Pointing to "Yes."

Like so many other things, parenting turns out to be about tickling my own underbelly first, finding the hollow in my own dragon skin. A hollow like answering “What do you want?” instead of “What do you want to stop?”

Witness the poop scoop. I won’t get too detailed here. But owning dogs involves a certain amount of fecal maintenance and it kept building up because I was trying to get it done in the nap hours, which list of things to-do also included: shower, get dressed, put away laundry, feed self and write. And, if the night was nasty, take a nap. (This list reveals some of the awesome pajama-time perks of working at home. ) So, I decided that what I wanted, – see, I learn, – that what I wanted was to take care of these things with the Fox during the waking hours. So, I took the Fox down into the backyard one day with my own little positive discipline plan.

I figured I had reason to be optimistic. I was thinking of last fall when we gathered fallen chestnuts. He took to it like he had been waiting for it all his short life: he loved the hunting and the way I clapped when he found one and just being outside together.  His hand slipped the chestnuts into my pocket one by one like a little warm animals. 

I figured scooping would be almost the same thing. You probably see this coming.

Our back yard has a good set up, if poor upkeep. On the outside, fenced beds with fruit trees, raspberries, blueberries and strawberries. In the middle, play chips, which are eminently scoopable. So, I say to the Fox, “Can you help mama find the poop?” He is about three feet closer to the target than I am. This has advantages and disadvantages. Advantages are: He sees stuff I don’t.  I’ve got implements with handles and a pail, so that’s all right. But here comes the disadvantage to him being closer than I. It sounds like this: 

“Good job, honey! Point, don’t touch. Point, don’t touch. Stop. Stop! StopstopSTOPSTOPSTOP!”

And then we go inside and wash hands.

See, he gets “Point.” And he gets “Touch.” He doesn’t get “Don’t”

Now, he does gets a tiny bit better at holding back, and I get a lot faster. (He also gets a violent, purgative stomach flu a couple days after, one time, when implementation of the plan had been pretty darn good, we got distracted by kicking the ball, and I missed a hand washing, and I forgot to tell his dad and found the two of them in the kitchen, eating with their hands. But, probably, this is a coincidence. Probably not a reason for mommy jail, as some of his other friends got sick the same week. Right?)

Anyway, this got me thinking. Right here, and so many times, “Don’t” is the problem. Well, "Don't" and bacteria. But I am trying to talk about Pointing to Yes. This idea is upheld by many old and new traditions, from  Christianity to the teachings of Joseph Campbell to Oprah’s followers of “The Secret.” It's not "Ask not and you shall receive not." It's not "Follow your distaste." It's the hard, hard work of being able to truthfully answer the question, What do you want? And for me, mothering is the hard, hard work of figuring out the "Yes." 

Plus handwashing.

At this point, let me just say for the record: I do believe in the power of an appropriate "No.” Parents who can’t say "No" are not employing positive discipline. They are limp. There is a difference, people.  But “No,” is a lousy compass for a child or a life, though it is a surprisingly easy one. I tried it for a few years, back when I was doing environmental work. “No” to everything from cars to computer parts. “No” to much of modern life.

Living with that kind of focus put the “mental” in environmental. 

So these days, I’m saying “Yes” all the time. “Yes” to city gardening for wildlife. “Yes” to local food. And since, with the Fox, “Yes” has to be physical, I’m asking the Fox to point to things all the time. When he sees a cigarette butt on the sidewalk, and he bends to touch it, I say, “Point with your finger and touch with your shoe.” And he does. When I am trying to dress him, and he’s got a yen for legos instead, I say, “Honey, can you point to your pants?”  And it works. He settles. Maybe you’ve caught me in an overly optimistic moment, but I believe that I am teaching him that he can choose his focus. He can live a "Yes" life.

 And isn’t that what makes happiness.? Isn’t that a life skill that a mama could be proud of?

(I’m still working on a "Yes" for the scooping. There is a metaphor in this, I know. )

So, dear friend, do you know? What do you want? What are you saying “yes” to?