These are the days of experiments

“The best, perfect way of doing things: There is no such thing,” my therapist texts me. “There is only trial and error.”

I want to throw up.

//

While cleaning the kids’ bathroom I encounter the usual suspects: Marshall and Skye toothbrushes bristle down on the cold tile, a capless toothpaste tube leaking child-approved anticavity gel, even wet Q-tips and a size 3T sticker disintegrating in the sink.

But this is a new one.

“Aidan, what is this?!” I scream loud enough to interrupt his imaginary rescue efforts in the loft. “AIDAN!!”

“What, Mama?” he shuffles in.

“What. Is. This??” I roar as I thrust my discovery into his face: a tiny Tylenol cup meant for accurate dosing (that I have been trying to find for weeks) is filled with soapy water and, what is this,  a metal screw?

I don’t know why I’m seething, why my jaw is clenched and my stomach sour.

“It’s an EX-pery-ment,” Aidan beams, pronouncing the word like it’s a former brand of spearmint gum.

“A what? Where did you find the screw?” His shoulders slump as he realizes I am not impressed or amused.

“I don’t know.” His eyes dart away and I force myself to take a breath.

One-two-three-four in. One……..two……..three……..four out.

I soften as I picture his kindergarten science class, five-year-old researchers masked and wiggly, disassembling defunct coffee pots and erecting structures out of toothpicks and mini-marshmallows.

“What are you testing?” I ask.

“I wanted to see what happens to the screw in soap and water,” the twinkle returns to his eyes.

“And was your hypothesis right?” I query, noticing a control group of dry screws huddled by the baseboards.

“I don’t know,” he shrugs. “Nothing changed. But that’s okay!”

He scampers off to save Adventure Bay as I ponder his scientific method. To him, science is a game like Paw Patrol or hide and seek. There is no pressure for right results. There is only play.

I toss the wet Q-tips and scrub the toothpaste, but leave his soapy beaker on the counter, wondering what he’ll discover in the morning.

//

I tuck my kids into bed and replay my workday. I am there with my kids, but instead of noticing their sweet faces or delighting in the familiar routine of books and teeth and snuggles, I rewind and relive every anxious moment from my day at work. I scrutinize my students’ facial expressions. So and So seemed bored, that question about too much homework means I must be giving the wrong workload. I simmer in the memory of the silence when I tried to elicit a response to a question they should have known the answer to so I just kept rambling and said something stupid and then ran out of time at the end. We didn’t get to _____ or _____ or _____.  I should have explained ____ differently. I should have been more prepared. I should have known that activity would take longer. I should have planned it out differently. It’s my fault I failed. I failed. I failed.

I must figure out what I did wrong and adjust accordingly. I must prevent this future failure. I must be a better worker, a better teacher, a better planner. If I could just arrange my tasks in the perfect order, follow a sequence of success, this wouldn’t happen again. Surely the answer, the formula, the fix, is just around the corner.

Then I think of Aidan and his EX-speary-mints. His nonchalance at insignificant results, his joy in the process of discovery. His love of the game.  What if there is no perfect equation for my work day, what if I tried something to see what happened, what if I PLAY?

When my kids’ breath lengthens and limbs go limp, I sneak out to my office. I chop up my to-do list, cutting each item written to ensure maximum efficiency into rectangular strips that I place in a basket. Tomorrow I will not plan, strategize, overanalyze. I will pluck a strip from the basket and do it. Then the next and the next. A Task-list Lottery, a Wheel of Workflow.

I will see how it feels.

In the morning, my anxiety has transfigured into excitement. I have forgotten the failure of the day before.

My mind is quiet.

I reach into the basket, wondering what I will discover.

//

“Ninety-seven, 98, 99, 100!” Aidan counts from the backseat of the minivan as Bruno-no-no-no blares.

“Whatcha countin’, bub?” I ask as I signal to turn into the parking lot.

“I was testing if I would make it to a hundred before we got to Target.”

“Ah,” I reply, “And was your hypothesis right or wro…”

I stop myself before I finish the word. I am learning there is no right or wrong; not in science and maybe not in most areas of life. Each experiment can yield a useful result, a learning opportunity, a catalyst for growth.

Instead, I ask him–and remind myself:

 “Okay, what did you learn?”

***

With the hopes of stretching my researcher muscles and learning together, I am a starting a new (well, more like first ever) series on Instagram: These are the days of experiments. Every Monday I am going to share a new experiment I am testing out and every Thursday I will share my results and reflections.

An experiment with experiments (oh, how I love to be meta).

I would love to have you join in and share your own experiments and discovery process.

Together, let us be objective observers, open to wonder, and as curious as my sweet boy swirling soap in a medicine cup.

Love Looks Like Maybe

Ryan, your love looks like...

pouring your curated craft liquors down the drain
ordering Rachel Held Evan’s book
scooping kitty litter and braving Costco on a Saturday
meeting with a Life/Dad coach
learning to regulate your emotions and reframing narratives with kids

refinancing the mortgage, consolidating car payments
taking out the trash and setting the coffee
sneaking in late night workouts
planning a trip to the Olympic Trials, learning all the gymnasts’ names (Go Mykayla!), and immediately watching replays in the hotel room
organizing a trip to visit friends in Idaho
foregoing a trip to visit friends so I could fly last minute to my grandmama’s funeral

encouraging me in AA
hiding the BMI scale
reaching out to your people
sharing my blog posts
building me a new website (coming soon!)
re-engaging after tough interactions

stacks of crustless peanut butter sandwiches
a Pielogy box with my name on it
preschool drop offs with the threenager
quesadillas and gyro meat sizzling on the skillet
shoestring fries and dino nuggets humming in the airfryer
his and hers yodels (IYKYK)
Dada “nuggles”

calling the kids downstairs when I’m trying to finish a workout in peace
scheduling family photoshoots--and enduring them!
binging Dexter and Top Chef and Ted Lasso
cringing with me at Covid misinformation videos
waking up at 3am to watch Simone
printing family calendars for the grandparents
designing the yearly Christmas cards

willingly participating in a child dedication where the five-year-old crawled around on the stage and the three-year-old grabbed my crotch during your heartfelt prayer
giving grace when I’m angry, critical, self-righteous

saying I’m sorry 
saying I love you to the toddler who screams and stomps at your mere presence
saying nothing and everything with your hand on my shoulder
saying great! to my decision not to cover up my gray hairs
saying I’ll pick up Aidan, I’ll run to the store, I’ll give you some quiet

***

Love even looks like saying *Maybe* when I want to know if I’m fat, failing, defective.

Love looks like refusing to feed my OCD cycle with reassurance. When asked if I look fat, I want you—no, need you–to answer Maybe. 

And though you are an Enneagram 9, a peacemaker, a non-rocker-of-boats and follower of Unspoken Rules of Men Everywhere, you do say Maybe, and we move forward together.

***

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series “Love Looks Like”.

Maybe is my way forward

I am a bad friend because I didn’t text her back.

I am a bad wife because I didn’t read his mind.

I am a bad mom because I didn’t keep my cool.

           Maybe.

I am irresponsible because I went to the pool instead of answering that email.

I am irresponsible because I fell asleep without brushing my teeth.

I am irresponsible because I did not wake up with my alarm.

           Maybe.

I’m the worst friend that ever existed.

I ruined her day, her weekend, her life.

I am the worst teacher that ever existed because I did not grade 

their assignment the moment they turned it in.

I let my students down.

I ruined their semester, their careers, their lives.

           Maybe.

I mismanaged my time.

I didn’t maximize, prioritize, optimize.

I am squandering my life.

           Maybe.

I have failed.

I am failing.

I will fail.

           Maybe.

I will feel disorganized and defeated no matter how much I prepare.

Every choice I make is wrong.

           Maybe.

I am not living my values.

I will always feel stuck.

I am failing at recovery.

I am not the perfect parent, the perfect teacher, the perfect person.

I am messing it up.

I am messing them up.

           Maybe.

I can’t concentrate.

I am performing a compulsion.

I am compulsing about compulsions.

           Maybe.

I am the only OCD patient to ever fail the program.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

Every choice I make is wrong.

           Maybe.

I am failing.

I am failing.

I am failing.

I am failing.

           Maybe.