So what do you think?

Do people change? Really change? In ways that matter?

It’s a philosophical-ish question that comes up often when talking about relationships. Usually, when one person is considering severing a relationship.

I’ve participated in or observed the same conversation more than a few times. The general equation goes something like this:

• “I can’t live with this person as they are” + x = y
  • Where x= “People don’t change,” y = “Therefore, I have to end the relationship.”
  • Where x=”He/she’s really changed this time,” y = “Therefore, I’m sticking it out. Stop bugging me about it.”

Since this conversation is usually pertaining to a person who represents a significant relationship in the life of the theorist in question, x is obviously a pretty important variable.  

I don’t pretend to know the answer with any certainty, but I will give my unqualified (but experienced) opinion.  

People don’t change, but they do grow (sometimes).   When it comes to personality, temperament, and other things that equate to basically the “operating system” of a functioning human being, I don’t think people change substantially.  

But they do upgrade to the latest stable version.  Sometimes.  

They become a better version of themselves.  They become more functional.  They get healthier.  Sometimes.

The problem with that answer, though, is the “sometimes.”  Because people who are twisting in the wind over the “do people change” theorem don’t find “sometimes” helpful.  ”Sometimes” doesn’t dictate a value for y, namely “What on earth do I do about this painful relationship?” 

“Sometimes” still requires that you answer the question “what am I going to do about it?” instead of assuming the answer depends on whether or not the other person can or will stop hurting you.  The buck stops with you in deciding the course of the relationship.  

If x != “People don’t/do change,” and instead x = “I’m willing to stay and see if this person will grow/I’m not willing to stay and see if this person will grow,” then y is all on you.  

Which can be pretty darn scary.

Or pretty darn empowering.  Take your pick.

I should be sleeping now. After staying up till 3 a.m. last night (which is the subject of another post for later), I was intent on getting to bed early tonight.

The boys went out to do some late evening shopping, leaving me with the Queen. We watched Tom & Jerry. We watched Scooby Doo. It was time for bed.

“Can I sleep with you until Daddy comes home?”

“Can you be quiet and go to sleep?” I ask this knowing that she’s going to say yes, but also knowing the actual answer is no. We get jammyfied and settle in. Five minutes later, I’m giggling uncontrollably because she has talked continuously.

She gets quiet for just a moment. Then she tells me about her day. My four-year-old has a Nemesis. Nemesis is another four-year-old at the babysitter’s. I don’t know why she’s a Nemesis, but you can clearly tell in the tone of my daughter’s voice when she talks about her. She gleefully recounts that Nemesis did not get to play in the playroom today.

“Nemesis* gives me a headache. She calls me a wacko, and it gives me a headache,” says the Queen, in a very put-upon tone. How all that drama fits into a four year old, I will never know.

“Mmm hmmm,” I say drowsily, hoping to convince her that I’m falling asleep.

“You know what, Mom? We have to do what God says. God and Jesus.”

“Mmm hmmm.” *short pause*

“They’re brothers, right? God and Jesus?”

I can’t help but giggle. “Jesus is God’s son.” I’m still trying for a drowsy tone.

“I knew that. I just forgot that part.”

*short pause*

“When is Grandma coming back?”

“Ask your Grandpa.”

“Not my Papaw. He’s your dad.”

“No. Your Papaw won’t know when Grandma is coming back.”

*short pause*

“I saw your mom once.”

“When did you see my mom?”

“You showed me a picture once.”

“Oh. Yeah. She looked a lot like you.”

“Yeah…but a little taller than me.” More giggles from me. Giggles from her.

“Bubby and Aunt Bobbi are the same tall.” My sister is fairly short–and while my son isn’t quite as tall as she is, from the Queen’s perspective, it’s too close to call.

“They’re almost the same tall, yes.”

“But you’re taller. You’re the same tall as Dad.” I decide not to quibble about the 3 or 4 inches in height that separates me and Chris.

And with that, the Queen had said her piece. A minute later, she was snoring softly.

I should be asleep right now. But I needed to capture this moment.

Sweet dreams.

This year is not about me.  

As I write this on Sunday afternoon, I’m sitting in my living room, watching my kids decorate the Christmas tree.   Johnny Mathis is singing Christmas songs from our cd player–the same Christmas songs, in digital format, that my husband and his family listened to on scratchy vinyl every year when he was growing up.  Earlier this weekend, the kids baked the same Christmas cookies with their grandma that my husband’s mom baked every year of his childhood.  

My husband grew up in a military family.  They moved around a lot until he was in late elementary school.  Then, after he joined the military, his parents moved out west to Tucson, so when we moved back here, he rarely got to see them during the holidays.  Of the two of us, I think he has a harder time connecting to his own past, family traditions and heritage.

As for me, I find myself locked in something of a “No Man’s Land.”  My family holiday memories and traditions thoughout my childhood were dominated by my mom’s side of the family.   With the loss of my mom and maternal grandparents in the last five years, all the assumptions I made about my place in the scheme of all things family, including family holidays, has pretty much been blown to heck.  I have no idea where I fit, or even if I fit.  

The old is gone, and the new is not yet formed.  

If the holidays are a metaphorical flagship of traditions, memories and events, it’s a ship that I am making no attempt to steer this year.  I am more or less just along for the ride.  

I’ll happily pitch in as a deckhand where needed, when asked, and when I have a free hand to do so.  But I am not in charge here.  It’s best for all concerned that this year be, mostly, about my husband, and his heritage and traditions and sense of family continuity.  It’s important, both for him, and our kids.  

In the past couple of years, I have made declarations that “this is the year I will be reclaiming the holidays.” As if the season from Halloween to New Year’s Day is some uninhabited land that needs a flag planted on it, so it can be claimed for Spain or something.  

There’s a reason for that, of course.

Some people associate the holidays with their appropriate cultural and religious contexts.  Some of us associate them with loss and grief.  My declarations for the past few years have been an attempt to forcibly move myself from the latter camp to former.  All my attempts to reclaim the holidays in previous years have been  like someone trying to train for a football game on a leg that has been broken and still isn’t fully healed.  

In sitting on the sidelines this year, I’ve gotten to just enjoy watching everyone else do what they like.  It’s been good to not be the captain of the ship, or the football team, whichever metaphor you prefer.  

For the first time I feel like I have some clarity about the specifics of what a “new” set of traditions for our family could be.   I think that maybe Chris and I can come together and start really collaborating on a new set of traditions, starting next year.  A set of holiday traditions that honors not only his family and past and mine, but the present, and the future.

“I wouldn’t say I was a planner, no.  I’m more of a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants gal.  Moment to moment, that’s me.”  Vivian, Pretty Woman

I spent ten minutes before bed tonight thinking about tomorrow.

I thought about where my keys, cell phone, shoes and jacket are.  As an INFP, I’m prone to misplacing any and all of these items.

I thought about what I’m going to wear tomorrow, and made sure those items were clean and laid out.

I thought about my daughter, whom I’ll be getting ready and dropping off at the sitter’s, and made sure she had a clean, warm outfit handy.

I thought about coffee, and set the pot to have some brewed when I wake up tomorrow.

I  thought about my car, and how much gas is in the tank, and whether I’d need a fill-up on my way to work.

Ten minutes.  It’s not a big investment of time.  And aside from walking around my house and looking for things, it was mostly just thinking, not really doing anything. Worst case scenario, I’d have had to stay up an extra half hour to run a load of laundry and pop it into the dryer, or run out for 20 minutes to gas up my car.  Technically, I could probably have done both in the same 30 minute wash cycle.

But what if I woke up tomorrow, and realized THEN that I had no clean pants?  Or my daughter didn’t have a warm outfit clean?  Or that I was nearly out of gas?

What if I couldn’t remember where my keys, shoes or cell phone were?

What would the rest of my day be like?

The “return on investment” for thinking ahead is not always what you gain.  Often, it’s the loss you don’t experience.

For some people, this “thinking ahead” comes naturally.  They may read what I just wrote and think “You may as well have said ‘I breathed last night before I went to bed.’  Duh!”

Others may read it and even that short description of a very bare bones “before bed routine” might seem overwhelmingly out of character.  It’s an effort, albeit a small one, and for us “non-planner, moment to moment gals” (or guys) we’re usually already exhausted (mostly because of what happens because we don’t think ahead.)

So we have to sell ourselves on thinking ahead.  Ten minutes of mostly just thinking is a fairly easy sell, and one that pays pretty decent, immediately gratifying dividends.

It’s a starting place; a beginning to build on.