the pane higher.

A moment later, I hear footsteps on the stairs. "What the hell is going on up here?"

I let go of the latches and sit back, shaking. My father is stepping into the breach.

"For crying out loud, they're just stink bugs! They're harmless! Here." He pushes the pane up. "Turn that vacuum on! Quick!" Together, we jump and roar after the bugs. We slide the screen down and chase the few stragglers into the hose before they can sneak back into the crevices. My dad chuckles at me as I squeal and squirm. "You're such a wuss," he says.

He is right. I am. But only because I can be, just for this brief stretch of time while I share a house with my father. Once my son and I get it together to get out on our own, I will be flying solo on Stink Bug Patrol. I am ready for it. I am! It will be good practice for the return of the 17-year cicada in 2021.

For today, though, I will just enjoy the fresh air making its way into that spare room on the second floor.

Subtraction Skills

The past couple months at work, I have had the feeling I was missing something important. My student services position requires attending to numerous levels of detail simultaneously. While I am responding to questions about registration from any one of my 170 doctoral students, I am also making preparations for a retreat five months out and following the progress of a student in Rwanda who needs to graduate by summer 2014. Is it any wonder I have the sense something is slipping through the cracks?

Like any moderately organized person, I keep several task lists handy. Twice a week, the latest incarnation of the to-do list lands, fresh and clean, on new paper. My calendar is detailed, my co-workers keep me on track, and the school's other administrators are very good about sending out reminders (we do work with teaching faculty, after all). Even with all these tools, my own work still seemed to be getting away from me.

The challenge is striking a balance between short-term and long-term projects. So many items demand immediate attention. Or, at least, they seem to. Inquiries from colleagues and students take up the bulk of my day. I spend a great deal of time clarifying program requirements and procedures in person, by email, and by phone. These responses come easily to me now that I've been soaking it up for the past eight months. However, anything reliant on a focused mind, like research, writing, and development of presentations, keeps returning to the bottom of the list. Unfinished.

Last week, I read an article in by Daniel Pink in The Telegraph about creating a To-Don't List. "It's only by taking away what doesn't matter, " he argues, "that allows us to reveal what does matter." Being busy is not the same as being disciplined. The first item on Pink's To-Don't list? This gem:

Don't answer email during peak morning writing hours.

This one hit home. My typical workday strategy is an outgrowth of habits I developed during my earliest professional experiences. When I staffed a shelter for homeless families sixteen years ago, I started each morning by checking the previous evening's notes, seeing what items lingered, checking voicemails to find out if any families out on the street needed an intake, and preparing the schedule for the next 24 hours. The shelter was my first workplace out of college, and I stayed in the position, repeating the same routine, for three and a half years. That approach to tackling a day at the office became my professional modus operandi. I have muddled along with it, with moderate success, in a variety of positions.

This means the prime, high-octane morning hours are dedicated to mundane tasks. The slogging, interrupted afternoon hours are left for the creative work. It makes no sense. Why use premium fuel for mowing the lawn?

Time to flip the day on its head.

On Thursday afternoon before leaving the office, I split the to-do list, creating two: one for the lingering administrative tasks and one for the long-term projects. I also carved out ten minutes to write in my work journal about the presentation project I would be tackling the next morning. When I arrived on Friday, I had a clean desk, a clear task, and notes to get me started.

I still scanned my email first thing. If anything urgent needed my attention, I could handle it and not be worrying about missing something. I only answered one email. Then I put on BBC classical stream, pulled out my notebook, and got cracking.

Ninety minutes later, I had flesh on the skeleton of a presentation I had been avoiding for weeks. Digging through articles, my mind was able to read with precision and notice connections I would usually have missed. During that time, the phone did not ring once and only one person popped into my office. I completed 75% of a project not due until May 25th. In my previous work style, I would have attended to this presentation for five or ten minutes every few afternoons, and still only been 25% done the day before I needed to deliver it.

By subtracting one task, I had tripled my productivity.

Every office has its own unique culture. It had not occurred to me to observe and reflect upon the dynamics at play here before choosing an approach to my position. This is a graduate school, which means most of the people I serve and with whom I collaborate are faculty members who teach at night, and doctoral students who work during the day and take classes at night. The place buzzes to life in the early afternoon. The hours after lunch are an ideal window for meetings, correspondence, phone calls, and drop-ins. The activity level during the low-energy time can keep a person awake and hopping.

In the morning hours, in contrast, the building is a quiet little den of contemplation. The few professors in the building during that time are holed up in their own offices, concentrating hard on research and writing. Why not plug into that power source and enhance my own performance?

It seems removing this one task from my list had done more than subtract a few emails and add one presentation. By Friday afternoon, that lingering sense of unease had vanished. Into the space remaining flowed satisfaction and even a little of pride. Now that's my kind of math.