I am not a naturally routine or habitual person. I am quite possibly the opposite of
compulsive or obsessive. I go with the
flow; am spontaneous and reactive – I clean things when they need cleaning, I don’t
have change-the-beds-Tuesday or clean-the-kitchen-Monday or anything like
that. I would like to, it’s just not
part of my make-up. When my twin boys
were new babies however, routine became part of my survival startegy. Time efficient techniques helped maintain a sense of control in my day. I started
hanging washing on the line in the order I was going to take it in again, and
folded it as I brought it in. Boys’
clothes, daughter’s clothes, number two daughter’s clothes, my clothes, his
clothes, towels; each item had its place on the line, and piles in the basket. It was put away immediately. It took a little longer to hang out and bring
in but avoided piles of unfolded washing in the lounge or spare room. I cringed when another person kindly hung out or took my washing in, without using my system, and most of the time I politely declined offers, happier to do it my way than to undo my earlier hard work. I congratulated myself on being so very
organised. I found quiet comfort in the
rigid habit and I have continue to arrange the washing in this almost obsessive,
compulsive fashion for years since, long after I let go of other routines.
Today, I hung the washing out. Randomly. Unordered.
Mid-basket I realised I had stopped my compulsive arranging of the
washing line. At some point over the summer, washing had
returned to a leisurely, non time pressured activity. Like Forrest Gump, I had stopped running. I paused in quiet reflection of the end of an
era. My eldest is in her last year of
secondary education and sat her driver’s license test this week. My next daughter is now at college. Both
girls manage their own timetable. My boys are ten. One
son announced he was going for a run at 7.30 this morning. He can do that. I trust him, I trust our neighbourhood. He likes running. He has a girl friend, who he organised a
valentines gift for. As he made his own
school lunch, the other little boy was contemplating feline cremation and
whether or not they did the process respectfully or just threw the animal in
the fire. Time with twin babies and
young children is a distant and even nostalgic memory. Time marches on and one day you realise you’ve
stopped hanging the washing out in order.
My baby boys are mid-way to adulthood. They are branching out, growing up, taking responsibility
and risks and venturing away from the safety, protection and decision making of
mum. They are now young people forging their own paths and making
choices, that will affect their futures.
We don’t wake up one day, suddenly
able to make good choices. Each choice
is a step towards mature decision making where we can handle the consequences
of our own actions. We all need healthy boundaries
as we grow. We also need plenty of opportunities
to make age-appropriate decisions to practise handling the consequences of our choices
– good and bad. Putting my daughter
behind the wheel of a car is a terrifyingly adult thing to do. I am sure she can learn to drive, and drive
well. Is she or any of us able to handle
the consequences of an accident?
I could scramble for control in fear
of letting go and pull my children back into the safety of me being
in charge. Or I can bravely recognise
the opportunties for decision making, the necessary give and take of the
journey to adulthood. I can embrace it, gently giving extra
responsibility and gentle nudges out of the nest. I can trust each of them to make their own decisions, and
step back when they need to also handle the outcomes of their decisions. Sometimes love involves allowing someone to
feel the force of a bad decision.
As I sit at my computer, watching the world go by, cup
of tea in hand, I am admiring my unorganised towells flapping in the breeze. I’m two thirds through parenting a young
family. It feels good. Maybe it’s time to allow others to hang out
the washing. Well. Lets take that one slowly. I might have to allow washing to be hung out in ways that are not my ways. I may have to allow it to be brought in and left in a pile somewhere in the lounge or spare room. Shiver. It could be anarchy.
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