The Bee's Knees

On one of my walks recently I ran into a mother walking a dog with her young daughter. The little girl was intently focused on the stuffed pooch that sat cockeyed in the front of the toy baby stroller she was pushing down the sidewalk. This delighted me to no end, especially since I’d seen no sign of life on my walk thus far—human, canine, or stuffed canine.

I hollered over from my side of the street. “Is your baby a girl or a boy?” The little girl’s face struck a look of surprise that I’d be asking specifically about her baby. She quickly grabbed the floppy child out of the carriage and crushed it between the side of her face and her shoulder with a fully employed tiny-toothed grin. “A girl!!” she squealed, and then cradled it back and forth with beaming pride. The mom, on the other hand, was not outwardly interested in my insertion into their walk, mostly I think because the dog was now distracted, the stroller now abruptly parked, and the scene was no longer in flow. And, of course, who the heck was I?

But I recognized that look on her face. I’d worn it for many years. It’s the serious look of a mother whose job it is to keep everyone alive and proceeding. So, I kept it brief.

“She seems like a very sweet baby. Well, goodbye!” and I waved to the small stuffed-animal mom.

“Bye!” she waved back and turned to go, then pivoted back. “This is a REAL dog!” she yelled out to me, pointing to the live dog.

“Wow! I see that. Okay, bye!”

“Okay, bye! See you! Bye!”

“Bye!”

And it could have gone back and forth like that had I not turned and continued on my way.

It sure brought back memories of the years when I was a mother to many stuffed children of my own. Being a mom was the thing I wanted to be most ever since I acquired a Raggedy Ann doll and Teddy bear. In those days, I’d line my offspring in a row on my bed pillow, nearly across the span of it. Then I’d studiously tuck them in under the covers, placing all the arms out on top, just so. Then I’d slide with painstaking precision under the remaining covers, squeezing onto the skimpy space at the edge of the bed reserved for me. I would fall asleep in discomfort but satisfied because my babies were content and sleeping soundly. I’d check on them when I woke to my precariously slipping body, and make sure they were still settled. They were always just fine because thankfully none of them had a sleep disorder--and bless their hearts, this enabled me to develop mine more fully.

So, was I being a little caretaker, or going a little overboard? Good question. Maybe both. Perhaps I was utilizing one of my early strengths of caring to try to develop a coping strategy of ensuring everybody was okay. This would have been a tall order, of course, and no one made out better as I tried than my stuffed animals. It’s been a bit of a job since then to temper some of that strategy, to cast away this responsibility that isn’t mine, but I’ve made progress. For one, I now take up a sizable portion of the bed when I sleep. And I sleep!

When I came upon the two mothers on my walk (child and adult), both their faces were recognizable. The little mother’s face displayed the early stages of empathy, outward-directed care, and roll-playing. The elder mother’s face revealed the serious, hard-wired focus parenting demands of us. The expert and her apprentice.

I’ve been ruminating on the way humans are built to care for others, namely our families. We’ll go to great lengths to ensure our families endure and thrive, and this is the common experience that binds us. We prioritize loving our families. Countless eons ago, evolution made it so. What has piqued my curiosity these days is why I haven’t afforded that same level of compassion to myself. It’s not that I’ve treated myself terribly, however I can easily fail to notice that I’m the same as the people I love: a creature in need of better understanding.

I try to imagine what it would look like if one day that dear little girl from across the street, who knew how to love and care for an inanimate object as a child, grew to treat herself with automatic rebuke when she misses the mark. What could I offer her? Maybe we’d ponder together what life would be like if we lived with the knowledge that we require compassion more than our toys ever did.

But we all chide ourselves. It’s another evolved response to keep us in check, to keep us from being kicked from the pack to the edge of the woods, but it needn’t go unchecked. The problem arises when we make it into a way of being. The more I notice it in myself, the more optimistic I become that it’s changeable, and it is. Taking note is the first step. Since I started my coaching training two years ago, I’ve changed the way I speak to and about myself. It was a tall order, but I filled it. Once I was able to change this one habit of thought, many other challenges became less formidable as a result.

I walked into my closet the other day to ask Raggedy Ann and Teddy Bear a question. They still live with me and spend their days now in the comfort of my closet where it’s quiet and the smells are familiar.

“Hey, you guys,” I said, “Just wondering. Have I been a good mom?”

“Oh, you’ve been swell,” Teddy said, giving a thumbs up, despite having no thumbs.

Raggedy chimed in. “Yeah, Mom. The bee’s knees!” Their answers, while a bit old-fashioned, meant the world to me because I always wanted to give them the best.

“Mom?” Teddy said, “I wish you could see what it’s like to be me and have you.” And that brought a silence to me. I didn’t know what to say.

“Teddy,” I shuffled my feet, “I’m trying to see that. So far, I know what you mean. It’s swell indeed.”

Then they explained how their success in life had come from the times I hugged their mistakes and picked out the lesson as if we’d found the best jellybean in the bowl. Mostly they said my open heart was the place from which they launched a life of courage and equanimity. I smiled at them and situated their legs a little straighter on the shelf, smoothed their bodies down. I took a pretty scarf from the drawer and tucked them in together, so they’d sleep as soundly as possible. “Good night, you two.” I turned off the light and left.

That night in my own bed not too far away, I could hear them snoring peacefully. I could hear my sons downstairs up late into the night. I drifted off to sleep with my hand covering my heart, whispering to myself, “You’re the bee’s knees.”