Happier at Home

by Gretchen Rubin

  “I read you an extra page, so you have to go to bed without whining.” I wanted to act with love unstintingly, instead of doling it out turn by turn.

  But the opposite of a profound truth is also true, and sacrificing too much, or denying myself too much, would undermine my happiness. At the same time that I entered into the interests of others, I had to respect my self-interest. A balance.

  GO ON WEDNESDAY ADVENTURES

  A common source of conflict among siblings is competition for their parents’ attention. Although Eliza and Eleanor get along very well, especially considering their age difference, they both enjoy having time when they don’t have to jockey for attention, accommodate the other’s skill level, or fret about who got the bigger cookie. Every summer, Eliza and Eleanor separately spend a week with my parents in Kansas City, and during the school year, my mother-in-law picks up each girl from school one day each week. Both girls appreciate the chance to be alone in the spotlight.

  In the same way, I wanted to incorporate plenty of individual time into our daily routine. I wanted to have regular opportunities to be alone with each girl, doing the activities she loved, talking about the subjects that interested her, without any interruptions from her sister (or from my phone, or from household tasks).

  Because Eliza walked to school by herself now, and left early, Eleanor and I had time together each morning. We gradually moved through the steps of breakfast and dressing, then made the long, slow walk to school. Also, we had a bedtime ritual of reading and rocking.

  But Eliza? Each night, I lay in bed with her for ten or fifteen minutes, to have a quiet conversation before she went to sleep. That was an important ritual, but how could I carve out a longer stretch of time each week when Eliza was the sole focus of my attention? I was considering this question when a friend told me about her own wonderful tradition. Every Wednesday afternoon, she picked up her child from school for some kind of New York City adventure. They took turns surprising each other with the afternoon’s activity—my friend had recently chosen a visit to a pretzel factory—and they returned home by 5:30 p.m. for homework and dinner. The minute I heard this idea, I resolved to copy it. Off the top of my head, I could think of several places that would be fun to visit with Eliza.

  More important than the particular activity chosen, however, was the decision to set aside a specific time to be together. It would be hard for me to give up those prime work hours every Wednesday afternoon, because I always wanted to work. I wanted more time to think, read, and write—or at least to answer a few emails. I always itched to be reunited with my laptop. But I knew that looking back, years from now, these hours would be far more memorable and meaningful if I spent them on an adventure with Eliza than if I spent them at work.

  My Third Splendid Truth is The days are long, but the years are short. Already sunglasses, The Hunger Games, iTunes, and dried seaweed had replaced headbands, The Wizard of Oz, Laurie Berkner, and Pez. Now was the time to spend Wednesday afternoons with Eliza. She was on the brink of teenagerdom, and I wanted the opportunity to spend a few quiet, happy hours with her each week, with no hurrying, no tasks to be crossed off the to-do list, no distractions. If we planned this weekly adventure every Wednesday after school, it would be in my calendar, as inviolable as a meeting with my editor. I was extremely fortunate that my work was flexible enough to allow me to take that time, but if I didn’t take advantage of that flexibility, it did me no good.

  I explained the Wednesday Weekly Adventure idea to Eliza, and she was very enthusiastic. “Can I pick anyplace?” she said.

  “Sure. But if you think I might not know how to get us there, print out directions or ask Daddy beforehand. We have to leave right from school.”

  “Can we go to a place outside Manhattan?”

  “Sure, if we can be home by six o’clock.”

  “Could I pick … a movie?”

  “Yes, as long as we’re home by six o’clock.”

  “Can I pick a store?”

  “I’m not saying I’ll buy you anything, but if you want to go to a store to look, sure, we can do that.”

  “Okay!”

  I went through my calendar and scribbled “3:15—Eliza—adventure” in every Wednesday box for the next few months.

  Eliza chose first, and she led us to Madame Tussauds wax museum in Times Square. Then I chose the Asia Society, then Eliza chose Ripley’s Believe It or Not! (I took pictures of her amid the shrunken heads). Because of Eliza’s interest in video and commercials, I picked the Museum of Television and Radio; I’d expected them to have reels of the best old commercials, but they didn’t, so we ended up watching the Coneheads from Saturday Night Live. She picked a trip to Scribble Press, where she made her own set of illustrated greeting cards. I picked the Tiffany room in the Metropolitan Museum, to visit the stained-glass window Autumn Landscape and the Garden Landscape and Fountain that I loved.

  One afternoon, thrilled with her daring, Eliza chose Bloomingdale’s as our destination. “Oh, I love that store smell,” she announced, inhaling a deep breath as we passed through the glass doors. We spent almost two hours looking at the costume jewelry displays on the first floor. Eliza loved the profusion and the choices—and although I would never choose to spend an afternoon that way, I did find it beautiful and interesting, in its own way, to look so exhaustively at department store treasures through Eliza’s eyes.

  Although I’d told her that we weren’t going to do any shopping, I did relent that day and buy her a necklace.

  “This is a memento, you know,” I lectured her. “I’m buying this so you have a precious keepsake of our Wednesday adventures to hold dear for the rest of your life. Got it?”

  “Yes,” she nodded vigorously. “It will always remind me.”

  “All right, then. Did you pick out the one you want?”

  “Yes!” She held it up. “See, it’s perfect for me. It’s a daisy.” Eliza had declared the daisy—the classic marguerite daisy, with white petals surrounding a yellow center—to be her personal symbol.

  “Beautiful,” I said admiringly. “Remember our afternoons whenever you wear it.”

  • • •

  After we’d been doing our adventures for a few months, I felt a bit guilty about the fact that we usually ended up in a museum. I called these our weekly “adventures,” but we weren’t being particularly adventurous. Shouldn’t we be visiting the Bronx Zoo, riding the Staten Island Ferry, tasting artisanal pickles in Brooklyn? Then I realized: In the middle of a crowded, hectic week, we both enjoyed spending time together in a calm, quiet, and beautiful place that wasn’t too far from home. In fact, one particularly raw, rainy Wednesday, we decided to stay home, make hot chocolate, and work on the Lego castle we were building. Sometimes home was adventure enough.

  GIVE WARM GREETINGS AND FAREWELLS

  Months before, when I was planning my happiness project, I’d had lunch with a friend who was intrigued to hear my resolutions for the different monthly themes.

  “I have a great idea for Parenthood,” she suggested. “Every night, you gather as a family, and each write down a happy thing that happened that day. That would cultivate gratitude and mindfulness.”

  “Right,” I said, trying to put some enthusiasm in my voice. Countless happiness experts make just this recommendation, yet I had no desire to try it. Why not? Then it struck me that all my happiness project resolutions were actions I could do myself, without anyone else’s involvement. Was that the wrong approach? Was I missing a chance to bring my family closer together?

  After some thought, I decided—no. It was so tempting to focus on what other people should do—but as the Sixth Splendid Truth made clear, I couldn’t change anyone but myself. I predicted that if I asked my family to adopt the resolution of writing daily happy memories, I’d find myself nagging them to keep up with it, which was assuredly not a path to happiness.

  However, completely contrary to this very sound logic, I did decide to make an exception to my G
retchen-only policy. I wanted to propose a family resolution to “Give warm greetings and farewells.”

  When the girls were little, they’d greet Jamie and me with wild enthusiasm whenever we walked in the door, and often cried miserably when we left. Nowadays, they sometimes barely looked up from their games or homework or books when we walked in or out. It was a relief, in a way, but also a little sad. And too often, Jamie and I didn’t give warm greetings or farewells, either.

  I’d loved October’s resolution to “Kiss in the morning, kiss at night” with Jamie; it made a real difference in my feelings for him. Now I wanted to build on that resolution. I wanted family members to feel acknowledged and welcomed, every time they walked through the door.

  Over Sunday pancakes, I posed a question: “If you could make a resolution for everyone in the family, what would it be?”

  Jamie answered without hesitation. “Jamie does whatever he wants, while the rest of the family cleans up the apartment and runs errands.”

  “That’s a thought,” I said drily. “Next?”

  Eliza said, “We’d have different things for breakfast during the week, like eggs or pancakes, instead of just cereal or peanut butter on toast.”

  “We could do that,” I said with surprise. “I didn’t know you wanted anything else.” Then I turned to Eleanor. “Do you have a suggestion, Eno?”

  “People would always give me a big hug and a big kiss every time they saw me. And I would go to State News to buy a toy whenever I want.”

  “Well, I want to propose something,” I said. “It’s a lot like Eleanor’s first suggestion. I want us to have the rule that when any one of us comes home, or is leaving, we all have to pay attention to that person for a minute. Let’s give warm greetings and farewells.”

  “Why?” asked Eliza.

  “It will help us show more attention and affection for one another. I know that I’m bad about this myself. It’s hard to be interrupted when you’re in the middle of something, but this is important.”

  Eleanor became very upset. “What if I’m in the middle of my office game, and I’m in my area,” she wailed, “and I think that if I stop my game I’ll forget what I’m doing?”

  “Just do your best,” Jamie said. “Let’s give it a try.”

  I was pleased to hear Jamie’s support for the plan. I wasn’t sure how he’d react. “So you agree?” I asked him.

  “Sure,” he said. “That’s a good rule.”

  “But what happens if we don’t do it?” Eleanor protested. “What if I forget?”

  “It’s just something to think about,” I said reassuringly. Despite her reservations, I figured Eleanor would enjoy this resolution, because she’s so openly affectionate. “Eleanor has a heart full of love,” we often observed. When she was younger, she had a habit of picking up our hands and kissing them, and she often says “I love you” or “You’re the best mommy/daddy/sister in the world.” Plus Eleanor loved to enforce rules, so she’d probably be the most diligent of us all, and also an indefatigable policeman.

  “How about you, Eliza?” I asked. “Will you do this, too?”

  “Okay,” she agreed. Eliza has a more reserved temperament, but she was also usually pretty cheerful about going along with any family plans.

  Everyone agreed with the aim of the resolution to give warm greetings and farewells—but would we all remember to do it, without nagging? I didn’t want a resolution meant to boost our feelings of affection to turn into a source of conflict.

  Somewhat to my surprise, we all began to follow the resolution (most of the time). Giving warm greetings and farewells felt like a natural thing to do, and the more we did it, the more it became a habit. As a consequence, each day, several times, we had moments of real connection among all members of our family. Instead of letting Eliza yell, “I’m leaving,” before she disappeared out the door to go to school, I’d call, “Wait, wait,” and Eleanor and I would hurry to give her a real hug and a real good-bye. Sometimes we’d even take a moment for a “family love sandwich,” when Jamie and I squeezed the girls between us in a big hug.

  When I mentioned this resolution to a friend, she said, “It’s also really important for kids at school. I see such a difference with my preschooler. When he gets to school, if a teacher looks him in the eye and gives him a high-five or a hug, he’s happy to walk into the classroom, and he settles in easily. But if the teachers are too distracted to give him a real, individual greeting, he’s clingy and stays on the sidelines.” As an adult, I often felt the same way when I approached a group. If I didn’t get a moment of acknowledgment, it was hard to settle into the situation.

  But while warm greetings and farewells make a difference, it wasn’t always easy to follow this resolution, especially for me. For instance, every morning, fortified by an enormous cup of tea and my first diet soda of the day, I work in my office from 6:00 to 7:00 a.m., when the girls get up. And often, at about 6:49, as I’m racing to try to finish a task by 7:00, I hear Jamie call, “Gretch, I’m leaving!”

  “Wait!” I shout back. “One sec!” I wish he’d come to my office to say good-bye to me. I wish he’d wait fifteen more minutes before he left. Nope. “Give warm farewells” and “Kiss in the morning, kiss at night,” I remind myself, and each morning, although it takes tremendous effort to unglue my fingers from the keyboard, I’m happy I made the effort. I’m so fortunate to have a loving, lovable husband and to start my day with a warm hug and a kiss. That is the most important thing—certainly more important than having an extra few minutes to cross a task off my to-do list.

  “Each time of life has its own kind of love,” wrote Tolstoy, and each time of life has its own kind of happiness. I wanted to appreciate this time of life, with our young children at home; I didn’t want it to slip past me, unrecognized and unremembered. When Eliza was little, she and I used to ride the city bus to her nursery school, and I’d expected to be riding that bus every morning, forever. Already that time is far in the past. Eleanor and I walk to school, and hold hands the entire way, but soon she’d be walking by herself, too.

  One night, as some friends and I walked out of our book club meeting, I said, “Lately I’ve been feeling very wistful. Childhood is speeding by so fast. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true.”

  “I know exactly what you mean,” one friend answered. “Whenever I get annoyed by the mess stuck to our refrigerator door, or about having to keep a stroller in the hallway of my apartment, I remind myself that these are the good old days.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Now is the time to appreciate it.”

  As I walked in the door of my building, I thought, yet again, of how much I wanted to make my home a haven of comfort, warmth, and tenderness. We were in the rush hour of life now, and everything was moving so quickly, and every day seemed so crowded—more reason to remember to slow down, stay patient, take photographs, and play Hide and Seek.

  As I thought about this enduring challenge, a mysterious passage from the Bible flickered through my mind. In Mark 4:25, Jesus says: “For he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, from him shall be taken even that which he hath.” I think the meaning of Jesus’s words is something like, “Those who have sought to understand divine truth will learn more, and those who haven’t tried won’t even remember the little they’ve learned.”

  But whatever Jesus meant, I found myself thinking about that verse in the context of happiness. It summed up one of the cruel Secrets of Adulthood: You get more of what you have. When you feel friendly, people want to be your friend. When you feel attractive, people are attracted to you. When you feel loving, others act lovingly toward you. This truth is cruel because so often, you want others to give you what you lack. It’s when you’re feeling friendless that you most want people to be friendly. When you’re feeling ugly, you want someone to tell you how attractive you are. Feeling unloving makes you long to be showered with affection. But “he that hath, to him shall be given: and he that hath not, from
him shall be taken even that which he hath.”

  Which leads, yet again, to the Sixth Splendid Truth: The only person I can change is myself. If I want a household with an affectionate, encouraging, and playful atmosphere, that’s the spirit I must bring with me every time I step out of the elevator.

  December

  INTERIOR DESIGN

  Renovate Myself

  If better were within, better would come out.

  —Simon Patrick, Works

  - Resist happiness leeches

  - Dig deep

  - Respond to the spirit of a gift

  - Abandon my self-control

  Stores played Christmas carols over their loudspeakers, the trees in the Park Avenue median flickered with twinkle lights, electric menorahs glowed in shop windows, and my daughters were contriving what to wear to their school candle-lighting ceremony: It was holiday time. As the weather became colder and drearier, our sturdy, snug apartment seemed even more comfortable. Sitting inside the warm, pleasant kitchen while icy rain beat against the window, I felt the wordless contentment of a horse in a stable or a wren in a birdhouse.

  As the outside weather became more inhospitable, I turned inward, to my own inner design. For the month of December, I wanted to address more directly my interior experience and attitudes. As Simon Patrick wrote, “If better were within, better would come out.” What could I do to renovate myself from within? To make my home happier, I needed to demand more of myself.