dear waterbear 12.14.21: A review of Free Guy, basically
Hey, waterbear. It’s your mom.
I read something interesting the other day. (Be forewarned that I’m going to use this as a topical conversation starter WAY MORE than any human ever should. Apologies in advance?)
Basically, the idea was this: At the end of times, when we’re standing before the pearly gates and Peter’s bringing out his scales and we’re doing that The Good Place inspired calculation of our good and bad deeds and we’re arriving at The Number That Matters, the calculation won’t concern itself with, like, the numbers of cats we’ve rescued from trees. It won’t detail the number of harmful retorts we bit back, or the number of times we stole creamer from restaurants, or whatever.
Instead, the thing that’ll get us into Heaven (or not) is more simple—more holistic. The question will be more like—how fully did you enter into the joy available to you?
I mentioned this to your dad, and, in one of his trademark moments of terrific profundity, Ted was quiet, and then he translated: “So—how well did you love?”
I have no idea how theologically relevant this is (my guess is that it’s somewhere middling), but the idea stopped me for a minute. Because, you see, I’m a 90’s religion kid. We grew up with rules, and the idea that if we followed them, we’d get into heaven. This concept pervaded into……like…….everything about me, I guess: If I followed the right rules, I’d be a good {whatever}.
I suspect I’ll go through seasons of parenthood where that’ll be my philosophy, too. There’s a good chance that you’ve gotten really mad at me because I tend to be unflinchingly rigid about really stupid things. If it’s any consolation, I don’t really like that about myself, either. That’s tanked relationships and spoiled otherwise fun events (and etc) all throughout my life thus far.
I don’t want to do that to my relationship with you. And, so, anyway, one of my things I’m working on right now is, um, lightening up a little bit. Anyone who knows me in person is probably reacting in some way right now (from “HAHA, fat chance” to “OMG, yeah, she needs to unclench.” And they’d be right, probably?)
Anyway. How fully did you enter into joy? How fully did you love?
I suppose what I’m getting at is: I’m not great at those types of things. I tend to focus on the good-on-paper stuff, the rules, the objectives, the studies and the data. This has served me well, but it’s also resulted in my being a person teetering on the edge of burnout and anxiety for probably a decade. It’s also resulted in my not being very fun a lot of the time.
And, now, with this idea that we’re called to sit and steep and be in the present and enter into joy and that’s not just a fun Pinterest quote, that’s literally the reason we were made and the model we’re supposed to be following in our families—welp, it scares me a bit, because have I been focusing on that? Neauxp, I’ve been focusing on paperwork and revenues and buying presents and taxes. Which is also necessary?
Where am I going with this? I’m writing for another six minutes and nine seconds, let’s try to dig to something good.
I want a big part of your childhood to be slow, magical, and silly.
Right now, I live life fast - project to project, milestone to milestone - and I’m naturally strict and solemn.
If we’re called to feast, I spend more time fasting.
We’re midway through Advent (an entire season dedicated to that entering-into-joy concept) and I don’t know that I’ve taken more than a few minutes to slow down.
I know that I can’t wait for you to get here to slow down and loosen up, so I’m trying. And some things have been working. I don’t remember if I’ve mentioned this in a past dear waterbear, but I’ve dropped clients. Your dad and I sleep in a lot. We guard the busyness of our weekends. We’re trying to pump the brakes. We’re trying to shift from the manic industriousness and stress that’s characterized our march through infertility and a pandemic and work craziness (and a home study!) to just being excited that you’re on your way.
Are we good at it? Not really. But we’re trying, I guess.
Ah! So, I’m sitting at my desk, typing away on my lap desk, with my gigantic white headphones on—to give you a visual. Will I have this same desk when you’re 7-8? Probably not. I’ll show you a picture. Anyway. The song “Make Your Own Kind of Music” by Paloma Faith just came on—and that song was in Free Guy, the Ryan Reynolds flick! And that made me think of one of the last times your dad and I were giggling like kids. It was when we watched that movie! We were expecting it to be vaguely goofy, and WE LOVED IT. Our mouths were hanging open and we … well, we loved it. It was the kind of wholesome thing we absolutely needed during a kinda grey season.
Maybe that’s what I want more of: The ability to be open for surprising wholesome goofiness. The ability to appreciate things I might otherwise dismiss?
Okay, time to sign off. A Hamilton song just came on, my feet are falling asleep, and I’ve got drugs to write about and an Instagram feed to attempt to populate.
Laters, kid.
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