Erikson, epiphanies, and me

​Taking It All In by Karen Offutt

I was making the bed today when I started thinking about Erik Erikson. I'm not sure what it was about the mundane act of fluffing wrinkled pillows and tucking sheets that made my thoughts alight on him in particular but there he was, in my mind on a Monday morning. 

Maybe it was because it is Memorial Day back in the US. I thought of the many family members making their pilgrimages, with flowers in their arms and memories in their hearts, to stone tablets marking the lives and legacies of loved ones.​  

Erikson, bless his theory-making heart, is one of my top-three developmental psychology gurus. He thought about development as a lifelong proposition, with stages progressing fully into old age. Each stage has a conflict that influences biological, social, and individual psychological development. The successful resolution of each conflict--which must be done before moving on to the next stage--leads to a resulting virtue. Each builds on the one before it. Just as a quick runthrough (that will thoroughly cheat his theory of its deserved explanation), the stages look like this:​

• Birth-1 year: Trust vs. mistrust. Leads to hope.​
• 2-3 years: Autonomy vs. shame & doubt. Leads to will.
• 3-5 years: Intiative vs. guilt. Leads to purpose.
• ​6-12 years: Industry vs. inferiority. Leads to competence.
• ​13-18 years: Identity vs. role confusion. Leads to fidelity.
• 18-40 years: Intimacy vs. isolation. Leads to love (and partner/family formation).
• 40-65 years: Generativity vs. stagnation. Leads to care (giving back)
• ​65 years and older: Ego integrity vs. despair. Leads to wisdom.

I think I might be the poster child for that seventh stage right now! (Never mind how gut-dropping is it that I am now in the seventh of eight life stages! Zoinks. Oh, and we will tackle his teen identity stage another day, I promise.)  I think "generativity" could also be replaced with "creativity." If you are anywhere near that age range, maybe you can relate, too? 

This stage, says Erikson, is all about a new, dawning awareness and need to make an impact in the world, to understand the bigger picture, and use our own voices.  It's all about creating a community, a legacy beyond stone memorials, and giving back. It's the pull to keep learning and not stagnate.  It's why I returned to grad school, I think, and why I leapt into this blog project. It's why, in the middle of a rather scary series of mammograms a couple of years ago (it turned out fine, whew) I thought "but I haven't written my book yet." Oh, Erik. Spot on, sir.

This clip of an interview with the always inspiring Maira Kalman goes along with this sentiment/stage perfectly (found via Brain Pickings):

"It's love and it's work. What else could there possibly be?...What is the most wonderful thing I could be doing and who are the most wonderful people I could be with?"

---

How does your life compare with Erikson's stages? Are you aware of the drive for generativity/creativity? What kinds of things are you planning for the life-after-children years? Are they the same or different from what you're doing now?​

Summer traditions

Last night was our annual short-making session up at the church. Every year we make camp shorts -- moms, leaders and girls all come together in one seething mass of fabric, scissors, and ironing, which, somewhat surprisingly, turns into into 25 pairs of shorts, and a parade of women carrying their sewing machines into the night.​

Let me explain: Each year the girls in our church (ages 12-18) attend a summer camp. This year the locale is very woodsy AND un-airconditioned. The girls will need to wear their most camp-y clothing. In addition, each year, the girls are asked to wear knee-length shorts, which is no small request in this day and age of less fabric = greater cool factor. There just aren't a ton of long shorts to buy, and most of us aren't willing to drop a hunk of cash on shorts for the woods. And thus, the homemade tradition. 

The cool thing about camp shorts is that anything goes fabric-wise. In fact, the louder the fabric the better. Camp shorts demand full reign of the fabric store. Nothing is off limits -- no fabric is too colorful or silly or kitschy. I still remember two pairs of camp shorts my mother made for me in about my 13th year. One pair was baby blue squares, each square featuring a different muppet baby -- baby Kermit, baby Miss Piggy, baby Gonzo, you get the idea. The other was made of red bandana fabric -- long, deep red, quintessentially Texan. I wore them to camp for sure, but I also wore those un-cool shorts around the house, to sleep in, to the grocery store for years and years to come. Even now, the muppet baby shorts live on in my memory as emblematic of my childhood -- a sixteen year old struggling for independence, yet stubbornly refusing to give up her threadbare muppet babies. In many ways, I wish I still had them now. I think they would give me comfort.

This year I coordinated the short-making effort for our band of girls. I bought the fabric (45 yards!) and patterns and elastic. I sent out e-mails asking for sewers and cutters. I lugged everything to the church, set up some tables, rolled out the bolts of fabric, and set to cutting. The miraculous part was the way the other women flowed steadily into the room. They set up additional tables when needed. They told the girls when to iron and when to shove elastic through the skinny waistband. For the first 45 minutes I had my head down and was cutting out size smalls as fast as I could pin and cut. 

Pin. Cut. Unpin. Slide the pattern down. And when I looked up, there were girls dancing about in fully completed shorts. Some were rushing pieces back and forth from sewing machine to iron. Some were stubbornly trying to sew their own, the sewing machine owner patiently standing behind, offering instruction. ​It was a microcosm of productivity. Not perfect productivity mind you, but efficient. And selfless. And kind. 

I hope my girls remember the kind women of the camp shorts. The ones who give up their evening and ask for nothing in exchange for their service, who seek out what needs to be done without asking, who put their shoulder to the wheel and push, even when they don't have to. ​I hope they remember the making. The ingenuity. The strength in numbers. The loud fabric. The chatter.

The hot summer nights and singing crickets.

When I was younger I spurned the sewing church ladies. I didn't want any part of such feminine bungling. I wanted to fly. I wanted to do something important. I wanted to cast aside the traditions of my youth and move on to better things, to greater heights, to significance. 

I never thought I'd find such greatness and significance in camp shorts. But it's there in spades. I think George Eliot would have approved of camp shorts: "For the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs."

What about you? What unhistoric acts have changed your perspective on the world?​

​

Mother's day anyone?

​My mom and I circa 1971.

Both Mother's day and my birthday make me a little antsy. As much as I like to think of myself as outgoing and the life of the party, the real truth is I'm not so comfortable being the center of attention. And, without casting blame on any undeserving parties, sometimes the supposed "special-ness" of those days just doesn't match up to the Pinterest-y, golden lit blog entry that stubbornly resides in my head. Let's imagine that perfect day, shall we?

I sleep till nine, when I'm awoken by the sunlight gently seeping through the blinds AND the merry laughter of my husband and kids in the kitchen. I walk into the dining room (because I really don't like to eat in bed) to find cheesy omelettes stuffed with veggies, an icy Diet Coke, and fresh flowers on the table. The whole family gathers for breakfast, where we talk about the day, our hopes and dreams, and have a deep and meaningful discussion of current affairs. After breakfast, I get ready for church -- dressing in a brand new (size 4) super cute, hip outfit. Later, there's a delicious Sunday nap waiting for me, followed by a simple, rustic meal outside where I'm showered with thoughtful (and design-oriented) gifts. A new car would make the day extra special. We'd all then walk the dog through the trails by the water, arriving home tired and happy just as the sun goes down. The kids scurry off to bed while Sterling and I relax and watch The Good Wife or Call the Midwife of Netflix'd episodes of The West Wing. As we watch, Sterling deftly moves about the living room and kitchen, tidying the rooms, turning on lamps, lighting an aromatic candle.

That was kind of fun. You should try it.​

Let me just start the debunking with the fact that I haven't worn a size 4 since about ninth grade. A few days ago I brought up the new car dream. The suggestion was received as a moment of hilarity. That's not happening either. We have church at nine, which leaves little time for leisurely breakfasts and even less time for discussions of global affairs. I'm the only person in our family who knows how to turn on a lamp or light a candle. Yep, I'm gifted like that. ​

​2002

The trick to enjoying Mother's day, in my experience, is to cut everyone some slack. Including yourself. It's not really about my family making me feel good about myself -- that's a Hallmark imperative. I choose, instead, to think it's about me appreciating the institution of motherhood. On Sunday, I'll give some thought to my own mother and the other women in my life who have taught me about self-sacrifice, kindness, strength, ambition, service, determination, and a whole host of other steel-y attributes that have helped me to understand the divine nature of women. I'll probably look through old photo albums, my heart breaking just a little as I remember my own tiny babies -- the jumbled collection of experiences that made me a mother. The day, for me, is about celebrating my own moments of happiness within motherhood. And there have been plenty of those.

In my old age, I've realized there is something so freeing about creating my own happiness (even on Mother's day). There is no waiting around for someone else to fulfill unnamed, yet dearly held, expectations. There is no disappointment or sadness. Because in that space where I take responsibility for myself I can be generous with those I love. I can overlook 17 pairs of socks on the living room floor and 23 half-filled glasses on the kitchen counters. 

But there better be sugar. And I'm not doing the dishes.

​

---

Mother's day always brings out the essayist. See here, here, and here.​

A few thoughts on mother's day

​My mom and I in 1971.

My birthday and Mother's day generally fall about a month apart. I'll be honest with you, in years past I've approached both of those occasions with a fair amount of trepidation. Part of my anxiety has been alleviated by merely lowering my expectations. Not that my husband doesn't give his all -- in fact, he is famous for a homemade carrot cake he pretty much only makes on Mother's day. But still, Mother's day is rarely the Pinterest-y, blog-worthy occasion I have pictured in my head. That would look something like this:

I sleep till nine and am woken by the sunlight streaming gently through the blinds AND the merry laughter of my husband and kids in the kitchen. I walk out (I prefer NOT to eat in my bed) to beautiful omelettes, an icy Diet Coke, and fresh flowers on the table. The family eats, chats about the day, talks deeply about current events. We then dress for church -- me in a brand new outfit (size 4, if you must know) and leisurely drive to the chapel. After church I take a long nap. For dinner we eat a nice meal outside -- grilled by Sterling. I am showered with thoughtful (with just a touch of a hipster vibe) gifts. And sure, a new car would be extra special. Then we all take the dog for a walk, returning home happy and tired just as the sun sets. The kids scurry off to bed while Sterling and I watch Mad Men or Call the Midwife or Netflixed episodes of The West Wing. And, certainly, while watching television, Sterling moves swiftly and efficiently through the downstairs tidying the rooms, switching on lamps, lighting an aromatic candle.

Wow.​

That was fun to write.​

It was even more beautiful in my imagination.​

​Me and the kids circa 2002.

Let me just start and end the debunking with the fact that I haven't worn a size four skirt since I was in 9th grade. I've already hinted heavily about the new car in real life. The request was received as a moment of hilarity. Also, did you know I'm the only person in our family who knows how to turn on a lamp or light a candle? It's true. I'm gifted. Plus, we have church at nine. This leaves no time for sleeping in and even less time for discussions of global issues. Can you see where I'm going with this?

I find the best method for me to manage Mother's day is to cut everyone some slack, including myself. I'm going to spend the day appreciating what I do have -- thinking about the mothering I've received in my life. . . from my own mother and other women who have helped me along my way. I might look through an old photo album or two, torturing myself about those now-gone baby days. I'll laugh with my almost-grown girls about silly fashions, funny one-liners, that time I wore my sweater backwards to church. I'll turn a blind eye to socks on the living room floor and three loaves of bread on the kitchen counter, knowing that Monday I can put the house to order. In other words, I'm reclaiming the day. Mother's day isn't about pampering and perfection; it's about slowing down and remembering. It's not about other people flattering me into a giddy stupor. It's about me claiming my own spot of happiness within my job of mothering. And, it's an excuse for an extra-nice meal. 

And sugar. Any excuse for sugar.

Mother's day brings out the essayist for sure. Check out these thoughts: here, here, and here.

Baby steps

Right now I'm working on macaron-making. Here's the skinny: the macarons pictured above were made using Tartelette's recipe.​ This was my second batch, and while they look pretty darn decent in the picture, they were slightly undercooked! I know. So finicky. My first attempt was an unmitigated disaster. And the third? Those went straight from pan to garbage. Ugh!  As soon as I go buy myself another kinda expensive, tiny bag of almond flour -- I'm trying these -- because I like to punish myself. 

In between macaron experimenting I started attending a boot camp in the evenings and on Saturdays. I've been three times so far. As I type this my shoulders are tight, almost crampy. I also need to cough but am trying my best NOT to cough because my stomach muscles simply don't have the energy. Also, they burn and hurt when I cough. When I'm actually at boot camp? Let's just say ​the image vacillates between sad and ugly. Guys! I have the upper body strength of a newborn. Let's not even talk about my core. It's on fire, remember?

And thirdly . . . last Friday, I had a meeting with my dissertation chair over one of my chapters. It went okay. We had a good discussion: she explained the weaknesses in the chapter, I argued my own position. She was nice, even (somewhat) complimentary at times. But she in no way patted me on the back, handed me a cigar, and told me that what I had written was brilliant, erudite, and ready for publication. No. Not any of that. There is more work to do. Argh.

When I was young, I pictured my 40-something self as capable, assured, making things happen. And yet, the real 40-year-old me is still taking baby steps -- fumbling in the kitchen, struggling on the playing field, pecking away at my computer keyboard. ​It's hard work, this life of frothy egg whites and unruly thighs and theoretical feminist concerns. I do wish for mastery, make no mistake. In some ways I need just a modicum of success, a whisper that "I'm okay," or heck, I'd take small french cookies that are perfectly baked. But right now . . . I'm feeling my back up against the wall, and it's not an entirely bad feeling. My best work generally comes from defiance. Tell me I can't do something and I WILL SHOW YOU. I'm feeling the need to gird up my loins, fresh courage take -- to make lists, to read, to run up a hill without having palpitations. 

The frothy egg whites? No promises there.​

A room of my own

Our oldest comes home from her freshman year of college on Saturday. To say I’m excited is an understatement. I mean it’s all well and good that she’s been off educating herself, and meeting new people, and expanding her horizons and all, but enough is enough already.

Yesterday I thought I’d better wander upstairs and take a look at Jordan’s room. In actuality, it’s not really Jordan’s room. About two weeks after Jordan left for college, Rebecca moved into Jordan’s room, opting for more space and a queen size bed. In the meantime, Rebecca’s old room has sat untouched and unnoticed. I’ve managed to clutter it up a bit with an old floor lamp, some miscellaneous Christmas decorations, and a couple of pictures that used to be in the living room. Also, there’s a strange conglomeration of the stuff Jordan didn’t take with her combined with miscellaneous items that must have once belonged to Rebecca. At the moment it's just a holding space; I need to clean it out and fix it up. I'd better get moving on that.

I sat in that room today and thought about when we first moved in to this house. How I painted seven-year-old Rebecca's room blue, and how she picked out her duvet from the Pottery Barn catalogue, and how she used to have a huge chalkboard and dry erase board on the left wall, where she obsessively played school. (Her overhead projector still sits in the corner.) I even remember walking through the half-built house, the kids scrambling upstairs to claim their spots – Rebecca and Madison in bedrooms on the left side of the game room, Jordan and Parker in the bedrooms on the right.

Our first priority after we moved in was getting the kids' rooms set up – painted, organized, decorated. You know how it is -- you want your kids to feel settled. We painted Rebecca’s room blue, Madison’s yellow, Jordan’s a light lime green, Parker’s a dark tan with a bold, multi-colored stripe. In the evenings, before we went to bed, Sterling and I would creep upstairs and peek in on each child. Four kids, four doors, four floors covered in clothing and toys and miscellaneous art supplies. We’d shake our heads, laugh a little, and head back downstairs.

​I originally posted this pic on my personal blog in 2009, and it was featured on Ohdeedoh (part of Apartment Therapy). I was famous for like 13 seconds.

Jordan will be home six weeks and four days before she leaves for France. Madison has four months left in her yellow room with the window seat. And then, once they are gone, half of the upstairs will be empty. Why is it that in all the dreaming I did about new furniture, and paint colors, and family movie nights, and birthday parties, and sleep overs, I never imagined empty rooms? I mean, I've thought exhaustively about this house. Right now? We need to repaint the upstairs bathrooms. We need to rip out the carpet in the study. I’d like to replace the stove. How about some lighting out back behind the pool? I have plans people. But my mind (which, it must be said, is rarely content) has never considered two empty bedrooms. And I can’t get excited about the space either.

An exercise room? A movie room? A craft room?

Nah.

The funny thing is that I’ve spent a good portion of my life thus far trying to carve out a space for myself. With four brothers and a sister, there wasn’t much space in my childhood home. I used to lie in the three by eight foot space between my bed and the wall, pretending that it was my own room. I’d put a pillow and blanket on the floor, line my books along the wall, stash some food under the bed, and tell my sister not to make any noise so I could pretend she wasn’t there. And when my own kids were little? Shoot. Their stuff and their demands seeped into every space, every thought, every minute. I was constantly sorting outgrown clothes and shoes and baby toys, organizing school papers and backpacks and laundry -- always trying to make more space, more time, more happiness. I had my own office for about a year in 2006, but then Sterling started a business and we pulled a desk in for him. (He’s been a pretty decent roommate though. I’ll give him that.)

And now? I have rooms aplenty.

In my head I've been having a pretend conversation with Virginia Woolf. My copy of A Room of One's Own is dog-eared and highlighted. There are notes in the margins. I even have the epitaph of Keats' tombstone written at the end of chapter three. All because I believe so vehemently in Woolf's ideas about women and intellectual freedom and tradition and writing. But that's another post for another time. My favorite line however, without meaning to, captures the melancholy feel of my many rooms:

"For the dinners are all cooked; the plates and cups washed; the children set to school and gone out into the world. Nothing remains of it all. All has vanished. No biography or history has a word to say about it. And the novels, without meaning to, inevitably lie."​

Woolf, of course, is emphasizing the need to write women's lives, to record the dailyness and the drudgery and the joy of womanhood. And to do this writing -- the biography and the history -- women need a metaphorical (as well as physical) room of their own. 

"Virginia," I want to cry out, ​"there was a blue room and a yellow room. That is my history."

Ode to the twelve year old boy

It's become somewhat of a tradition for me to write a paragraph or two (or more because I'm long-winded) at my kids' birthdays. I try to memorialize what they are like at that particular age, what has changed since the previous birthday, and even what I might want the grown-up version of them to know someday. Honestly, I probably do it more for me than for them. Heck, I can barely remember what I had for dinner two nights ago, so I figure I'd better start recording the glory years -- before I'm old and alone and free to eat the entire box of ice cream sandwiches sitting in freezer -- should I so choose.​

Parker actually turned twelve a little over a month ago. ​He was anxious to invoke the standard birthday fanfare -- breakfast in bed, gifts in the morning, Chick-fil-A lunch delivered TO the school, all topped off with a special birthday dinner. And yes, I realize that I've made this celebration primarily about food. That's the problem with traditions. You tend start them when you are young and your metabolism is a bit snappier. 

​Parker is the fourth child in our family of four children, AND he's the only boy child. Some of my friends call him the heir apparent or the little prince. He does tend to get his way. But it's not because he's over-indulged (well, not relatively speaking). Instead, I'm likely to give this kid what he wants because he is so darn reasonable. And kind. And just sweet. He's really good at reading people. And he's empathetic. If I say 'no' he's most likely okay with that. If I ask him to, say, do the dishes, he'll usually respond with a cheerful, "Sure Mom!" I'm not making this up. I know it's weird. It must come from his father.

Here's something about my twelve year old boy -- he's super loud. It's not that he talks loudly or screams a lot, it's more that he is constantly engaged in the business of making noise. Like strange voices, or falsetto singing, or gun/car noises. Sometimes it's just an endless array of electronic-sounding blips and bleeps. Other times it's the same lyrics OVER and OVER again. After a few minutes of allowing the bleeping and singing and machine gunning to go on, I'll ​saying something like, "Parker! Seriously. It's enough." And he stops. And then approximately 27 seconds later . . . it starts up again. He doesn't even seem to notice. I asked him the other day if he inadvertently sang and made strange noises at school. He looked at me like I was crazy. So...is that a no?

For Christmas this year, Sterling and I threw our typical penny-pinching caution to the proverbial winds and hooked Parker up with an Ipad Mini. Boy howdy does he love that thing. What was I thinking? 
Me: "Here kid. Here's another screen to add to the multiple screens in our house that are potentially damaging your eyesight, psyche, and physical mobility."
Him: "Thanks Mom!"
On the upside he has several games he plays with his Dad . . . so . . . Dad-time! When I think of him at age twelve, I should probably remember him in the morning before school, sitting up to the kitchen island, ipad next to him (easel-style), eating his breakfast. After school? Parker sitting up to the kitchen island, ipad next to him (easel-style), eating PopSecret Homestyle microwave popcorn completely buried in three cups of powdery Kraft parmesan cheese.

But fear not, oh ye screen regulators of the Internet! Directly after the snack, Parker practices his cello for 30 minutes. Everyday. He sets the timer on the microwave and starts his way through his practice pieces. At approximately 4-7 minute intevals, he ​screams in to whoever is in the kitchen to ask how much time he has left. I always find it quite disheartening to tell him, "26 minutes." And then, after multiple renditions of "Edelweiss," "Allegro," and "Perpetual Motion in D Major" . . . barring any lessons or practices, he goes outside to play. Around six I call him in for supper. My sister has encouraged me to simply stick my head out the door and shout, "Beav! Time for dinner!" I haven't tried that one yet.

Parker, my own personal version of the twelve year old boy, likes Adventure Time, and Psyche, and Lord of the Rings. He still plays with Legos, and knights, and air soft guns (of which I don't approve). His favorite food is ribs, and PW's Buttered Rosemary Rolls, fresh artichokes, and ice cream. He has several Snickers hidden in the freezer. ​I'd like to say he's a momma's boy, and while he is so, so sweet to me, I have to admit that he tends to favor his daddy. He follows his dad around the house, wrestling, watching semi-violent movies, teasing each other. He likes to camp, and hike, and get dirty. He likes to put on a navy suit on Sunday, often coming down in the same color tie as his dad.

Twelve years old is a tumble of little boy mixed up with the beginnings of manhood. It's pretend war in the cul-de-sac thrown in with middle school responsibilities. It's swimming all afternoon and learning to mow the grass. It's Saturday morning cartoons and Boy scout service projects. It's wearing shorts all through a Texas winter. And making silly putty in science lab. And eating nine tacos for dinner.

And for my boy, it's not being too big to tell his momma he loves her. Or write to his college sister that he misses her. Or declare that his pup is the best dog ever. It's a whole world opening before him. How very lucky that I get to watch.

Happy 12th son.​