“I never will forget that first night at home with my first child.”
Ask just about any parent to carry on beyond that sentence, and you’ll get a long and familiar tale. And you can enroll in all the advanced courses you want, and read all the recommended books, and get all the advice you can absorb, but nothing will or can completely prepare you for that sense of awed responsibility when it’s clear this child is in your hands—totally dependent on you and your competence, such as it may be at the time.
It’s probably one of the most intense twenty-four hours of your life. Even if you get an easy baby, you still won’t sleep much, because your emergency system is on full alert. On top of that, the baby needs food. Often. And if the baby is a blue screamer, well—after that first all-nighter, walking the floor, helpless in the face of both the child’s distress and yours, you will be about five years older by dawn and have endured a rite of passage you had not anticipated. If you weren’t an adult a week ago, you will have become one by morning. This is why they say children make babies, and then babies make adults. This is a rite of passage.
Remember the mess, the equipment, the smells, the unbelievable shambles this six pounds of humanity makes of the routines of your life? You have to regroup your resources and get organized. Remember getting organized?
Merging the needs of the child with your own needs leads to routine.
Routine that enables essential human functions is the rootstock of ritual—lifelong—especially if you look at what you’re doing from the child’s point of view. Sacred habits are being established.
Sleeping and waking, eating and bathing, getting dressed and undressed, talking and singing, holding and hugging, and, of course, eliminating body waste. For a period of about two and a half years, a child gets a diaper changed an average of six times a day. Around 5,400 times a child is laid on its back looking up at the face of a parent figure, is undressed, cleaned, powdered, talked to, touched and tickled, redressed, and given some form of physical affection—hugged, kissed, rocked, or played with. From the child’s point of view, this rhythmic existence is all there is to life. It’s more than taking care of business, it is ritual—that which gives structure and meaning to the child’s life. This is how the world goes round.
If ritual for the child becomes hassle for the parents, some basic discontinuity occurs. That which gives the child pleasure and comfort and sustenance is confused with the parents’ message that the same activities are a burden, a nuisance—something to get over quickly; then the land mines between parent and child get laid down early on and become buried in the sand of the family’s past, to be stepped on sooner or later.
I know of few more fundamental secrets of child-rearing than this—that the parent understand that what may be routine chores for him or her are in fact all there is to the early life of the child. Respect for the ritual needs of the child leads to respect for the ritual patterns of the adult.
As a child grows on, there is the matter of the child’s child.
As a grandfather, I see the importance of this ritual behavior in ways I was too busy to think about as a parent. Three grandchildren keep me thinking.
There is the matter of reading the same story over and over, without any changes whatsoever. God forbid I should skip a page or a word. Heresy.
Their going-to-bed routine must be kept in its exact order—just like at home. Undressing, bath, jammies, teethbrush, story, tuck-in, goodnight.
Eating food at the same time in the same way. Despite the fact that I often eat dessert first at my house, this is not the way it’s supposed to be, according to higher authorities, their parents. And after the children express initial amusement at my habits, they eat their vegetables first. They know where power resides. I have even been reported to their parents for my bad habits. Still, I really don’t think the world will come to an end if you put chocolate sauce on vegetables.
Dressing in certain clothes in a certain way is likewise important. First underpants, then undershirt, then socks, then pants, then shirt, and finally shoes.
Knowing the rules and repeating them consistently counts. Don’ts and do’s are expected and repeated in phrases I heard from my parents and passed on to my children.
Even the repetition of words and phrases is ritualized early on. Just recently, I was awakened long after bedtime by my four-year-old grandson, who was having trouble getting to sleep. “What’s wrong?” “You didn’t say sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.” “Sorry about that.” We ambled back downstairs to his bed, said the ritual phrase, and he was sound asleep in no time.
When I crawled back into bed, my wife scratched my back a little, and I held her hand as we drifted off to dreamland. That’s our “sleep tight” gesture. When she doesn’t scratch or I don’t reach for her hand, I know something’s wrong, either with her or me or us.
This is not really kid stuff. It’s a people thing.
I see it all in my own life. Daily.
In all the little ways, the rituals are there.
From beginning to end, the rituals of our lives sustain us.
The sacred habits of a lifetime.
DEAD
Death is a black camel that lies down at every door. Sooner or later you must ride the camel.
ARAB PROVERB
Peanuts reprinted by permission of UFS, Inc.
Children and adults do not look at death in the same way. It is a mistake to assume that they do.
All you need do is watch a group of kindergarten kids at play, and you will witness much death activity—kids feigning death or getting “killed” and buried and dug up time and again, in what seems like a most casual fashion.
Children deal with death in a matter-of-fact way, and they live in a world of fantasy and imagination wherein death is reversible—characters are always dying and coming back to life again.
The way children come to have a more realistic view of death depends on how well parents have settled their own feelings about death and how parents handle life as well as death events.
The death of a pet is usually the first opportunity for teaching.
Let me tell you about the life and death of Snowball, a legend in her own time and place. Famous, but to a very small group of people. Worth knowing, if not well known.
You must know that guinea pigs are not from Guinea and are not pigs. They are rodents from South America. Rodents, like rats and mice. A domesticated form of the cavy (Cavia porcellus). Six to ten inches long, one to two pounds, come in many varieties—long hair, short hair, solid colors, and stripes. Major players in the pet industry.
Snowball was one of these rodents. White, with pink feet, eyes, and nose. She entered the life of the Thompson family under false pretenses, however. Four-year-old Lucy wanted a pet—a dog, please. Forty-year-old father did not want a dog, please. No room for a dog—small house, not much of a yard, and not much room in busy lives for a dog. Father knew who ended up taking care of dogs.
But the pet pressure was intense and insistent, and so just before Christmas one year, in a moment of sentimental weakness, Father visited a pet store during his lunch hour. He looked at the full range of rodents with a realistic eye, considering what he wanted loose in the house—he knew it would get loose—and how easy it would be to find. Guinea pigs at least had a size advantage. Also, he didn’t want a pet that was smarter or faster than he was. So when the salesman told him guinea pigs had all the brains bred out of them and were really slow and stupid and didn’t live long, the choice was clear. One guinea pig, coming up.
There were a couple of multicolored litters. Since it was snowing that day and the guinea pig was to be a Christmas present, the choice was obvious. He got the long-haired white one, a virgin female, too young to have been bred—about the size of a balled-up pair of gym socks. And about as animated. Perfecto.
Also he got all the equipment: cage, water dish, food dish, instruction manual, and food pellets. He declined the collar and leash. He wasn
’t going to walk a guinea pig.
Father decided not to try hiding the creature until Christmas Eve. It squeaked too loud to hide. He just lugged the cage into the kitchen when he got home and put it on the table. Taking the tiny, furry creature in his hands, he placed it on the table in front of his daughter and said, “Merry Christmas.”
“What is it?” The child was fascinated.
“You mean you don’t know?”
“No.”
“Well, well … in that case … in that case … it really is something amazing … a kind of very small dog … from South America.”
The mother gave the father her you’ll-be-sorry look, but it was too late.
“A dog—really—oh, I really wanted a dog. What’s its name?”
“I don’t know—you have to name it—but it is snowing and she is white. She’s a girl dog, so maybe we could name her Snow White?”
“Let’s name her Snowball.”
And that’s how Snowball, the world’s smallest dog, came to live with the Thompsons.
–
Snowball remained a dog for some time, actually, since the rest of the family and their friends went along with the ridiculous notion. Lucy and her father tried teaching Snowball dog tricks, and since Snowball had the personality of Silly Putty and would stay in almost any position she was placed in, there were times when you would swear she was playing dead, shaking hands, and rolling over—on retroactive command, of course.
It may have been true that Snowball was stupid, or maybe eccentric, or maybe just friendly. It was hard to tell. It was also hard not to appreciate that, for whatever reason, Snowball was a great guinea pig.
By the time some neighborhood kid spilled the beans and told Lucy the truth about her “dog,” it didn’t matter anymore. Lucy and Snowball had bonded, life to life. Even Lucy enjoyed the game of confusing strangers by introducing them to her “dog.” Lucy had her father’s sense of humor.
Snowball let Lucy dress her up in doll clothes, and often appeared at mealtimes in a hat and dress. Snowball and Lucy became inseparable—where Lucy was, Snowball was. The family learned in time that the sound of Snowball’s contented squeaking from Lucy’s room at bedtime meant all was well in the house, especially with Lucy.
Snowball grew roly-poly fat, and her white fur comically grew in many directions so that, in her dress and hat, she resembled nothing more than a tiny little old lady who had just got out of bed and hadn’t bothered to comb her hair. Only the sourest personality did not look at Snowball and laugh. Snowball was the house comic act. Lucy spoke for her, using Snowball as a ventriloquist’s dummy. It was hard to be depressed or unhappy with Lucy and Snowball onstage.
–
When Snowball grew up, she had regular menstrual periods. Lucy’s father took the opportunity to talk with Lucy about how guinea pigs are made. They talked about family planning, too, since one guinea pig was really quite enough responsibility for Lucy. Maybe Snowball would get pregnant someday, but not now.
In her fourth year, Snowball began losing her fur. In no time at all, she was hairless—just a fat, warm pink lump. It was even harder not to look at Snowball and laugh. She was the talk of the neighborhood, and Lucy charged a five-cent admission to see “SNOWBALL, THE BALD WONDER DOG!”
A trip to the vet was an educational experience. Snowball was old for a guinea pig and was experiencing a major hormone imbalance. The vet suggested two courses of action: hormone and vitamin shots along with a hysterectomy—or else she could be put to sleep and replaced by a new pet. While a couple dozen new guinea pigs could be bought for the cost of Snowball’s treatment, there was no real choice. Snowball was family. The whole family loved their dinky dog. They had not expected to have to get a hysterectomy for a guinea pig, but what had to be done was done. The mother said, “Maybe Lucy’s teacher should be warned in advance about what’s coming to show-and-tell next week.”
–
Lucy nursed Snowball back to health with great devotion. The whole family rejoiced at her rejuvenation. But some months later there was blood in Snowball’s cage. Snowball quit eating. She barely squeaked. The vet confirmed the worst. Cancer. Snowball’s days were numbered. She would soon be in terrible pain and then die. “Die?” “Yes.” “You mean forever?” “Yes.” Lucy was heartbroken.
Snowball went home for a couple of days for good-byes. Dressed in her best hat and dress, she was the guest of honor at meals. Snowball stories were told, with the laughter and tears you might expect. Her birthday was celebrated early, and she got her Christmas presents, even though Christmas was still a long way off.
The heavy questions came up. The ones already discussed at bedtime for the last few days, but that got discussed again and again: “Where do guinea pigs go after they die?” “Does it hurt to die?” “When I die, will it be like Snowball?” “Does everything in the universe die?” “Why?” “Why?”
On Wednesday morning, the family stayed home from work and school. Snowball was driven to the vet and put to sleep painlessly. Placed in her favorite sleeping place—an old brown-leather house slipper, which was put in a small, lidded basket lined with straw and placed in the front seat between Lucy and her dad. The family car became a hearse for the ride home.
Snowball, the tiny wonder dog from South America, living under an assumed name and disguised as a guinea pig, was laid to rest in a grave dug underneath the willow tree in the backyard. Lucy and her mom and dad thanked Snowball for all the good times and filled in the grave. And marked it with a large flat stone on which Lucy had written in paint: “Happy Days, Snowball.”
This story, of course, is not about pets.
It’s about any life and death. It’s about the deep attachments we make to other living things. It’s about the obligatory rituals of hello and good-bye when we become attached to the life around us. And it’s about how we help children understand the basic lessons of existence.
To an outsider, Snowball is just a guinea pig.
But Snowball was also a teacher from whom Lucy learned about responsibility, affection, reproduction, imagination, sorrow, and death. Lucy’s grandmother is dying now, and Snowball made dealing with that easier for everyone in the family. Snowball, Grandma, Mother, Father, and someday Lucy. It is the way of living things. All of them. Now Lucy knows.
EUPHEMISMS
Died Liquidated
Resting in peace Left this world
Curtains Croaked
Perished Breathed her last
Cashed in his chips Met his Maker
Bought the farm Laid to rest
No longer with us Bit the dust
Passed on In the great beyond
Snuffed Asleep in the deep
Gave up the ghost Departed
Kicked the bucket His time was up
Gone home Out of her misery
Went to her eternal reward Ended it all
Gone to heaven Dead as a doorknob
Succumbed Dead ’n’ gone
While visiting friends on the Greek island of Crete, I was caught up in a funeral. There is an ancient Orthodox monastery very near the small village of Kolimbari at the west end of the island. An old monk had died—a man much revered by the community. His body was washed but not embalmed. Then it was dressed in the simple daily garb of his vocation and laid out in a plain wooden coffin and placed in the chapel of the monastery. There, those who knew him came to pay their respects and say prayers for his soul.
On the day appointed, more than two hundred people of all ages gathered for the formal service, filling the chapel and spilling out into the courtyard. At the end of the service, as a single bell tolled, the coffin was shouldered by six strong men and carried slowly along a steep path to a graveyard on the hill, where the reverend father was buried. After a final service of chanting and prayer, the villagers went about their lives.
While I did not understand a word of the service, I was deeply moved by the spirit of the occasion. I felt both comfortable and comforted�
�rather than ill at ease, as I most often feel at funerals.
Funerals have been conducted this way in this village for a time beyond memory. The religious customs of the Greek Orthodox Church so permeate the lives of people that when someone dies, everyone knows what is to be done and how to participate in it. Life and death are so carefully interwoven that the rites of passage from one to another are seamless and unquestioned.
It is a mistake to apply a tourist’s point of view here. This was not a quaint and charming event in the lives of peasants still living in the past. It took place within a community of modern Greeks. In myriad ways, they look and act and think and dress like contemporary Europeans and Americans. Many speak English and German. They drive Japanese and German cars, see the wider world through television, and have every modern household convenience and agricultural advancement at their service.
Yet, there are important differences. It is a homogeneous community. They are all Greeks. Most of them live out their lives in or near the village where they were born. From birth to death, the events of their daily lives are intertwined. They see each other born, grow up, live, and die. Their culture and their church are likewise bound up together. They live and die in the embrace of the Greek Orthodox Church.
Which means that when someone dies, every person knows what is to be done and knows his or her part in the rituals of death and mourning. It is done as it has always been for as long as anyone remembers. Even now, even in the larger towns, this is the case.
In contrast, consider a death in a modern American city. Many of those at a funeral do not know one another well, if at all, and do not share common religious or cultural traditions regarding rites of passage. There are exceptions, of course: within the ethnic immigrant enclaves in major cities, the Orthodox Jewish community, and the Mormon towns of Utah, among others.
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