Life: A Day at a Time
Anyone who has spent time around children for any length of time will tell you are they nothing if unpredictable save for one, universally inconvenient, fact. No matter how late they go to sleep, no matter how many times they wake up through the course of the night, regardless of bed-wettings and monsters in closets, kids will always wake up at the same time in the morning. It is as if anyone under the age of ten has made a collective, unspoken agreement with all of their other prepubescent peers to adhere to a waking schedule that would make the most dedicated of Navy Seals proud. Their ability to function (that word being used liberally), regardless of length or quality of sleep is admirable. However, like all zealotry, this fascination with the waking day pays little mind to outside influences that might dispose one to sleeping in, from time to time. So determined is their need to maintain a rigid morning routine children refuse to account for things like the occasional concert, or Christmas party, or when you are sick and just need to sleep.
This week was a struggle. Sorry, that is a self-pitying over-statement. This week was more tiring than usual. I was sick so I wasn’t sleeping well. Work was hectic, as work is wont to do. Then, the kids got sick, as kids are won’t to do. But that means they weren’t sleeping well either. So, me, my wife, and the two kids, all stuffed onto one mattress in a tangle of serrated nails and flailing appendages, compete to see who can cough to loudest the longest. In addition, the kids treat us to another game of their own creation; How Many Times Can I Cough in Your Mouth? which we play sporadically throughout the night. The fact that no one is sleeping means no one is getting better either. And as we all wear down, patience begins to wane. And so, when our two sick but exuberant children exploded into life early Saturday morning, taking care of them while my wife was out for the day seemed a task too daunting to comprehend.
I grudgingly got out of bed and lamented the prospect of having to entertain two sick kids under the age of five for the equivalent of a work day. Woe is me, I thought, as I poured myself the biggest cup of coffee I could find. No one in the history of time has had as difficult a task as taking care of two kids for a few hours while feeling under the weather. And as the kids bound into the living room, dried snot crusted to their faces, asking for milk and cartoons, I forced myself out of my pity party.
The kids and I had a great time this Saturday. We played with Legos, and puzzles, and read, and watched a movie. It ended up being a cheesy movie Saturday, wrestling with laughing kids mixed with tantrums over whose turn it was to play with Bumble-bee (a Transformer from what I am told). And when my wife walked in the door I thought to myself that, in spite of all the places I might be in this moment, I was glad I was in this one. (This is not some sap story about how awesome me and my life are, I promise.)
As lovely as the day was it was also unexceptional. It was a day that will be forgotten. An impression on the memory, a wrinkle of the psyche. But the details will lose their shape and fade. And that is really the important part, isn’t it? Today was like any other. Forgettable. Marginable. Who cares if today were a good or bad day if it will be forgotten anyway?
If we wait for life changing events to positively effect us we will have a handful of great days in our lives compared to all of the rest that will be filled with half victories and nagging defeats. That sets up an equation that leads to hopelessness and resentment. On the other hand, if we choose to mark these fleeting moments with disproportionate weight: waking up to your significant other, pushing your kids on the swing, having a good cup of coffee, with the significance they deserve. These are the things that make life worth living.
The point is this, you, me, us, we all make a choice on a daily basis on how we are going to interpret the events around us. We have a choice of how to react to our situations, no matter how inherently good or bad they might appear on their surface. I could have acted like being a part of my kid’s lives, even while sick, were some sort of chore. Or I could see it as one of the great days of my life (even if I will forget it). But, in the end, by definition, there are a lot more unexceptional days, than there are days I will remember until I die. And if I can choose to make the days where nothing happens, or even annoying things happen, the great ones, or at least the good ones, or at least the not so shitty ones, then I would have strung together a pretty great life, one day at a time.
From Alexander Pope to Victor Frankl, to David Foster Wallace, and so many more, great thinkers have always acknowledged a person’s ability to interpret their reality, for better or worse. This choice, however, is scary because it puts the burden of our happiness on ourselves. If we can accept that burden though, and that’s the difficult part, we suddenly have the ability to make the unexceptional memorable. But, just like learning math, having the lesson presented to us once is not enough. We must be reminded, and remind ourselves constantly, that we have the power to determine if we are happy. That responsibility does not lie with anyone else. We must (I must at least) remind ourselves on a daily basis that our happiness is our own. If we don’t have those constant reminders the lessons fade and we go back to our natural default setting of combating life. And it is here where we miss the moments that make life worth living.
Life: A Day at a Time
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