Shrinky but not Dinky

This winter the many snow days have inspired me to shun the cold and stay indoors, often baking something to warm our bellies and spirits. Yesterday I made chocolate chip cookies. The day before? Brownies. When I was a kid one of my favorite snow day activities was also turning on the oven and making Shrinky Dinks. I remember the thrill of pressing my nose to the oven glass door and watching the magic as the colored-in black outlines would flap up in a wave and then emerge as smaller versions of themselves…hardened with their colors brighter.

I couldn’t help but think of this iconic 1980s craft as we experience this pandemic, or pan-damn-ic, as I like to say. Over these past 11 months my world has become smaller. Our social interactions have become limited. We have reduced the chances of contracting and spreading the virus by strategic decisions—minimizing our activities and exposure. And while we coasted for a good while—with winter and the latest wave of snow, ice, and frigid temps—our bubble continues to shrink. The cabin fever in this house practically has its own scent it’s so palpable.

A month ago when my youngest, Scottie, tested positive for Covid I felt the walls closing in—that the extremes we’ve taken with being virus cautious were taken to yet another level to protect others. The anxiety, worry, and isolation took its mental and emotional toll. Luckily we got through with the rest remaining negative and Scottie’s symptoms mild.

But I kept feeling a suffocating, surrounding energy of getting smaller…maybe my shoulders started hunching? My patience getting limited? Or I noticed my kids’ friendship circles tightening?

Then at one point when reflecting—like the plastic Shrinky Dinks after their 3 minute oven stint becoming brighter and sturdier—I realized that somehow my values and priorities have magnified and solidified.

When forced to focus under stress, what values and priorities emerge?

I recently read the 2016 best-selling memoir When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi, a 36 year-old neurosurgeon. Confronted with his own mortality he ponders a number of life questions. One nugget I took away? When stripped of the many causes of noise and static that can often derail dreams and suck up time, what do you prioritize and value, and how do you live with that purpose? Not just go through the motions that many of us do…but consciously make decisions and LIVE.

While I don’t wish illness and the hardships this virus has caused for hundreds of thousands (in this country alone), I wonder if the universe caused this uncomfortable pause for some good to be realized. I do suggest if allowed that space, reflect how you have changed, and maybe in some ways-- for the better. We’ve all been under pressure—in the pandemic oven like those plastic Shrinky Dinks—and maybe the lessons learned in your smaller worlds will help you emerge with a clearer sense of what’s most important, that values only solidified, and your life will end up brighter and more colorful.

 

“The tricky thing about terminal illness (and life, probably) is your values are constantly changing. You try to figure out what matters to you and then you keep figuring it out.”

“I began to realize that coming face to face with my own mortality, in a sense, had changed nothing and everything.”

--Paul Kalanithi, When Breath Becomes Air

Best in Show?

 
A month ago one of my kids had an English assignment—change simple descriptive sentences in a way that you show, not tell. For example, “The old house needed repairs” could be adapted to, “I walked through the ripped screen door and then tripped on the broken tiles in the musty entryway.” Showing and not telling is a simple lesson to grip the reader more creatively, to make writing more memorable. Just think about the power of being more vivid and action-oriented. Remember a preschool kids’ joy during show and tell days? I do--six years ago my son, Scottie, told his class about our new puppy, but how much more exciting was it when I brought fluffy 15 week-old Olive for him to show his friends?

As a mom of four I frequently feel like my voice is ignored, especially as the kids get older. And if I raise my voice it sounds like I’m upset, or I’m nagging, or I’m preaching—and of course they tune me out. Even with the many “I love yous” I wonder if the kids actually hear me. Do they feel the love?

Which got me to thinking…

What if I did less telling and more showing—would I be more impactful? Would we all?

I’m sure you can think of the relative or friend who started to sound empty with their echo-like refrains—without backed-up actions—and maybe you started to ignore them and take them less seriously. Or their credibility faltered. Or their flimsy praises and promises became that in your mind—and you started gravitating towards people whose actions spoke louder than words. How much more real and valued those relationships feel.

But it’s not just about expressing love and maintaining relationships.

During this pandemic I’ve found it difficult to motivate my kids to be active. I worry about the time spent binge-watching shows, the endless rounds of Rocket League, and too much Minecraft. I am no screenless saint, but lately I’ve been trying to motivate myself to set a good example. How can I tell them to do something if I’m wasting away my days? So internally I made a choice: I’d show them and make more effort. By exercising every day, reducing my alcohol intake, taking a class, and even starting to write again…will I show my kids enough that they see my actions as examples that will inspire them? I’m not sure. I can only hope that they will be influenced in a positive way.

What I do realize—as most of us may—is that people do watch our behaviors as proof. Even though I preach that “words matter,” I am thinking that my parenting may shift to a “best in show” mode…that I will do less telling, and instead, figure out actions that will mean more. If anything, we all can reflect and put our own lives through that English homework assignment…and see if showing vs. telling will be more powerful and memorable.