Perspectives

It occurred to me a couple weeks ago, while reading The Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris (which is one of the loveliest books I’ve ever read) that the reason I’m a lousy poet and the reason I often have trouble seeing God is probably the same reason—because I’m not in the habit of looking at things sideways, or upside-down.

Of course, sideways and upside-down are relative—as any astronaut will tell you, it all depends on your coordinates! But most of us default to the same set of coordinates, and then wonder why there aren’t any nice God-shaped-data-points on our grid. Because it’s the wrong grid altogether.

I’m pretty good at doing this with literature—otherwise how would I come up with a reading of a text that none one else has considered seriously yet?—but with everyday life, with loads of laundry and the dishwasher and potty-training, I keep too busy to pause and crouch down and look at what I’m doing from underneath. Which is something that Norris is exceptionally good at—her description of laundry as liturgy makes me almost look forward to folding towels.

Anyway, I wasn’t really sure how to proceed with this thought, so I stuck it in the back of my mind, made a note that I should probably try writing poetry again, and kept right on with the dishes and job applications and refereeing sibling melees.

In the middle of all this, though, I looked out the living room window and got a surprise. A yard full of August Surprises, in fact.

I’ll be honest—I’ve never really got August Surprises (or naked ladies/lilies)—they’re kind of weird and stark. I like my flora to be lush and effusive—I love a pergola overflowing with clematis and unpruned Rose of Sharon bushes. The area between the front of our old house in Lafayette and the sidewalk was an overflowing block of columbine and purple coneflowers. August Surprises, by comparison are basically decorative toothpicks.

But I went out to take a look at them, and it occurred to me that their long, narrow shape would make a nice little mural on the edge of a wall in the bathroom. So I took a picture with my phone. Then another picture, just to be sure. I had to take pictures from lots of angles, of course, so that I could compose my own clear image of them with paints later. But the more different ways I looked at these lilies, the more compelling they were.

Finally, I crouched down and took this picture.

While I was down there, suddenly I got it.

From above, at a normal adult height, yeah, they do look a lot like decorative toothpicks on an oversized burger. But from down here, eye-level with the flowers themselves, they suddenly become tree trunks in an ancient grove, or arching pillars in a cathedral.

***

This evening while I was cleaning the kitchen, I felt like sitting down, but I had already folded and hung up the kitchen chairs so I could sweep. So I sat on the floor.

My house looks different at a toddler’s eye level—tall and spacious. The furniture looms, and under the table suddenly becomes a tantalizing place to hang out (well, to a toddler—I was distracted by the pieces of spaghetti I had somehow missed when cleaning up).

Our basset wandered in, and I leaned forward to lower my head down to her level. Then all the way to the floor, and back up. There’s a bunny I know who, whenever he encounters a new space, does a high-middle-low check, stretching his body up as high as he can to smell the air up there, then down to his own level, and finally sniffs at the floor, too. Investigating space in another axis.

I got myself off the kitchen floor before anyone came in to ask what I was doing—last time I was flat in the kitchen it was because I had nearly shattered my tailbone on an unseen puddle of dish soap. 

Beloved

On Saturday, after a successful but exhausting week (which included a last-minute Skype interview and solo-parenting through one church service and three overnights) I was all Giving-Tree-ed out.* So I decided to take the afternoon off. And by afternoon, I mean a just little over two hours, mostly during B’s nap.

I still felt guilty, even while defiantly telling myself I had earned a little break. After all, the last time I was entirely child-free was during the two hours I was presenting at a panel at Kalamazoo, back in May. I spent most of this break shopping for new clothes, which is about the most stressful indulgence I can subject myself to, because while I get to pick out new clothes (yay!), I spend most of the time wandering through racks of trendy clothing in despair, so overwhelmed by choices that I no longer even know what I like and feeling irrationally horrible about spending money on myself, even for clothing that actually fits and isn’t threadbare, especially since the only time people expect me to be in public wearing anything nicer than pajamas is once a week for a couple hours at church. This task, clothes shopping, is difficult by myself, but absolutely impossible with the kids.

However, after finally finding some decent clothing, including a couple of pairs of pants that fit, were comfy, and looked cute (this took over an hour—it would have taken much longer but I had limited myself to the one store that I had a coupon for), I drove to the library.

While it took me almost an hour and a half to find five articles of clothing, it only took me about five minutes to find five books. After I grabbed three in a row, I decided it was time to go home before I cleaned out the religion section.

That evening I started reading the thinnest of my five books—Henri J.M. Nouwen’s Life of the Beloved, and tripped and fell right into this paragraph:

“[T]hough the experience of being the Beloved has never been completely absent from my life, I never claimed it as my core truth. I kept running around it in large or small circles, always looking for someone or something able to convince me of my Belovedness. It was as if I kept refusing to hear the voice that speaks from the very depth of my being and says: ‘You are my Beloved, on you my favor rests.’ That voice has always been there, but it seems that I was much more eager to listen to other, louder voices saying: ‘Prove that you are worth something; do something relevant, spectacular, or powerful, and then you will earn the love you so desire.’ Meanwhile, the soft, gentle voice that speaks in the silence and solitude of my heart remained unheard or, at least, unconvincing” (33).

Last time I wrote here, I wrote about failure. In the month since I posted that, I’ve had some tiny successes here and there since then (positive but noncommittal responses to a freelance job application and essay submission, and if anything comes of them, I’ll let you know) but overall I still feel like I’m in a holding pattern, waiting for something that will validate all these applications and submissions and make me feel like I have somehow earned the right to go do something fun for an afternoon and to wear new clothes.

I know intellectually that I am valuable no matter what I achieve, or don’t achieve, but the longer I go without achieving any of the accomplishments that I have spent the past eight years using to determine my value** the harder it is for me to believe that.

Last week in the lectionary reading we heard the story of the Israelites’ daily manna, and the guest preacher discussed the necessity of finding manna from God to get us through one day at a time—little things, like paragraphs we stumble across in books, for instance. (There was more to the sermon than that, but as I mentioned above, I was solo-parenting in the pew and missed most of it). I’m holding on to that paragraph today, and to the little book that leaped off the shelf into my hand Saturday afternoon. I don't feel like the Beloved, but I still am anyway.

Dear Reader, we have infinite value, and we are Beloved. Always. 

*I hate The Giving Tree so much. That’s another post, though.

**“Value” in this case narrowly defined as success in my particular program, of course, but you spend that many years defining yourself by a single set of standards and it almost can’t help but bleed over into the rest of your identity, even in spite of my conscious efforts to avoid that very thing.

Failure and I

The other day Queen Mab and I were working companionably in the front office—I was sitting at the desk writing up documents for yet another job application, and she was at her little plastic table behind me making a hand puppet out of a paper bag.* Suddenly she burst into tears and appeared at my elbow, clutching her puppet and demanding that I do part of it for her because it was terrible and ugly and she hated it (more or less). I gave her some suggestions and sent her back to her table.

After several iterations of this, though, I pointed out the easel next to my desk. David made it for me our senior year of high school. It was the first big thing he made out of wood. Even at the time that he made it, he was frustrated by its many flaws, and today he can’t even bring himself to look at it, because with skill and experience he’s come to see even more of them.

With bonus Mr. B

But if he hadn’t made that flawed easel eleven years ago, he wouldn’t have learned how to do better, and he wouldn’t have built me a perfect blue pine bookshelf in an hour the other day when we got tired of storing my books in boxes on the floor. I told her that if she practiced something now, even if she wasn’t good at it, that was the only way to get better.

Also, my bookshelf has a wizard.

She finished the puppet, whose shirt was a little aggressively colored out of frustration, but overall is a perfectly satisfactory creation for someone who hasn’t started kindergarten yet.

A couple days later, I realized the irony and hypocrisy of this conversation. Because I have spent most of the summer wallowing in my failure to get someone to give me a paycheck. This is a new experience for me.

If it hadn’t been for being on the track team in high school, I would have had little-to-no experience failing up to this point—the things that I really cared about I always ended up accomplishing (even if not quite as well as I would have liked). I married the first guy I ever dated, completed all the degrees I set out to complete, conceived, birthed, and nursed two children in *almost* the exact way I had hoped, attended every conference I submitted an abstract to except one (oh, Iceland—someday I will see your volcanoes and glaciers!), and the one article that I submitted for publication was accepted easily (albeit a year later :-P).

Note how many of these things depend on luck or the preferences of other people rather than my own amazingness.

Of course, because I’ve always been so successful at the things that really matter to me (and even a lot of the things that didn’t matter so much), I dread failure.

After countless job applications (literally—I long ago lost count of the applications I’ve submitted), the occasional “what did you do today anyway?” from my husband (not in so many words—he’s generally more tactful than that!) and frequent episodes of losing my temper in an ugly way at my eldest, I feel like the inverse of that “All I Do Is Win” song as lip-synced by Emma Stone on Jimmy Fallon—all I do is fail.

This, of course, is not entirely true. The other day I made two amazing loaves of bread, a quart of fabulous frozen custard with raspberries from the farmers market, and a surprisingly yummy experimental soaked-flour zucchini bread recipe using zucchini from my garden. This afternoon Mab and I had fun practicing fractions on the front porch (pedagogical insight: fractions make a lot more sense if you replace the word “circle” with “pizza.”). 

All of these things are successes. But they are so small. Today I wanted to walk the kids to the library and playground, but for various minor reasons (excuses?) it didn’t happen. At least I renewed the books online.

All my successes are tiny, but my failures come in every size.

This, I think, is the part where I should talk about how I’m going to be ok with these little successes, that failures now are somehow preparing me for something better later like I told Mab, that that’s what life is made of, that little successes are really big successes etc etc. Also, if this was a testimony or something like that, after I come to terms with what I’ll call my “redefinition of success,” something surprisingly wonderful will happen.

These things are probably true (except maybe that last one—I don’t live in an inspirational baseball movie), but I’m just not feeling it today.  

But I'll try again tomorrow.

---

*I wrote this paragraph the night before I started writing the rest of this, just thinking about Mab and that easel, but then I sat back down this afternoon and saw the word “failure” at the top of the page, and suddenly it resonated with me. A lot.

Wanna-be mystic

Last week we went to a New Members Class at church, which was less a “class” and more a “getting to know you” between us (my husband and I and another new member of the church) and some of the longstanding members of the congregation (and by longstanding, I mean at least one person there was a fifth-generation member). Everyone was asked to share about themselves, answering a set of questions ranging from the mundane “What do you do during the day?” to “Where are you on your faith journey?”

The hardest question for me, and the reason that I was glad to go nearly last so that I had time to think, was “What about church are you passionate about?” Everyone else had such great, specific answers—they had ministries they really cared about, and people within the congregation that they cared about, their families, and so on. And so while I listened to their stories, I pondered what it was about church that I just had to be there for—what’s the image of church that my mind keeps coming back to again and again?

***

There was a period of time when I couldn’t shake the sense that God was purely fictional. But I never had that feeling about Jesus. I could concede that he wasn’t necessarily who I had been told he was, but he still felt Real.

Even long before that time, I was deeply jealous of the medieval mystics I studied who encountered Jesus in intimate visions—I would love to share a pot of tea with Julian of Norwich (she seems like a tea drinker) or wine with Margery Kempe (maybe coffee if it’s before lunch, since someone with fourteen children probably needs all the caffeine, but she doesn’t seem like a tea drinker to me at all) and talk to them about what they saw. From books like Eating Beauty by my former professor Ann Astell (whose book is just gorgeous and who would also be a lovely person to drink tea with), I realized how much of these female mystics’ connection with Jesus came through encounters with the Eucharist.

The convolutions that medieval theologians got themselves in to try to construct an iron-clad defense of the Real Presence of Christ in the Eucharist was more silly/desperate than anything. But I try to give people the benefit of the doubt when they describe their experiences to me, even if those people have been dead for six or seven hundred years, and somehow these women (and many others of a mystic-bent, both male and female) did meet Jesus there.

When I first read these narratives of seeing visions of Jesus in the Host, or hearing his voice, or being denied by the priest, only to be served by Jesus himself, it was totally foreign to me, whose experience was limited to cracker chiclets and grape juice in plastic cups, informally passed up and down the rows in wide, shining plates (identical to the ones we had just used to collect offering) after a two-minute devotional. The lights were lowered and there was meditative music, and at some point it was moved from before the sermon to after. I think it was supposed to be less like service-filler and more like the climax, but for me, that just made it feel more like an afterthought. As far as I could tell, it was simply intended to be a weekly reminder of Jesus’s sacrifice.*

Later I was a member at a church where communion was still symbolic, but the weight of their practice was on “guarding the Lord’s table” against it being taken “unworthily.” This meant it was held infrequently and at odd times (almost never during the morning service), and so after nearly ten years there, I could count on one hand (and still have fingers to spare) the number of times we communed there.

In contrast, while the medieval church had also guarded the table even more fiercely, even those who only watched the mass without communing were expected to experience the presence of Jesus more intensely than I ever had.

During the Grail Quest, Sir Lancelot is struck down by a giant hand (or dwarf, thanks to Sir Thomas Malory’s fortuitous misreading of Old French) just for daring to cross the threshold of a chapel during the elevation of the Host. He then spends several weeks lost in visions. While ordinary non-Grail-Quest-knights were obviously not expected to see the Holy Trinity suspended over a priest’s head as a matter of course, this narrative demonstrates that Lancelot is blessed like other mystics who have had similar visions of the hidden spiritual reality of the ritual, not that he is insane.

***

The priest of the Episcopal church we attended in Lafayette for a few months before we moved, when inviting the congregation to participate in the Eucharist, told us that “we don’t know how it works! It just does.” Which sounds a lot like what Church Across The Street’s denomination says: “In this sacrament the crucified and risen Christ is Present, giving his true body and blood as food and drink. This real presence is a mystery.” 

When the Great Thanksgiving begins, I get a little thrill down my spine—like I should take off my shoes. Usually I just pull a kid in close and tell them to hush, look up front, and watch, because this is important.

I don’t always feel like I believe. But every Sunday as I stand or kneel and put a little wine-soaked wafer on my tongue, I still taste and see that the Lord is good, and he’s there.

* I did a quick Googling of the theology of communion in the Restoration Movement, which was where I grew up, to see if there was more conversation about it than I was aware of, and there was little discussion of the significance of communion beyond that it should be done weekly—I’m sure there is a rich theology behind that practice, but it was not foregrounded in my experience.

Kalamazoo ftw

So the problem with going to the International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo this year was that I enjoyed it way too much. I like standing up in front of a room full of thoughtful, interested people and telling them about an idea I had, and then listening to other people tell me their interesting ideas, and then all of us discussing it together. Which sounds strange, coming from a 100% introvert like me, but really. And I felt like a for-real, legitimate scholar again, which is a feeling I haven’t had for a while and so was pretty exhilarating.

Of course, it helps that I spent most of my time at the Arthuriana booth hanging out with people who I only see once a year, at Kzoo. I actually only went to one panel—mine—and when I wasn’t at the booth, I was wandering the exhibit hall or watching the cygnets on the pond with B. He came to the exhibit hall too—his first word was “book!” and his first sentence was “read da book!” so naturally I had to show him around. I bought a couple books—one of them because as soon as I walked in, my best friend took me by the elbow and dragged me over to it and put it in my hands :-) and one because it’s by an author I’ve been wanting to read and seems to hit the sweet spot where my personal interests and my research interests intersect. I bought nothing because it was on some sort of obligatory reading list or bibliography.

I also bought myself a hot pink t-shirt with a dragon picking his teeth with a sword after finishing off a knight. “Sometimes the dragon wins.”

Traveling overnight by myself was fun—I realized after I got home that this had been the first time I’ve done that since college, and the first time ever that I’ve stayed in a hotel room without any other adults. Taking a trip with just me and B was peaceful and pleasant—he and I are pretty laid back and prefer to just entertain ourselves quietly when in the hotel room and take in the scenery when out and about, so we’re perfect travel companions. Even if he does kick all the blankets off. Violently. All night.

So much space! Just for us!

Leftover Bilbo's pizza by the pond. Also a closeup of where he lost his unicorn horn.

I had been dreading going, to be honest. It seemed like it was going to be a big hassle just to give one little 15-minute talk for a line on a CV that no one was going to care about, but I’m glad I went. It felt more like a little vacation than a trip for work because it recharged parts of my brain that had gotten sluggish over the winter. I got new ideas for research and writing projects out of the discussion at the panel, plus new enthusiasm for working on them, thanks to some time spent talking shop with other academic-types. I hope it helps me build on that sweet spot, so that maybe someday the things I research inside and out and the things I care about will be the same things. That would be lovely.

On belonging

David and I have decided to officially join the church across the street. Depending on your background, this is either a huge commitment or an “oh, that’s nice” (I’ve done both types).

Our pastor has been very clear that our involvement in the church isn’t affected by our membership status. 

But we’re joining anyway.

We didn’t join the previous church we attended because we knew we were probably only going to be there for a few months. We would have happily stayed there for much longer if one of us had gotten a full-time job in Lafayette, but that didn’t happen. Still, we felt like we fit there. There was a sizable minority of people very like us—lots of academics, many of them in the “young adult” range (whatever that means), lots of people with similar life experiences and political views who had similar questions about faith and God, several of them also with babies around the same age as B. We made friends quickly, and if we had been able to stay longer, those friendships would have probably deepened easily. We had previously come from a church where, although we were members and had attended for almost ten years, we never felt quite like we belonged to the larger congregation (a feeling that grew progressively stronger the longer we were there and the more our beliefs evolved over those ten years, though we had a small group that we loved who I still miss), so fitting in like this was blissful.

When we knew we were moving, I scoured the internet for churches in the area like the one we had newly fallen in love with, but the closest church in that denomination was fifteen minutes away. This may not sound like much, but it’s become important to David and I that we worship in our community. When I was young, although my church was only five minutes away, I rarely went to school with any of the other kids there, first because they were in a different school district, then later because I was homeschooled or at a private school. It was hard to make connections with other kids when I only saw them in Sunday School or youth group while they saw each other every day. Much later, when David and I lived in Lafayette, we realized what a joy it was to be able to walk or ride bikes to church and to see friends from church around town every day (this is true, by the way, for both churches that we attended while we lived there).  

But then we bought a house here, and lo and behold, there was a church right across the street, in a denomination that I had only recently heard of but that I knew was “in full communion with” our second church in Lafayette. Tentatively, I began to investigate the website. My dissertation chair would call it “workmanlike”—it’s not pretty, but it gets the job done. I learned that there’s a quilting circle that’s been making quilts nonstop for something like six hundred years. The church’s history includes the date when they started having services in English instead of Swedish, and notes that many of the current members are descendants of the church’s founding families. The book club is reading something by Bill O’Reilly.

This all translates, by the way, to a congregation much older than us that is likely very very very set in their ways.

But I saw a picture of the pastor, who had only come to the church a few months earlier, and I thought, “Yeah. I’d like her to be my pastor.” So we decided to check it out.

I was right about the demographic. There were no babies except B. The pews were sparsely populated—my dad has taught Sunday School classes with a better turnout—and my little introverted self cringed at how INCREDIBLY CONSPICUOUS we were. It didn’t help that my kids are not at all in any way quiet. The two of them during prayer time made more noise than the entire congregation did during the singing (of songs I had never heard). Also they were having some kind of special Thing that day that involved everyone getting up and standing in a circle and holding candles. Eep.

Fortunately, the special Thing involved cake afterwards. And we talked to enough friendly people that I felt like we ought to give it another try the next week.

And then the next week.

And the next week.

And while we still didn’t “fit in,” I started to feel that maybe this was a place where we could belong. It’s an old church, and the village is older still, and the web of relationships is deep and intricate (there may or may not have been Game of Thrones jokes during a Sunday morning reading group) and incomprehensible to me, but what I can understand are the welcoming gestures inviting us to tie our own threads to the web wherever we can. Our next door neighbors, who Queen Mab adores (when she sees them pull in the driveway, she tries to sprint out the door to go greet them, and when they’re doing yardwork will follow them all over trying to help) are members, and the pastor are her family are in the parsonage next to the church. I see other members of the church at the library or at the cantina. Our house was built by early members of the church, and every family that has lived there since has attended there—we learn more about the house from talking to the neighbors and other church members than we ever learned from the realtor (who nevertheless is still the cousin of somebody we met the first Sunday we visited). Sunday School is the highlight of Mab’s week, and she will take off through the pews when it’s time to pass the peace to hug her friends and teacher and shake hands with all the grandparently types. Even B will try to climb the back of our pew to “shake-a hands!” with the people behind us.

Since I doubt we’ll ever “fit in,” in the sense of not being an obvious outlier, I’ve decided to just own my out-of-syncness. “I know you’ve introduced yourself to me and this is super awkward but I really can’t remember your name!” “Sorry, I don’t know how to pray like a Lutheran!” Years of attending conferences have trained me how to temporarily disable my introversion and actually talk to people for a little bit. It’s exhausting but rewarding. We joined the aforementioned reading group during Lent and went to all the midweek Lenten suppers, and now I’m on the education committee. We figure that if we’re going to belong, we’re going to have to make it happen. We’re not going to fall into community the way we did in the days when we made friends by sitting next to them in class and snarking our way through seminars.

And while this is an old church, and the pews are still less than half full most Sundays, and there are only three kids in Mab’s Sunday School class (and one of them is the pastor’s daughter), I believe in it.

They’re not one of the “cool” churches scrabbling for relevancy. Our pastor, who’s only a little less new to the area than us, is the first person to mark my forehead with ashes. The congregation has recently come through some major upheavals, and yet they’re still here, and they’re open to change. Because they know that to stagnate would be to close the church forever. Maybe if we had come here a couple years ago, it would have been different. I know there are still some people who are deeply unhappy with the new pastor and the new order of things who are currently keeping their heads down. A couple years ago they would likely have been much more influential, and maybe it would have made it harder for us to find a place here.

But we came now. That we were brought here at this particular time probably means something.

Most of them are not like us. Or we’re not like them. We’re not from the area, and we’re a couple generations younger than most of them. But they seem happy to have us, and I’m happy to be here.

So we’re joining. Because even if we don’t fit in, and even if it doesn’t affect the things we can or can’t do (or maybe because we don’t automatically fit in and it doesn’t affect our involvement), we want to say to the church, “Yes, we will stay and work with you and belong with you.” We don’t have to make the official commitment to be part of the church, but we’re doing it anyway.

(The day after we told the pastor we would join, I read this, which inspired this post)

My new art project

I had an "oh, duh...." parenting moment a couple weeks ago.

Queen Mab loves to write little notes to people. She'll scribble a little, draw a heart, and announce that it's a letter for Nana, or Daddy, or Auntie Kate (she's started pronouncing the "au" in Auntie like "ah," which is really delightful) So when I discovered while unpacking a bunch of little notepads left over from high school with my maiden name on them (I didn't write many notes back then!) I gave them to her.

Then Valentine's Day happened, and the deluge began.

There were little notes EVERYWHERE. Little hearts, little stars, little scribbles, piled up in the corners of the kitchen and the pantry and getting soggy on the bathroom floor. It was madness. I gathered fistfuls of them to recycle.

One day, though, she asked me if I would draw her a heart.

So I did, and I hung it in the entryway doors so she could see it as soon as she came home from school. She was ecstatic.

She liked it so much, in fact, that a week or so later as she and I spent a pleasant hour drawing together, I made her this.

Of course she loved it too.

But it wasn't until several weeks later that I realized, as I swept up still more little scribbled notes, that if this was how she was trying to communicate her love to us, maybe that's because this is what would make her feel loved. So I scribbled this down one day and stuck it in her lunchbox.

When she came home from school she was practically bouncing. She loved it! She told me how happy she was when her teacher read it to her!
...

Oh, right. She can't read yet (well, not well enough to read Mommy's scribbled notes, anyway).

So I started sending stuff like this instead.

A sauropod having a snack, Mab with her Nana and Papa, a Happy Thursday sunflower, and a tap-dancing Triceratops.

I like to think her behavior has improved since she's been getting these little notes. But even if it's not, it's still worth the effort, because I know she feels loved. Yesterday on the way home from school, she told me how much she liked the picture she'd gotten that day (the sauropod eating an apple) and said, "You're a really good artist, Mommy. I can tell you put a lot of effort into that."

If I hadn't been driving I would have hugged her. It was hilariously adorable to hear her saying back to me the same things I say to her about her artwork.

And Mab isn't the only one who's benefiting from this. It's hard parenting Mab sometimes. I think it's probably harder being Mab, though. The world is an intense place when you have big emotions, limited life experience, and everyone else is twice as big as you (except the toddler, who is the same size and always wants the exact thing you're holding/doing right at that moment). And when I spent a few minutes every day trying to think of what kind of little picture I can draw that will make her smile, I find myself seeing the world from her perspective. And when she's furious and exhausted and screaming and hitting, it's easier to pick her up and go sit someplace quiet with her until she's calm enough to talk to me, rather than scream back. 

I remember reading about an analysis of a bunch of studies on the efficacy of spanking children, which revealed that while spanking didn't actually improve the child's behavior (if anything, it had the opposite effect), it did make the parents think the behavior had improved. When I make these notes for Mab, I feel more connected to her, and that sense of connection helps me parent her more patiently. I lose my temper less, and so even if her behavior is the same, I feel better about it because I'm not losing control over the situation.

Even if her behavior hasn't improved, mine certainly has, and the end result is a happier, more peaceful Mab and Mommy.