A Full House Beats a Pair

There is an insightful Yiddish fable about a man whose family is honestly driving him crazy. His sons are running wild, breaking every object in their path. His daughters are yelling, whining and arguing. His wife is constantly nagging him about the state of their finances, the state of their farm, and even about their unruly children. Seeking advice from his Rabbi, the beleaguered farmer is shocked to discover that, during his weekly visits begging for help, the Rabbi first suggests bringing the cow into the house, followed by the horses, the chickens, the ducks and rest of the barn's menagerie. Every week another group of animals adds to the cacophony of the already burdened man's fragile nerves. Week after week, his tolerance becomes stretched even further beyond what he believed were his limits. Finally, after months of this jarring racket, the Rabbi tells the overwrought, agitated fellow to bring the cows, the chickens, the horses, the geese, the ducks, the goats and the rest of the animals back to the barn. It's then that the miracle of the fable occurs: the farmer, no longer finding his anxiety overwhelmed by his family alone, thanks the Rabbi for fixing the "problem".

In Margot Zemach's children's book, "It Could Always Be Worse", she explores this same folk tale in an entertaining and age appropriate manner. It's a delightful book...and is special

to me because it was one I read to my own children when they were younger. Although I'd grown up knowing this story, being able to share the ideas from the book gave me a jumping off point to begin discussion about problems and how they're solved. The question my son and daughter asked, as do most of us, is "Why doesn't the farmer see that nothing has really changed?". The answer, of course, is that one's perspective changes, based upon the situation at that very moment. When we're stressed or tired or nervous we have a hard time making choices. We also have a hard time separating real problems from those we imagine. Small matters can become looming mountains to us. Crowds seem unbearable. We seek solitude. We hoard our quiet moments and lose the ability to function in a group. When we change our perspective, the same issues that caused us despair become trivial.

My house felt a bit like that of the farmer this past week. During an average week, my home consists of my 17 year old son (who is rarely home, due to his hockey travel schedule), my husband, our two enormous dogs and our one dramatic bunny. We lead busy lives. Our work, school and volunteer commitments are exceptionally time consuming. There are far more projects and chores at home than we have time for. The bills mount, the obligations loom and the stress builds. Over Thanksgiving week, my daughter arrived home from her prep school in

Massachusetts. It was magical to see her. Her friends also arrived to welcome her home. My peppy mother came to spend the holiday week with us from Arizona. Her best friend also came for tea. My husband's parents drove here from New Hampshire. They're great fun and always have a lot to offer, both to conversation and to household projects. My son's hockey team won a major victory and his pals came for a sleepover to celebrate. It was marvelous to have everyone at the house, but I have to admit, it all felt more than a little bit out of my control. There were people everywhere! At one point we had 13 people sleeping here. The noise level, the chaos, the wild feeling of groups doing their own activities in various parts of my home all at once was a little staggering. There were moments I felt as if I was a German Shepherd, trying to keep my flock on track, as well as entertained. There were moments in which I experienced a sense of running around in circles, accomplishing little but exhausting myself. I admit that there were instances during the week in which I felt completely incompetent as a hostess.

Yet, now that the guests have returned to their homes, and my precious girl is back at her school, the house feels far too quiet. There is no one to sit and coffee with. There isn't someone's 'little job' to oversee. There isn't a soul to joke with, argue with or talk with. There is no one to aggravate me or make me laugh until I cry. The silence is deafening. As much as my son's hockey teammates resemble the horses in the farmer's fable, coming into the house and stamping their hooves, I miss their presence. As much as my mom undoes everything I've done and redoes it her way, like a Mother Hen, I find that I'm now second guessing my own methods of housekeeping. While my daughter rolls her eyes at me and has to redress me, duck clucking as my outfits don't pass her fashion muster, I find myself stymied for what to wear today. My house may have felt like a barn this past week, but now it feels like a museum. There aren't four televisions blaring with four different shows competing with one another for aural superiority. There aren't hordes to feed. There is no one saying "Maaaaa....." in an exasperated voice...and with multiple generations using the same intonation. There is no foot stamping, door slamming or conflicting opinions. There is no raucous laughter and loud joke telling. The house is just the way it was just over a week ago....and yet it feels far more indistinct.

I have learned how much I appreciate both clamor and hush. I have discovered that I crave times of extroversion and times of inner contemplation. I have learned that I can love someone more than anything and be completely annoyed by them. I have found that, despite my shepherding tendencies towards control and direction, I'm able to let go and allow evenings to unfold on their own. I have observed that I can be a mother, a daughter, a hostess, a mere participant, a cook, an eater, a pesky badger and the harassed all at the same moment.

And, there is only three and a half weeks until Christmas.

A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort.

~Herm Albright

The Name Game

During the time between the rebellious 1960's and the "Greed is good" culture of the 1980's, the 1970's remained an odd enigma in history. The decade encompassed the "Free to be Me" element it gained from the previous 10 years, and was beginning to show the "It's all about Me" narcissim of the following decade. In junior highs in the late 70's in California, the girls took woodshop and the boys took home economics. (Because of this, my husband still sews better than I do...). It was a period of vast changes of perspective between the changes, brought about by the 60's, becoming permanent or going away. It was a time of growing pessimism about 'older people' knowing what's best for younger, and the older people learning to be comfortable with that concept in a way they weren't ten years before. It was a time of 'back to nature' meets 'all about the future'. Fashions had everything from Little House on the Prairie inspired granny dresses to the beginning of spandex.

When I was in middle school (then called Junior High) in southern California, in keeping with this spirit of change, there was a blizzard of name changes amongst girls my age. Many girls had grown up with traditional names, such as Katherine and Anne. These girls rebelled by changing their names to more exotic fare, such as Gypsy (inspired by Fleetwood Mac) and Sutton (predating the last-name-first trend to come). The girls whose hippie parents had lovingly bestowed upon them the types of names they wish they'd had themselves, such as Rainbow and Sunshine , rebelled against those very Bohemian tendencies, and annointed themselves more common fare, such as Allison and Tracy.

The counselors of the day advised parents to let these 12 to 14 year olds make these decisions...that they were important to their daughters' self-expression and self-esteem. The parents were certain they would do more harm than good by not allowing their daughters this critical decision in their own identity. Bohemian or Traditional, parents were cautioned that not allowing the change to occur could be detreminental to their daughters' well being. And, so, the Harmony's became Heather's, almost overnight.

Having been given a common name, so common I was always attaching my last initial when I signed my papers, I was somewhere in nowoman's land: my name neither marked me as hopelessly old fashioned, nor did it gain me notoriety in its difference and 'authenticity'. As usual, I felt in the middle. If I had thought of changing my name, it simply never progressed past the pondering stage, but it was fascinating to come to school, and almost every week, find an old friend refuse to answer to anything but her 'new' name. It confused me in the sense that one even could change her name. I wasn't particularly thrilled with mine, in 8th grade, but I certainly didn't invest enough in it to think up a new one. And, as fads like these go, the "Name Game" of the late 70's fizzled out.

It did surprise me, years later, when my own middle school age children expressed frustration at their 'boring' names. Neither one felt as if I had given any thought to what I'd named them. Obviously, this couldn't be further from the truth. But, I came to see that the act of rebelling against one's very name is simply a developmentally appropriate stage that many young teens go through. Since I am not a 1970's pop psychology mother, I told my children that they were absolutely welcome to change their names, legally, to Talon and Mimi...after their respective 18th birthdays. Like the typical mother of the New Millenium that I am, I gave them freedom to make that choice...just not right away. I wonder how many of the girls from my class would have changed their minds, had they simply waited until adulthood.

One's name is an extremely personal form of identity. People still change their names for a variety of reasons: a change in religion, marital status or belief system. Marshal McLuhan wrote, "The name of a man is a numbing blow from which he never recovers." Clearly, his perspective was one of antagnosim at the parental naming process. And yet, of course, William Shakespeare wrote, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet." The great Bard and I are in agreement that we are who we are, regardless of whether our names are bland, bold, or somewhere in the middle.

As for me, I am content with the Japanese proverb, "Words have meaning and names have power, but only if we allow them to."