Busy Hands are Happy Hands!

When I was really little I loved this song: “Busy, busy, busy, busy all day long. Busy hands are happy hands, and - they - can’t - go - wrong!” Anyone remember it? Readers who know my history of years of working with sex offenders will see this title and cringe. But don't worry, today's post is not about work. Or not about that kind of work, anyway!

Today, busy busy busy is the mantra of everyone I know. We seem to have to many more things to do every day than we had when we were younger, or that our parents had when we were younger. And our kids need full time parenting. When I was nine years old I was doing the wash for my whole family - I’d take it down to the basement where I’d put in the quarters to do one load of whites (in hot water with bleach) and one load of colors (warm, detergent only). My mother taught me how to do the laundry, what went in the dryer and what did not; everything would fit into one dryer which (I may be remembering wrong) cost a dime! I knew how to take out my father’s shirts while they were still damp, and shake them out and hang them on wire hangers for easier ironing. I knew that certain things (tights, my mother’s “undergarments”) did not go in either the washer or the dryer. It was not the worst job in the world, although I was a bit scared of the basement.

But here’s the amazing part: two loads of laundry a week for a family of four. Today we are a family of five and I generally do two loads a day! No bleach, no hot water, organic detergent - but lots and lots of dirty clothes. 

In two days I’ve written two blogs, and both mention laundry. A coincidence? A preoccupation? An obsession? It’s not a huge challenge for the Freudian in me to understand that I am obsessed - with making order out of chaos. I want to “clean up my act.” I need to simplify my life. So what do I do? Give myself an additional deadline - a column a day. Just like newlyweds who think they are going to make love every single night for their whole lives, some people (like me) think they can give themselves an unreasonable standard to live up to.

Nobody in my family seems to know that there is no laundry fairy. As my boys grow up and pass me in height, they do not pick up any domestic responsibilities along the way. We are supposed to be consistent and firm with discipline. All the magazines tell us, and all the websites and even the textbooks. Only nobody told the kids that they were supposed to respond to this treatment a certain way. They “forget.” They “didn’t see.” Their lives are much more complicated than ours were. Our phones were attached to the wall. We had a few TV channels (cable was all for adults back then - I think that was the point of it!). We had a couple of hours of cartoons after school and on Saturday mornings; we had an occasional ABC After-School Special. My kids have about 20 dedicated kids’ channels which broadcast 24/7. They have cell phones and iPods and laptops. They don’t just play basketball in the park (although they do that too) - they have to play in a league, with organized games and practices, and guess who gets to drive them everywhere? And at the end of the season, every player gets a trophy. They shake hands with the other team at the end of every game, and they (we, the parents) chip in for a gift for the coach. But hey - the mom who makes an additional 12 car trips each week to the practices and the games - not even a thank-you. I can’t remember the last time I heard a carpool beneficiary thank me for the ride. I know my kids have good manners when they visit people and places without me; I actually get good feedback about my boys. So why is it that whatever Mommy does for them is taken for granted?

Busy, busy, busy. I have a job, and I also have a dream. But I feel like everything has to take second, third, or fiftieth place to all the chores that contribute to domestic bliss (whatever that is, and whoever is experiencing it). Everyone writes about balance, but I noticed in a recent magazine article that all the husbands have to “leave for the office early.” The moms, somehow, find a way to leave late, or to work at home, or to somehow postpone their career goals until their kids grow up - or forever. I promise you that the 90% of forensic psychiatrists who are men leave for their offices whenever they want. They don’t plan their work schedules around the Hebrew School carpool. They don’t throw in a load of laundry before going to work, and they don’t spend the minutes between cases making shopping lists or calculating the time it will take to get everyone picked up and dropped off and dinner made before it is time for a guitar lesson or basketball practice. They are Doctors - with that capital D. And we women? We fit in our work in our spare time, or else we hire helpers who teach our kids to like Jerry Springer and put sugar in everything, even spaghetti sauce. 

So I tell my children that my success as a person will depend on their success - and then I feel guilty because that pronouncement is just a new-millennium variation of the same Jewish mother guilt that my mother heaped on me. New millennium, new generation, new technology - same guilt. 

Is there an answer to our busy lives? Would I really be happier living off the grid? (are you kidding me? Without my computer? Without a library card? Without Facebook?) Could I just homeschool my kids? (insert hysterical laughter here as well as synonym for homeschooling: committing suicide). Can I use my desire to decrease my carbon footprint to get out of some of these millions of trips in my minivan? What can I do?

The answer is: Nothing. I live where I live and I have my kids, whom I love. We will continue to drive each other crazy until one day the last one will move out, and I’ll find myself with all these empty hours to fill each day. Then I can blog all I want. But then - who will I blog about?