My latest post on the difficulties of young parenthood has loosened something in the back of my mind. In a few others’ too; thank you so much for your encouraging messages! These small replies might not seem like much to you, but they do to me. So again, thank you.
I’d like to take a shot at solving the problems that surfaced. I’m playing The Long Game now—I should enjoy the daily small wins, knowing that it’ll be an exhausting ultramarathon, not a short sprint. I never fully realise this but a friend of mine might be right: I usually overly focus on the negatives instead of cherishing what I already have.
So how to turn that around? Perhaps I should simply repeat an experiment from 2013. In one of the first blog posts ever to appear on this site, I explain how I end my days with happy thoughts. I never thought I’d cross-reference to something more than 10 years old but there it is. The idea is simple: instead of letting frustration roar at full speed inside, try to shift your attention to small wins. Tiny little things that unlocked a smile are enough. A daddy, look! perhaps.
This is what I came up with in my journal:
A 'small wins' logbook in my journal.
The “small wins” page spread should cover the entire month and is divided into four columns: (1) day indication, (2) small win description/remarks, (3) mood, and (4) physique. It should be dead-easy to fill in otherwise I won’t be doing it, hence the Studio Ghibli stamps. Totoro happy? Me happy. Totoro OK? Me so-so. Totoro with umbrella? Me expecting emotional rainfall. I have yet to stamp a happy Totoro in there but the point is mostly to what you’d call “get a grip”.
For that reason, I don’t want to write anything neutral or negative in the second column. I’ll be needing a fine nib to squeeze everything in there. Maybe I should ignore the “remarks” title altogether. I wrote “TIRED” next to the first umbrella, but should I?
A considerate reader told me they take more pictures of their kids just running around in and around the house to look back on fondly afterwards. That’s sound advice. We should do that more often and forget about it in the many hectic moments. I re-read three journals from a few years ago today and the pasted in photos (mostly from the pocket printer) always make me smile. Our daughter found the photos of the baby funny: “hey look, that’s mom and little brother!” “No it’s not, it’s you when you were a little baby!” “oh wow! but now I already am high up in the sky!”. Note to self: order new pocket printer sheets.
The Long Game means leaving short bursts of dopamine behind. And yet I find myself buying fountain pens—the last purchase was three years ago—or scrolling through BoardGameGeek’s The Hotness list to see what else I can pick up after I sold a few ones just lying around on the shelf. I often try to escape into my laptop or book or whatever when things get heated with the kids. I notice I grab my smartphone during breakfast while I never did that before. The Long Game means noticing, admitting, and trying to change behaviour. I guess stage one is as good as any place to start.
The youngest gave me a really hard time today. In August I’ll be playing daddy-day-care for both of them and I already feel slight hints of panic rolling my way. The Long Game means acknowledging it’s going to be a mess but we’re going to be okay regardless. As my favourite philosopher Michel de Montaigne said: the purpose of life is to live it.
A short sprint would mean this to be over in no-time. The look back into my previous journals already taught me that The Long Game is more than fast enough: one day you’re writing “hey today the first one said bye bye and walked off onto the street for the first time!” and the next day you find yourself writing “next month the youngest turns one what happened??”
Small steps. Small wins.
I’ll be writing them down.
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