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Dad Diary

 In her new book, Anne Lamott tells a story about a group of progressives, maybe in Florida, eager to improve the world.


The progressives meet in a basement, and they complain about various injustices; perhaps they want to protest antigay curricular revisions. Perhaps they want to shout out their support for teachers of critical race theory. Perhaps they want to hold a drag queen story hour on the front lawn of Ron DeSantis.

The leader of the group says, "There is so much rage here. It's exhausting. This isn't what I envisioned."

Time passes, and the leader has a new idea. "Maybe we ought to take care of each other first." She asks, "Does anyone need anything?" Gradually, various needs are articulated: One person could use a handyman. Another could use help with meal prep. Still another could use some informal driving lessons. As one person confesses a need, another says, "I can help with that." A functioning group emerges. These people learn to assist one another. Then, eventually, they go out and serve the powerless and the poor--and their mission becomes expansive and more efficient than they'd ever imagined, because it is fueled by a sense of creativity and joy.

I notice that my parenting has peaks and valleys. Sunday nights are not ideal. I'm annoyed with myself, and anxious; I haven't prepared a lesson for Monday, I haven't envisioned my best course of action for a stressful school meeting, I haven't found a way to make my waist resemble Andrew Scott's waist, in the new version of "The Talented Mr. Ripley." On this occasion, I'm not going to be terribly useful to either of my children. 

By contrast, if I'm kind to myself (via retail therapy, or a quiet walk around the block), then I do not find myself counting down the minutes to my daughter's bedtime. I can join the insane game she has invented, without thinking (or thinking excessively) about all the toys she has spilled on the floor.

It's still possible to learn a few things, at the age of forty-one.
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