When the Exception Should Be the Rule

So, picture this.  We are all sitting in the living room on a weekend morning, watching the old classic, "Singing in the Rain."

We get to the part where Gene Kelly kisses his new sweetie goodnight, and heads off into a rainstorm with only an umbrella and his wool suit to protect him.

But it's been a great night for him.  Not only does he have a new sweetie, but she and his best bud have hit upon an idea to save his career from what seemed like an imminent crash.

So, he starts to sing.  And dance.  And twirl the umbrella around.  And jump in puddles.

The rainstorm is nothing to him.  The joy inside of him is impenetrable to anything outside of him.  You can just see--in his face, and in his movements--that he feels completely invincible.

Clearly, it is a moment in which the exception is the rule. 

But, somewhere near me, a little voice says, "He's getting all wet."

Another says, "His suit might get ruined."

I smile slightly and keep watching, but another child pipes up, "He might get strep throat."

And another says, "He is going to be soooooo sick!"

"He's not using his umbrella," another one observes.

"His suit is going to be ruined!" a daughter calls out.

"Will it shrink?" another one asks.

"He's splashing!" the baby points out.

I turn to look at my husband, who looks back, reflecting my amusement.

"I've been too present in their lives," I ruefully observe.

He chuckles.

Maybe my children are saying these things for my benefit--to assure me they know the rules.  Or maybe they would say them even in my absence.  Part of me is glad they care about rules, possessions, and health enough to be alarmed.

But, I feel alarmed, too.

Not at Gene Kelly's behavior, but at that of my children.  And my own.

Have I repeated such rules so much that they cannot see beyond them?  Have I squashed out of them the ability to know when there should be an exception?  Can they not see beyond his rule-breaking to the joy in his face?

I think about finding my baby outside this morning as I pulled into the driveway coming back from the gym.  He had his nice warm, red coat on, with the hood up, but it was unzipped.  He was clutching his toy broom with red, mittenless hands, and I had promptly sent him inside.

"What are the kids doing outside?" I'd asked my husband as I'd hurriedly changed laundry loads before taking my shower.

"Whacking the snow off the bushes and then shoveling it up."

"He's still on an antibiotic," I had said.  "I sent him back in."

"Good point," he'd said, a little abashedly.

But, sometimes, in our effort to make a good point, we can miss the point.

What if I'd not seen his tummy hanging out of his coat and his cold hands, but his glee at whacking snow off of bushes with his little broom?

What if I'd imagined not another round of ear infections, but his pride in "helping" like a big boy?

What if I'd stopped thinking for a minute about getting all the clothes clean, and thought about more ways the kids could get them dirty?

I've spent their lives drilling my children on keeping my rules.  And my efforts have apparently sunk in.  That's not all bad--saves me time and effort and teaches them good skills.

But maybe that's only one half of the skills they will need for a smooth life. They also need skills in flexibility, seeing the big picture, understanding both sides of a story, when a rule should be bent, and how to find and express joy.

I think we're going to have an interesting dinner conversation tonight.