Wounding and Binding Up

There is something therapeutic about tearing something apart with your own bare hands and then putting it back together again to make something, if not better, different.  Lest you think I have been performing demolition work on my cute little cracker box house, I have not.  I am talking about the fine art of the collage. 

I am not what I would consider an artistic person.  I love art, but I always feel out of my depth doing art . . . and very rarely am I happy with the results.  Collages, however, are one of my go-to activities with the kids.  The whole intent is deconstruction, so they can't possibly harm anything! 

I realized tonight, however, that there is also something spiritual about the entire process of collage-making. 

This evening's collage began with a glass of milk.  All the "kid cups" were in the dishwasher, so I pulled out a couple of ceramic mugs for supper.  Not a problem.  The kids are actually very trustworthy with glassware. 

The problem came 30 seconds before I served supper.  I was about to drain the pasta when my son grabbed his mug and literally threw milk all over the dining area.    Oh, yes.  Two sides of the turtle tank (which is supposed to be vacating the premises, by the way), covered with milk.  Floor, flooded with milk.  Cute little orange tent, oh yeah, bathed in milk.  Mommy's chair, drenched in milk. 

(I later found out he thought the cup was empty and was as appalled--almost--as I was . . . but this was much later!)

For forty years, my great-grandfather, my grandfather, and my father have all blandly said, "It's no use crying over spilt milk."  Easy for them to say . . . they've never had to clean it up!  I banished my kids to their bedrooms while I began cleaning up the milk. 

I don't know about the other Moms out there, but there are times for coming in to talk to this Mom and there are times to stay in your room and await a summons.  This was definitely the latter.  My son wanted to make it the former.  So I yelled at him, and he yelled at me, and neither one of us was feeling very good about ourselves or each other. 

It didn't take me very long to either calm down or clean up, truth be told, and so began that exquisite form of self-punishment: Mommy-guilt.  Maybe you other Moms don't suffer from Mommy-guilt, but I get it in spades.  Even when I shouldn't.  But at this particular time, especially with my male ancestors' words ringing in my ears, Mommy-guilt was going full throttle, and I felt like the worst mother in the world. 

So I go in and try to practice some restorative justice with my son.  (This is another link that you should definitely follow, especially if you're a parent.  I am just learning how to implement it, but I can attest that it really is a healing process . . . for all involved.) 

We talked about what each of us did, why we did it, and where we went wrong.  Then I said, "What can I do to help make it right?"  (Those are scary words to say, by the way!)  My son has a thing about making cards for people in all situations (my little gift-giver!), so that was his first response.  We've done this before, so I said, "Are you sure that's what you want, or do you want something different?" 

His eyes lit up and he said, "I know what we can do together.  Let's make a collage." 

Me and my big mouth.  A collage.  It's 6pm, we haven't had supper yet, bedtime is at 7pm, and it's Saturday night bath night so everybody can be squeaky-clean for church.  But that's the thing about this process--it's not about me, it's about him at this point.  "Okay." 

So we eat supper and pull out the old horse calendar pages that my wonderful college buddy sends me every year.  My son wants to use tape rather than glue.  Okay.  I don't want to use scissors, so I suggest we tear them instead.  A puzzled look.  "Like when we make piñatas?"

"Yup."  He's in.

So we tear around our favorite horses and tape them into place.  Or that's what I do.  He tapes three across the middle, attaches one to the very edge of the sheet, and then proceeds to accumulate a collection of his "favorites" that he doesn't want to part with.  (That's my boy!)  My daughter, meanwhile, has one sheet that she has managed to cover in tape; she just likes putting the tape on.

By the time we were done, we had a lovely equine collage taped to the table.  (My son was confused as to why that would not be a good permanent location for his artwork . . . )  My son and daughter were chattering happily, and I--while still under the influences of a stress headache--felt like we would all survive the evening with no indelible emotional scars. 

After kissing them goodnight, I looked at the collage and thought, "He tears, but he also binds up."  Now that is a gross misquotation of Job 5:18, but at that moment, it seemed appropriate.  I had overreacted and caused hurt feelings.  It was in my hands to mitigate that pain or cause it to grow. 

With the help an outdated calendar, a fish-shaped tape dispenser, and our bare hands, we bound up each other's wounds and found healing.