Emoti-meter check-in

Sometimes the babies know.

We've instituted a check in during dinner time, a way to see who everyone handled the day. Sometimes I have my own opinions about how one child or the other moved through their day, but often their assessment of their day lines up with my lived experience of being with them. Most often this check-in happens at the dinner table.

me: So how is everyone feeling about their day today?

Sean: I don't know... maybe a 50 or 60%?

Audrey: 60 or 70% - this has been a pretty good day.

Frankie: 100%! 

me: oh really?

Frankie: Yeah. But I did feel tired, so tired is a 1%.

It's more of an art than a science.

Two days ago there was an emotional blow up because because I asked Sean to empty the dishwasher. Last night there was a blow up because I asked Audrey to remove herself from the bathroom where she and Frankie were goofing off with their toothbrushes instead of brushing their teeth. I don't mind when the emotional blow up involves the throwing of things, but I prefer those things to be soft. Gratefully no one has yet to try to throw breakable objects while mad. One of the above mentioned exploders did try to lift the couch by the fabric, but no harm was done.

I encourage the kids to get their feelings out. More often than not the emotional release that comes after an angry fit is exactly what they needed. It can increase a day's emoti-meter from 50 to 75% or even higher: almost 90%.

Our youngest has discovered another way of handling her emotions. A couple weeks ago, after doing about as many worksheets with her mother as her poor heart could handle, she just stopped doing them. While I was focused on reading emails, helping other children send in their school work to their socially distant teachers, she would wander away, find dolls to play with, create a Lego town, and raise that emoti-meter to 95%. Calling her back to the table to do worksheets, her emoti-meter would swoop down to 40%, she would slide down her chair, staring at me, brow furrowed, a look of disdain in her eyes.

Of course I understood that she was happier playing with toys than doing school work. It wasn't until I just stopped making her do any worksheets, though, that she called me into her lair of toys. Inside this calm atmosphere she gave me a tour.

Frankie: Mommy, come look at this. All the Calico Critters are placed in their homes: this is the daddy, he's going to the bathroom.

Ah, so it's documentary style.

Frankie: This is the kitchen where the Mommy is baking something. This is the treehouse where the kids are playing.

Not one critter was sitting in front of a computer, no worksheets were being completed.

Then yesterday, she brought down barbies and stuffed animals to the living room. She set up a world on the coffee table, and she brought me over to understand exactly why these characters were in their happy place.

Frankie: Mommy, you see all the people?

me: I do. I do.

I glanced around seeing the barbies with gnarled hair, over 30 years of use and storage. I saw the outfits that looked brand new in the 80s, now faded and permanently wrinkled. But Frankie saw something else.

Frankie: Mommy, do you see these babies over here? 

Strawberry Shortcake was sitting on the coffee table while an American Girl Doll sat on the couch, two feet away.

Frankie: They are social distancing. And this baby here?

A small, plastic, naked baby lay inside a cork coaster.

me: Yeah?

Frankie: This is a meditating baby.

The key to enlightenment is a coffee table cork coaster, nestled in amongst well-loved toys and a hunkered down home.