Back in our LA days, Melissa and I were babysitting for our God kids, Josh and Ashley.
We had a great time hitting a balloon through the house, (I’d later learn from Bluey that this game is called Keepy Uppy) feasting on chicken nuggets, and watching Frozen.
The hour was late when little Ashley leaned against the TV cabinet, closed her eyes and sank to the living room floor. She then announced, “I’m just a kid!”
And of course, from that day forward, Melissa and I adopted this statement to encapsulate any moment of general exhaustion, delirium or depletion ineptitude. Or as we call it for me in our house, 9 PM.
The last few weeks in the Calla-house have been challenging, and we’ve been held up by praying parents, friends bringing dinner, brothers taking days off work and taking boys to school, aunties getting grocery gift cards and movie vouchers — truly sweet evidence of a caring community when we were convinced we hadn’t quite cracked the “We live here now, New England,” residency test.
Our friend, Jesse, brought us not only a quality quiche, but fresh baked bread, brownies, blueberry muffins, fudge cookies, and a pumpkin chocolate chip loaf. And wine.
He just got his bake-at-home-for-money permit, so once he starts shipping from Sherborn, MA, you’ll be the first to know.
But yeah, there’ve been some curveballs of late, and there’ve been many “I’m just a kid” moments.
Only, I noticed for me I don’t say this with understanding of my human limits.
In fact, the more depleted I’ve felt over these weeks, it’s been fascinating to notice how my inner conversation digs right into the familiar ground of self criticism:
“Oh nice, Dan, remember how you said you wanted to focus on understanding and grace today? Hear how you just talked to your kid?”
“Good thing folks are bringing you dinner. You can’t even stay on top of putting laundry in the washer.”
“All those official plans and schedules you structured in your syllabus, and week two you’re already behind. Are you really going to follow through?”
Oof. Writing them out, I’m like dang. If that doesn’t spike your cortisol…
But, when the statements natter away in my head, they converge like a bad 20th Century choral work and sound halfway-reasonable cloaked in the cacophony. Caca-phony 😊
As my friend, Michael Pereira, always used to say — “That’s so not healing.”
Then, all that gets followed up with “OhmiGod, listen to yourself. You’re so cruel to you.”
Why do we need no assistance kicking ourselves when we’re down?
For a lot of us, this critical voice emerged early as a protector.
Maybe criticism from the big folk in your early life came with feeling rejected or isolated. Few things are more painful for a human, so perhaps your brilliant young psyche figured out…”if I PRE-criticize myself, then maybe I’ll avoid all the pain and fear that comes with chastisement from large people.”
I’m remembering a voice lesson in college when I listed all the things I needed to work on after finishing an Italian song. While I was mostly accurate, I couldn’t even let myself be a student. To be taught.
I even flinch and take a deep breath before I read student evaluations. Mind you, I’ve read some cruel and unfair offloads in those before, so the body keeps the score, right?
But, remember last week when I encouraged you to ask Future You for advice? Future You is often a great guide.
And I also remember that Today Me was Future Me when I was eight, and eight-year-old me needs some love and affection from Today Dan.
I’m just a kid.
Thing is, when we are just a kid, we don’t know that. We believe we’re these gravitational centers, and if there’s a hurricane spinning around us rather than an orderly orbit, we’re prone to blame ourselves. Gotta be our fault.
We don’t know that we are just a kid.
So, Today Me can look with curiosity at the part of me who’s the automatic harsh exactor and ask, “How old do you think I am?”
The inquisitor answers, “Seven or eight.”
Then I just let that part of me look and ascertain that I am, in fact, 46. Oh.
Then, 46-year-old me can put an arm around 7-year-old me and say, “You’re just a kid, Dan. And I’m going to take care of you. I love you. You get to learn. You get to mess up. You get to say sorry and repair, and you get to know there’s a big person who’s here to hold you if you need to cry.”
There’s a part of you who’s still just a kid, and Today You who’s made it all this way can reach out to them with compassion and say, “I’m here.”
You may need to take seven slow breaths first, but it helps.
It’s only when that kid gets the message they are safe with and loved by you that the childlike trust that’s necessary for playful storytelling can bubble up like a root beer float.
So, give it a go today.
Past You is saying what my four year-old son is so good at saying when I get all crusty and struggle town with him: “I want a hug!”
I stop, and I hug him, and we move through.
I know that’s available for you, too, schmoopie pie.
Another thing Jude said this morning: “Daddy, I’m a treasure!”
Yes you are my, sweetie pie.
And so are you.
God only made one — Mathematically implausible and statistically mind blowing miraculous you. And folks need to hear the story only you can sing
Love much, Dan