Recently, I discovered something new about myself.  This was exciting for a woman of my years, who thought that discovering anything new about herself seemed, by now,  a statistical impossibility.  But while reading The Creative Habit by Twyla Tharp, I came across an idea that explained, to some degree, why I think the way I do.  And perhaps it will do the same for you.  It’s a theory offered by (who else?) the ancient Greeks, who had two words—zoe and bios-–to distinguish two fundamental, differing perceptions of Life (capital intended, forgive the pomp.)

Says Tharp:  “Zoe and bios both mean life in Greek, but they are not synonymous.  Zoe…refers to life in general, without characterization.  Bios characterizes a specific life, the outlines that distinguish one living thing from another.  Bios is the Greek root for ‘biography,’ zoe for ‘zoology.'”

In short, zoe means the big picture, bios, the details.  Though most of us think somewhere in between the two, we all lean to one side in how we interpret and define the world around us.  Do you like to see things close up or far away?  Do you look at the grand and sweeping or the minute and measurable?  Do you read a book for its plot or its rhythm?  Do your favorite movies tell a story or convey a mood?

You’re probably thinking:  both!  And you are right.  We all want a great plot that creates a great mood; we all want to see the big picture of life while relishing in the details.  But think about what headlines grab your attention, how you relate an anecdote to a friend and, for that matter, which anecdotes you choose to relate at all.  What makes you the happiest about the world we live in?  What are you most afraid of?

Your answers may reveal whether you operate in the theater of zoe or bios.  One is no more valid than the other; they are simply different ways of engaging, different means to an end.  Bios tells a story with Life as the backdrop; in zoe, Life is the story itself.  Bios is defined; zoe, more abstract.  Zoe vs. Bios is why paintings on a blank canvas with a big red splotch dripping down it get swooned over by some people and rolled eyes from others; the first crowd sees their own feelings of isolation or anger in the big red splotch; they are the zoes.  (Is that a word?  let’s make it one.)  The bios crowd, on the other hand, interprets the story of Life by following the actual life of its subject (thus biography.)  Bios folks are inspired by the hero’s valiant actions in the movie; zoe folks are likely more inspired by the soundtrack.

So, which one are you?  At first I thought I was bios because, well, its important to me to be able to describe the smell of sour cream–obviously an up-close, detailed approach to things.  But then I realized that my finding relevance in the smell of sour cream plops me squarely into the zoe camp, because my interest isn’t really in the smell of sour cream, it’s about what that smell of sour cream means on a larger scale:  Anticipation.  Memory.  Ordinary, and Ordinary’s many wonders—all things that zoe concerns itself with.  A bios gal, on the other hand, seeks meaning by determining who’s smelling the sour cream, and why.  (Good question, bios.  Smelling sour cream in the first place is never, ever a good sign.)

You may wonder:  why figure this out about yourself?  I think it’s because the better you know how your mind functions, the better use you can make of it.  If you’re zoe, forget trying to be bios, and if you’re bios, don’t try to pull off zoe.  Read and learn and see and create in the sphere your mind requires–and, more importantly, enjoys.  You can switch-hit to some degree, but it will require vastly more effort to exist in the one if you’re naturally inclined to live in the other.   

As for me, I’m just glad to finally understand why I like movies like Shadowlands, books like Crossing to Safety, and tv shows like Seinfeld—the original “show about Nothing.”  About Nothing?  About Everything.  At least that’s the way we zoes see it.

First:  Did putting “BigBig” in front of “Giveaway” trick anybody into thinking it was, in fact, a bigbig giveaway?  No?  Shoot.

But it is my first giveaway ever, and that alone merits the two exclamation points rendered.  And truthfully, I think any book given or received–but most importantly, read--is a BigBig Deal, for obvious reasons that I’ve already beaten my poor readers over the head with many, many times.  (Thank you for taking it, poor readers.  I know I don’t deserve you.)  Now that I’ve thoroughly disclaimed whatever-it-is-I’m-disclaiming, I’m happy to announce that the BigBig Giveaway Grand Prize Winner is….Rachel Short of Salem, Oregon!  For her brilliant answer of Beautiful Ruins by Jess Walter.

You may be wondering why I said this was a title every middle-aged woman can relate to.  Maybe I’m projecting my own issues onto an entire generation, but these two words sum up how I feel every time I look in the mirror these days.  (It was once beautiful.  Now it’s in ruins.)  Perhaps midlife is treating your mirror more kindly.  I hope so.  (And can I borrow your mirror?)

Indulge me as I pause and tell you that I am not surprised my dear friend Rachel got this right, as she and I have been living quasi-parallel lives since we met in an ill-fated piano class during our freshmen year of college.  We were both there to polish what we thought were our already well-honed piano skills, until we looked around and saw a classroom full of Mormon prodigies who could, um, like, perform–and I mean for real.  We hated our teacher and were pretty sure she hated us too.  (She was mean.) (And got mad when we didn’t practice.)  The class would have been a disaster had not our twenty-year friendship sprung out of it which, of course, transformed it into a smashing success.  (Unlike our end-of-semester solos.)

Mr. Walter will be gracing Bella Voce in May, and I’m thrilled to go stalk see him during Portland’s beautiful spring.  Who knows?  Maybe another Rebecca Skloot-like groupie moment will occur, though with a member of the opposite sex, that could get truly uncomfortable.  (What if he thinks I’m crushing on him?  What if I am crushing on him?  Life with an engineer is all it’s romanticized to be, you know.  I’m just a woman.)

Enjoy the book, Rachel!  And thanks for guessing, everybody.  That was fun.  My next giveaway will be something blindingly cool and a little less stuffy.  Let’s see…anyone interested in a Ross giftcard that expires in June?  No?  Then how about a coupon for thirty minutes of the Hub’s time, in which he’ll tinker with the digital gadget of your choice until it kindasorta works, eighty percent of the time?  Still a no?  Fine, I’ll think about it.  (But hang on to your hats, because our used-only-once Food Dehydrator has been looking for a new home since we used/quit using it on Christmas Day, 2011.)

I have one more book I’m going to ask you to read, and then I’ll silence myself on books for awhile–this is a blog, for Pete’s sake, not a Lit class.  (Oh, you thought it was?  Cool.  Your essay on “Why I Want a Used Food Dehydrator” is due by the end of this post.)  My faithfuls, mis vidas, before you go get your roots done or eat another Skinny Cow ice cream bar (you’re eating one now, aren’t you?), I beg you to jet over to the library and check out A Girl Named Zippy by Haven Kimmel.  You will love this book.  You will love Zippy.  You will love your childhood, all over again.

This book’s actually been around for awhile; it was published in 2002, and I only remember that because I first heard of it while sitting on the couch nursing my second baby and watching the Today show. (I could cry for the simplicity of those days.)  An acclaimed author was asked what her own favorite, current book was, and she promptly answered “A Girl Named Zippy.”  She described the book as “a shot of pure joy,” and twelve years later, having just finished the whimsical memoir, I have to agree.  A Girl Named  Zippy is funny and quirky and original, and it is also exquisitely written.  It is about an ordinary childhood in an unremarkable place and time.  Come to think of it, A Girl Named Zippy is the perfect literary antidote to The Triple Package, as Zippy’s parents espouse a parenting philosophy diametrically opposite to that of Amy Chua.  Read Tiger to motivate you, then read Zippy to comfort you.  Then read my blog so we can talk about them both.

‘Kay?  Kay!

This weekend, my nine-year old boy got a cold.  His coughing and sneezing were rampant enough to keep him home from church this morning. I made the mistake of mentioning this possibility in front of my twelve-year old daughter last night and–wouldn’t you know it?–at about nine p.m., she told me she wasn’t “feeling good.”  You can imagine how much worse she was feeling this morning.  But because she’d been lethargic herself for few days, I let her stay home as well.  Grand total:  three out of five family members missed church today.  That’s one mighty wicked tribe.

Dropping my oldest daughter off at the chapel I realized that, since my middle daughter was staying home, I could have come to church today after all.  My “sick” daughter could have easily babysat my son, and a few hours in front of the tv by themselves would have passed quickly.  I felt a tad guilty all of a sudden, missing my Sunday meetings when I really didn’t need to.  I mean, it’s not like they need me to dress and feed them anymore.  It’s not like they need me to rub their back and loosen up their coughs.  It’s not like they need me to measure out their medicine and deliver it with an applesauce muffin and a glass of milk.

Do they?

Now that I think of it, my older kids don’t really need me anymore–at all.  They can get themselves showered, they can get themselves dressed, they can pour their own cereal, they can read their own books, and most importantly, they can operate the remote control.  So as long as an older kid’s around to watch my youngest (who could actually function just fine by himself were it not for those pesky CPS folks), I really don’t need to be home with them much at all, even on sick days like this one.  The T.V., a blanket, and some Sprite–what more could a kid with a cold long for?  And when they’re healthy, what could I possibly do for them that a locked front door and a Costco-filled pantry couldn’t?

One of the reasons we moms struggle with our toddlers becoming children becoming tweens becoming teens is that with each new phase of life, they seem to need us less.  And with each new liberty that arrives (the grocery store by ourselves! who knew what wonders awaited?) comes a deflating punch of disappointment.  (You made your own sandwich?  Good job, sweetie!  Now mommy’s going to sit on her bed and cry for awhile.)  We start to question the validity of how we’re spending our days and our spending our lives, because who are we without children who need us?  They go from helpless to semi-functioning to independent so quick-slow, and then one day not only do they not need us, they don’t want us.  At least, that’s what they’ll say.

These thoughts took shape as I made muffins and measured out Ethan’s cough syrup this morning.  I should be at church right now, I chided myself.  They could have stayed home alone; they would’ve been fine.  That much was true.  But after an hour, I told them to turn the tv off and either nap or read.  My daughter came into my room where I was folding laundry, flopped down on my bed, and moaned.

“What’s up?” I asked her.

“I just don’t feel good,” she said.

“Well then, get under the covers and I’ll bring you something.  What would you like?”

“Cranberry juice and corn chips?”  she asked without missing a beat.  (This had obviously been thought through.)

“Be right back.”  I knew I was spoiling her.  I knew sugar and salt weren’t going to make her feel any better.  I knew she wasn’t deathly ill and I knew she probably could have managed a few hours at church today.  But I didn’t care.  I went downstairs for the cranberry juice and corn chips, and found Ethan sitting at the kitchen table, staring into space.

“E, do you want a muffin?”

“Yeah.”

I warmed him a muffin then told him to take a hot shower.

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.  It’ll make you feel better.”  (Plus it would allow him to change out of the crumpled tee and basketball shorts he’d been wearing the last 36 hours.)

He ate the muffin, took the shower, and joined his older sister on my bed.  They curled up together as I stood at the foot of the bed, folding and stacking the clean clothes.  It was a quiet scene, utterly non-descript.  I wouldn’t call it a Magical Motherhood Moment; I wouldn’t say it was special.  But I will say that in that moment, I was glad I was there.  I was glad that I was the one getting their juice and chips and muffins, even though they could’ve gotten it all themselves.  I was glad that, though we weren’t talking much, we were in the same room together.  I was glad they had the assurance of my presence; I was glad they weren’t alone.

Standing over the rumpled heap of blankets-pillows-bodies, I remembered my own sick days as a child when, after passing the long hours alone in front of the tv, my busy working mother would finally come through the door.  Her arrival was always something of a revelation; the silent house suddenly filled with her warmth and purpose.  I wouldn’t get up right away, just lay and listen to the comforting sounds of Mom in the Kitchen:  running water and clanging pans, boiling noodles and “who ate the olives?”  (It was usually me.)  I didn’t need her to fawn over me and put a damp washcloth on my forehead (though she often did, to my delight.)  I just needed to know she was there.  I just needed my mom.

I believe that our growing children need us as much as they always have.  It’s just that now they call their needs “wants,” and so we, being the strict mamas we aspire to be, often dismiss those “wants” as demands, and we roll our eyes and say, “Hmph.  Teenagers.”  Or “Hmph.  Middle-schoolers.”  Or “Hmph–nine-year olds!”

Do my growing children need me to tell them to take a shower, or help them put on a fitted sheet, or make smoothies with them, or drive them to the mall?  Do they need me to hang around the house–even when they’re ignoring me as they study or watch tv–just for the sake of knowing I’m there?  Do they need me to ask them, over and over and over again, “What happened at school today?” with the determined hopefulness that, one of these days, they’ll actually answer?  And do they need  me to listen when that answer finally spills out from them with all the angst and confusion of their adolescent hormones?  Do they need me to remember that I’m not the only one sideswiped by their changing moods and bodies?  That they are the real victims of this strange reality called growing up, and that however tricky it is for me, it’s infinitely more so for them?

I would say yes.  I would say yes, our children need us to do all of these things.  But mostly, they need us to forgive them for not admitting that they need us.  And to recognize that when they say, “I want this,” what they mean is “I need you.”

And I think, when possible and reasonable, we should say yes.

Yes, I can drive you to the mall, so you can get away from your siblings and feel like you’re finally stepping into the Great Big World beyond our house.

Yes, I’ll watch What Not To Wear with you, again, so we can stop everything and snuggle together on the couch, like we did when you were little.

Yes, I”ll ooh and ahh over the “bridge”  you just built on Minecraft, so you’ll know that you are still worthy of my rapturous attention, even though nobody else is fussing much over you these days, now that you’re big and not oh-so-cute anymore.

Yes, I’ll make homemade muffins when you reallyreally ask for them and I’ll rub your back when you reallyreally want me to, so that you can feel the comforts, singular to childhood, of a sick day home with mom.

Yes, I’ll drive and watch and fuss and bake, because what you’re really asking me to do is to listen, listen–and then listen some more.  Not just to what you’re saying, but to what you’re not saying, and feeling, and not able to say you’re feeling.  Yes, I will be there, just for the sake of you knowing I’m there.

And so, dear moms, when we miss church or work or the gym to take care of our kids who can–by now and on paper–take care of themselves, don’t be disheartened by the seeming futility of it all.  They may be able to whip up a box of Mac ‘n Cheese all alone, but they need to know you’re in the next room in case the dishtowel–or their awkward, inexplicable heart and mind–catches fire.  It can happen so fast, and you never know when.  But you do know that, when it does, you’ll be there.  Because your kids–your nine-month and nine-year and nineteen-year-old kids–still need you.