A friend of mine, who clearly
prides herself on running a tight ship at home, once told me that it was no
wonder her son always had fun when he was hanging out with my kids. “Of course
he has fun, since there are no rules at your house.” I was a bit taken aback by
this declaration, but when I looked at the situation through her “sit-down-every-night-for-two-veg-and-meat-dinner” filter, I suppose I could see her point. I have
rules, they’re just odd ones.
This past week, I’ve been noticing myself
abiding strictly to a couple of my more eccentric guidelines for my own
behavior, and I had to laugh at how precise I am about matters that most
people ignore. The rules, I’ve noticed, are all about basic human kindnesses,
the kind I suppose I crave most deeply. We get what we give, so I give these
things, and I hope that they matter, somehow.
Find the One Kid. At every amateur performance or recital I attend (and I attend a lot), I try to pick out one kid who does a
really good job … the kid who steals the show in the bit part, the class valedictorian
who clearly spent several late nights trying to find just the right words to
say, or the dancer in the back row who really kicked it, even if she hadn’t gotten
the lead. After the show is over, when everyone in my family is standing around
with crossed arms and jingling car keys, I’m still focusing my attention on the
crowd, refusing to leave until I find the one kid. Then I race over and offer
my hand. “I’m just a regular old mom who happened to be in the crowd,” I say, “but
your performance really blew me away. You were just terrific.” Even the most
unapproachable-looking kids just melt at this. Praise is one thing from your
mom, but when an ordinary-looking stranger takes the time to tell you how great
you were, it really packs a punch. Sometimes, the kid starts to cry. It’s even
better when they have lots of family around, and I speak Very Loudly so that
that crabby-looking granny who clearly thinks theater is a waste of time can
hear me loud and clear. The origins of this rule are with my daughter Mary
Katherine, the budding actress. I remember her giddy excitement after performing
in her first real show. “A stranger
came up and told me I was good!” she gushed. If that’s all it takes to make a
kid happy, I thought, count me in, and I’ve been doing it ever since.
Stop at the Lemonade Stand. This rule came from my mother. She and
I used to love what she called “bumming around” together, running errands or
visiting garage sales with no particular agenda. She always insisted that we
stop at every lemonade stand we passed, and that we each buy one tiny paper cupful of
tepid, watery lemonade, chatting up the kids as we did. She even carried a
little stash of quarters with her, and would grandly tell me, “my treat,” as
she handed over the cash to the beaming six-year-old in charge. My Mom died 14
years ago, but I still stick to her edict. Sometime I am racing home, feeling
the pressure of a deadline, and I want to pretend I don’t see that stand on the
corner, but I do, and I stop, and I ask the kids about business, and their special
recipe, and usually find out some thrilling fact in the course of our
conversation, like that they’re leaving to go visit grandma next week, or that this tooth, the one right here, might come loose soon with enough pulling. Who needs to worry
about deadlines when you can hear about how much the Tooth Fairy brings at a kid's house?
Talk to the Unemployed. There’s an unspoken rule among working
Americans that the unemployed have cooties, and that if you talk to them, you
will become infected, too. The minute the guys with the brown boxes come around
and start escorting a colleague to the door, it’s as if all those late nights
and softball games and happy hours never happened, and the shunning begins. I do
not believe in these cooties. Instead, I make phone calls or send emails to the unemployed
on Monday mornings, which I know is a bad time, checking in and letting them
know that they haven’t become invisible, at least not to me. I arrange to meet
for coffee, my treat. Yesterday, I was having a pretty
rotten day, one in a string of many. I was just at the point of realizing I
couldn’t do much damage by jumping out of my second-floor office window when I
got a LinkedIn message from a guy I worked with ten years ago, asking if I’d
talk to a friend of his, who is unemployed and applying at a place where I
freelance. I wrote back without hesitating: Yes, I will talk to her. I sent
emails to a couple friends at the company, seeking some information that might
be helpful to this complete stranger. It doesn’t matter that I don’t know her.
It matters that she needs help. And that, at the bottom of everything that's piled up in my fearful, cluttered heart, is the only sort
of rule I need.
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