People like to make fun of any struggle that isn't a life-or-death situation. We discount things. #FirstWorldProblems, we write ironically.
By the way, despite the supposed irony of the little girl's tears in the above meme, she is actually heartbroken. Didn't you see "National Velvet"?
And a lot of times, it turns out that us ironic folks are having third-world problems--stuff like struggling to pay rent or buy groceries.
And as for us sweating the small stuff, like losing your keys when you're planning to head out early for a holiday door-buster sale, it isn't indicative of a privileged attitude. It's indicative of human nature.
A problem is a problem. And someone in a third-world country, whatever that means nowadays, is likely to be upset if she breaks a nail.
Yes, it is worse to sever one of your fingers in a tree-trimming fiasco than to stub your toe. But still, stubbing your toe still hurts like a mo-fo. Like you are dying. The only thing that keeps me from not yelling out curse words in front of my children (I can usually boast this restraint) when I stub my toe is that I've made up new words to express my pain and outrage: "Floop you!" I admonish the offending object into which I've bumped.
So ironic as may seem for well-fed people with a roof over their heads, our problems trouble us. They bug us. They drive us crazy.
Yesterday, I went a little crazy.
After a hard week and a Thanksgiving celebration to prepare for, Brian and I planned our son's 6th birthday party with a tight budget and schedule. And for a moment, when we had 20 minutes to decorate for a Minecraft-themed party, I almost lost it. I felt like I might go into hysterics.
My headspace was hovering somewhere between that of Cathy of comic strip fame and the mental patients in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest."
I guess it's all the stress. The general parenting craziness.
Did you know that when you change a year-old baby, no matter how angelic they look, they squirm and fight something powerful? It's literally like you are trying to land a fish. And not just some puny river trout but some kind of giant sailfish. It's a total Old Man and the Sea situation.
Of course, the chaos doesn't just apply to parents. This applies to all of us "adults." Between work and family and social lives and whatever goals we are striving for, we really have to fake it till we make it.
I know, it's a cliche, and an '80s cliche at that. Kind of like saying "No pain, no gain." It takes me back to the days when my mom used to exercise not while watching a video, because we didn't have a VCR, but by listening to a record. (I used to love the part of the record where Jane's friendly, encouraging voice instructed listeners to lift and tuck over The Jackson 5's "Can You Feel It?")
Yes, the saying "Fake it till you make it" is a cliche. But axioms continue for a reason. Just because we dub them cliches doesn't mean they aren't true.
So with this whole parenting thing, I often feel like I'm faking it until I make it.
For Alex's Minecraft party, I didn't make my jello, representing water or lava, in time for it to set. We now have a dozen cups of jello in our fridge.
I had licorice representing TNT and pretzel sticks representing logs, but I couldn't get my computer to print digitized labels. And I forgot to put out the Rollos, representing gold, at all. If it sounds like I'm speaking another language, it's because you don't have a relative who plays Minecraft.
Speaking of another language, have you seen this meme? As a non-math person, it makes me laugh.
But we had tons of pixelized blocks and minecraft characters the kids could play with. I brought a lot of crayons and we used the leftover paper bags I used for gift bags to make puppets. There was pizza to eat, courtesy of my dad, and everyone loves pizza. My sister-in-law made a beautiful Minecraft cake. It was raining, but Brian's grandparents, who hosted the shindig, have a nice covered patio. Alex played with kids and had fun and the adults talked. It was a whole thing.
But back to my crisis, which I glossed over. Trying to achieve maximum decoration festivity in 20 minutes, I felt in over my head. I thought I might scream for a moment. I cried. And then I decorated. And it turned out alright. But I truly had an existential night of the soul, for about 15 minutes.
So what's the takeaway from all this?
The party was a success, proving that it is the thought that counts. And I've decided I'm going to embrace the jury-rigged nature of existence. Imperfection. Moments of near-hysteria.
Balls dropped during the big juggling act that is life.
I also have more appreciation for my folks. My mom helped me plan a couple of elaborate Halloween slumber parties when I was a kid and they turned out great. I bet at the time she was stressed as all get-out right before a gaggle of girls arrived ready to party. She probably wanted to make these event magical with limited time and a limited budget. For the record, they turned out great.
And you've got to be able to laugh at it all, in retrospect. Woody Allen once said "Tragedy plus time equals comedy." The big stuff takes a lot of time to marinate into humor. I think it's still too early to crack Titanic jokes or 9/11 jokes and it probably always will be.
But sometimes the little stuff takes just a few hours to recover from, or even minutes. Like the case of a thrown-together children's party. My freak-out was a little internal earthquake. The ground stopped shaking pretty quickly.
And as always, my pondering has brought me back to my favorite subject: music.
I would like to share a song, maybe you've heard it, from 1981. "Janitor," by the Suburban Lawns. The subject matter is seemingly profound: "All action is reaction. Expansion and retraction. Man the manipulator. Underwater, anti-matter. Does it matter? Nuclear reactor. Boom, boom, boom, boom."
But despite the implied threat of nuclear destruction, the song is fun and funny, with a great, danceable beat and surfy guitar. (This is the same band who had a minor hit with a tune called "Gidget Goes to Hell.") Lead singer Sue Tissue's voice ranges from nearly robotic to a spot-on imitation of Betty Boop. The song was a party on vinyl, and translates just fine to digital.
As soon as I caught my breath and realized I wasn't going to die if my party wasn't perfect, the song began to spin on my mental record player. Call it musical OCD, but it gave me a moment of perspective in which I could ask myself—about the lack of jello and printouts and the terrible weather—"Does my current lack of togetherness matter?"
Nah. It doesn't matter.
—Sarah Torribio
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