Spongebob Squarepants. You either love him, or you hate him. Personally, I love him, not only because of his childlike mannerism or naiveté, or even the fact that we both have a split between our teeth, but because I can relate to him on a deeper level. You see, I too, like Spongebob Sqaurepants, am a goofy goober.
So what makes me a goofy goober? It comes down to little things, those seemingly insignificant things that I find myself doing on a daily basis. Things like going 'weeeeee!' out loud on the swings, running around like a child, blowing bubbles. You may be thinking, yeah sure, you do those things because you're a mom and your kids expect it of you. But the thing is, I have enjoyed goofy activities like this before I became a mom - doing them around my kids just makes me seem less like a wacko in the eyes of society today.
But why does society frown on acting goofy as an adult? Why does society dictate that, once we hit the age of 30, or maybe even 20, that blowing bubbles is no longer acceptable? It's like those signs by the cash register that say 'No alcohol under 16' (this is Europe) - if it was up to society, they'd also have signs saying: 'No blowing bubbles over 25'!
I have accepted the fact that I am a goofy goober. So has my husband, thank God. My husband, who had lost all contact with his inner-goofy goober years before we met, has been known to let his guard down and be a goofy goober again, every now and then. I have been a major influence on him as far as goofy gooberness goes - he knew that I was a goofy goober (a trait that goes far back in the Hennessey gene pool, incidentally) when he married me (even the third time). He accepted that life with me would involve regular amounts of goofy gooberness. Now that we have kids, that amount has increased tenfold, which helps him to rediscover his inner-goofy goober every day anew. For someone who is not born with natural goofy gooberness like me, it's a challenge for him. But it's a challenge we face together.
Being a goofy goober makes me a better parent, I'm convinced of that. You have to be a goofy goober at times just to cope with the challenges of parenthood. I mean, how else can you come up with songs about doing a pee-pee on the potty? You can't. Not with a straight face in any case. It takes a degree of goofy gooberism to accomplish a task like that.
I believe everyone has a goofy goober within them, it's simply a matter of letting it out. Ask yourself this: when is the last time you giggled inanely, ate ice-cream that had a face on it, or played with your food? When is the last time you flew a kite, sang along to a Disney movie or ran after an ice-cream truck? When is the last time you made a daisy chain, finger-painted or did the puzzle on the back of the cereal box? Yesterday? Last week? Last year? Too long ago to remember? Then you might just need a new mantra. Memorize these few lines and by doing so, you can create a portal through which the goofy goober in you can emerge:
I'm a goofy goober, yeah.
You're a goofy goober, yeah.
We're all goofy goobers, yeah.
Goofy goofy goober goobers yeah.
We're all goofy goobers. Yeah. You, me, the mailman, the pope. Your mom, your neighbor, even that guy who picks his nose behind his newspaper on the subway in the morning. When you're chewing a piece of gum, can you remember how to blow a bubble? When you're going out to get the mail, why not try whistling a tune? If you feel like making pancakes, why not make them in animal shapes? Add some food coloring to your glass of milk! Draw mustaches and missing teeth on the photos of people in the newspaper! Fold a paper airplane out of that jury duty notice! Be a goofy goober! Yeah! Do it today! (It'll be the best day ever.)
Showing posts with label genes. Show all posts
Showing posts with label genes. Show all posts
May 22, 2010
April 14, 2010
I've Got Designer Genes.
When I was eleven or so, my dad and I were having one of those talks about what I was going to be when I grew up. I don't remember exactly what I said to him, but I remember at one point he told me I had 'designer genes'. I remember being shocked, since I was sure I didn't own a pair of designer jeans at all! Much later, it became clear to me what he meant, and that it was true.
My parents are both designers - my dad is an industrial designer and my mom is a photographer. My brothers are also both designers. In my early teens, I tried to rebel against design. You see, I wanted to be an artist, like my grandfather. I wanted to use pure mediums like charcoal and wear oil paint stains on my clothes and go around smelling of terpentine, like a real artist should! I wanted to roll up my sleeves and mix my own sweat and tears into my work; only then could I consider myself a true artist.
After art school, what did I end up doing? I became a graphic designer. And after that? A fashion designer. My dad was right - I really do have designer genes. It's undeniably genetic.
Now that I'm a mom, I am curious as anything about what my kids will grow up to be. They have such an interesting mix of creative genes in them! Next to all the artsy folk in my own family, my husband is the result of an artistic gene-pool as well (which is incidentally probably why we accept one another's eccentric behavior; we're just used to it). He is a professional musician and his parents were both artists.
Both of us can't help but assume our children will be artistic in one way or another when they grow up. Heck, they already are! My daughter Mia was able to draw with a crayon before she could even feed herself, and my son Bram can beat out a rhythm with his bottle that would make Steve Gadd green with envy.
When Bram plays a tune on the keyboard, Mia starts doing arabesques. And when they're finished, they applaud for themselves. They're natural-born performers.
When Mia wants a new dress, she will skip into my studio and point out exactly which fabrics she wants, how many pleats she wants and which trimmings she wants it to be trimmed with. Her gift for styling at three-and-a-half just blows me away.
When Bram empties out his box of blocks, he immediately begins constructing the world's most inconceivably high tower. He's two years old, and he has a dream.
When Mia sees anything that even remotely resembles a flower, she goes ape. She cannot resist the temptation to pluck even the teeniest weed or dead bit of grass if she thinks it would look nice in a bouquet. Her eye for composition is astounding.
But there are also times when my kids are about as artistic as a sack of potatoes. When Bram tries to paint, he seems to think the object of the activity is to throw as many paintbrushes as he can on the ground and then run all over the paper while giggling madly. And when Mia was recently introduced to the concept of painting Easter Eggs, she was much more interested in how quickly she could make them spin them around till they rolled off the table and broke. (Needless to say, we had a lot of egg salad sandwiches that day.)
I have to remind myself, they are still kids. They are doing what all kids are doing at the same age, so before I go and declare how amazingly artistically-inclined they are, I should probably take a step back and just let them do what they think they're doing, namely, making a mess and having a really good time in the process.
And at the end of the day, who knows, they might just both grow up to be accountants. Which is absolutely fine with me...as long as they're accountants with a passion for music and flower-arranging, that is.
My parents are both designers - my dad is an industrial designer and my mom is a photographer. My brothers are also both designers. In my early teens, I tried to rebel against design. You see, I wanted to be an artist, like my grandfather. I wanted to use pure mediums like charcoal and wear oil paint stains on my clothes and go around smelling of terpentine, like a real artist should! I wanted to roll up my sleeves and mix my own sweat and tears into my work; only then could I consider myself a true artist.
After art school, what did I end up doing? I became a graphic designer. And after that? A fashion designer. My dad was right - I really do have designer genes. It's undeniably genetic.
Now that I'm a mom, I am curious as anything about what my kids will grow up to be. They have such an interesting mix of creative genes in them! Next to all the artsy folk in my own family, my husband is the result of an artistic gene-pool as well (which is incidentally probably why we accept one another's eccentric behavior; we're just used to it). He is a professional musician and his parents were both artists.
Both of us can't help but assume our children will be artistic in one way or another when they grow up. Heck, they already are! My daughter Mia was able to draw with a crayon before she could even feed herself, and my son Bram can beat out a rhythm with his bottle that would make Steve Gadd green with envy.
When Bram plays a tune on the keyboard, Mia starts doing arabesques. And when they're finished, they applaud for themselves. They're natural-born performers.
When Mia wants a new dress, she will skip into my studio and point out exactly which fabrics she wants, how many pleats she wants and which trimmings she wants it to be trimmed with. Her gift for styling at three-and-a-half just blows me away.
When Bram empties out his box of blocks, he immediately begins constructing the world's most inconceivably high tower. He's two years old, and he has a dream.
When Mia sees anything that even remotely resembles a flower, she goes ape. She cannot resist the temptation to pluck even the teeniest weed or dead bit of grass if she thinks it would look nice in a bouquet. Her eye for composition is astounding.
But there are also times when my kids are about as artistic as a sack of potatoes. When Bram tries to paint, he seems to think the object of the activity is to throw as many paintbrushes as he can on the ground and then run all over the paper while giggling madly. And when Mia was recently introduced to the concept of painting Easter Eggs, she was much more interested in how quickly she could make them spin them around till they rolled off the table and broke. (Needless to say, we had a lot of egg salad sandwiches that day.)
I have to remind myself, they are still kids. They are doing what all kids are doing at the same age, so before I go and declare how amazingly artistically-inclined they are, I should probably take a step back and just let them do what they think they're doing, namely, making a mess and having a really good time in the process.
And at the end of the day, who knows, they might just both grow up to be accountants. Which is absolutely fine with me...as long as they're accountants with a passion for music and flower-arranging, that is.
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