Act now, ask later

It’s the middle of January, and our neighbor’s pond has frozen, thawed and frozen again. We are in the minuses. The deep freeze has set in and the doldrums are making themselves comfortable.

“Use at your own risk,” the sweet-sounding neighbor on the other end of the line says the day I call to introduce myself. Our conversation flows easily, like brushing fluffy snow off a car window.

“It’s really something,” we both agree, speaking of the frozen wonder that lies between our two yards. We talk about meeting there one day. Bundling up and seeing each other’s faces, maybe even venturing out onto the ice.

“This means the world to my husband,” I say.

He is excited by the prospect of skating like a 12-year-old again, knocking a puck around and teaching our son to balance on the blades.

When he was a kid he played street hockey every afternoon and ice hockey on the weekends. A group he called "the degenerates" would knock on his door at 1 a.m. and his half-asleep father would yell for him.

They would smoke in the car, and my husband — a boy too young to shave — would hold in his coughs. Ice time was hard to come by and goalies were too. So when my husband volunteered to get shot at, the degenerates jumped at the chance. 

“I really don’t know what my parents were thinking,” he said during a car ride to the cape years later.

“They were thinking, it made you happy."

We give ourselves permission all the time. Most of the time, we ask only out of politeness. “What would you have done if she said no?” speaking of our neighbor, owner of the pond. He doesn’t flinch. “I would have built an ice rink in our backyard.”

We all know what we want. A frozen rink to skate on, a yoga mat to stretch on, a piece of chocolate to munch on.

Act now, ask for forgiveness later.

My son puts himself in timeout. He is 2. Too young for self control, too old not to know better. On days he is feeling his oats, he stands up on a chair, pulls the dog treats from the cabinet and feeds them to the furry creature all at once.

“Finley eat it!” he says.

I freeze at the sight of the decadent, meaty treats devoured in one helping.

I believe my son would like to see our golden grow to be as big as Clifford, the skyscraper-sized red dog in his bedtime book. I scoop the bag from the floor and correct. “Now, his belly will hurt.”

I am fuming, but before I can say it, before I can even point to the general direction, the words slip from the mouth of my babe. “Timeout?”

“Yes, timeout,” I say.

He marches to the chair, giggling as he goes.

“Think about what you did,” I tell him. “When you’re sorry you can get up.”

At yoga that morning, the instructor enlightens us with simple wisdom. Be kinder to yourself. Give yourself permission to relax.

There’s that word again.

The unspoken words are: Try holding yourself up in a pushup position for 30 seconds, then lower yourself down, but not completely, then back up. Repeat this, oh say, 20 times. Then, and only then, collapse. Somewhere in between down dog and relax pose, I think about the earlier part of my day.  

“I sorry,” a little voice rings like a bell in my head. Arms reach up and a hug follows. Then the question, “Canna I’ve a choc-olate?”

It’s 8:30 a.m. and the m&ms are staring at back at us from the countertop.

What do you think? I ask.

“Yeeup.” the little voice booms with confidence.