The Wisdom of Pinterest

Pinterest is one of those social media things, much like Facebook and Twitter, that I avoided for a very long time and when I finally succumbed, I became instantly addicted. But Pinterest has a lot of extremely practical applications. I’ve found all kinds of projects and worksheets and experiments to do with my home-school kindergartener. I’ve made dozens of recipes (most of them successful!) that I’ve found on Pinterest. I’ve even done a couple of arts and crafts type projects (a few of them successful). But what I really love finding on Pinterest are memes and quotes.

I freely admit that one of my favorite time-wasters is checking out the “Humor” category on Pinterest. It fascinates me for many reasons, not the least of which is that for some inexplicable reason it includes dozens of study hints and mnemonics for nursing students (most of which are not, in fact, humorous). But it also includes some hilarious tumblr exchanges, plenty of geek and TV in-jokes, and more than a bit of sly wisdom. And a great deal of it seems to pertain directly to my life, so much so that I actually created a Pinterest board called “This Is My Life.” Here are a few of the bits of wisdom (and whimsy) from that board.

I saw this one when I’d just started a diet. I’d always been rather fond of quoting the old saw, “Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels,” and then commenting, “Sure it does: bacon tastes as good as being thin feels…chocolate tastes as good as being thin feels…so does champagne…and butter…and French fries…” So eating a salad definitely makes me think that I’d rather be fat.

 In the same vein, this particular meme reminds me that I’m not the only one who eschews actual exercise for no reason other than that I simply don’t care.

What I do care about, however, is being a good parent. And I love this one, because it reminds me that there is a very fine line between being an overly protective helicopter mom and being an irresponsible beyond free-range parent. And sometimes being a good parent means vacillating between the two extremes.

This one reminds me that no matter how awesome a parent I am, my children will occasionally destroy things. Because that’s what children do. The only children who don’t occasionally destroy things are children who are utterly lacking in curiosity. And that is terribly sad. I’d rather have broken stuff than broken children.

 Very closely related to the “nice things” meme, above, this particular meme serves to remind me that I am not alone in my occasional lack of basic hygiene and grooming. I’m glad that Pinterest has shown me that I’m not the only mom of small children who occasionally realizes in the middle of the grocery store, or preschool pickup, or a rehearsal, that I didn’t brush either my hair or my teeth that day.

Not only does Pinterest offer me wisdom for being a parent, it offers me wisdom for being a wife. Sometimes it reminds me that familiarity doesn’t need to bring contempt, but that it can bring contentment instead.

Sometimes it reminds me of just how good I have it as a wife. Sadly, I need that reminder every now and then.

But my very favorite memes are the ones that just really speak to who I am and how I think. This one truly captures my love of both coffee and wine – and why each of those loves has grown and thrived.

This one is great because it applies to my whole family. We avoid wearing pants whenever possible. Who needs pants, anyway?

Pinterest reminds me that I’m not the only one who does weird, dumb things like looking at my phone to see what time it is but not actually remembering to check what time it is. Yes, I do that. On a regular basis. Shut up, you do it, too.

These are all memes that speak to who I am and what my life is like. But I also love finding quotes there that tell me who I could be and what I should aspire to.

Ina Garten reminded me that a cookie can be a momentary escape from misery.

Dr. Seuss reminded me that every moment is invaluable and should be remembered and savored.

The Dowager Countess (aka Maggie Smith) reminded me that being clever is always better than being crass.

Ernest Hemingway reminded me that it doesn’t take a lot of words to move someone’s heart. 

Pinterest reminded me that snooty, educated words are not always the best words for describing something.

Perhaps the most beautiful – and the wisest- reminder of all, however, is Charles Haddon Spurgeon’s reminder that your character, and the lives you touch during your own life, is the legacy that you will leave forever. So although I hope that at least some of my written words, perhaps even some that I’ve written in this blog over the years, will last beyond my own lifetime, I hope even more that my legacy of love and character and hope will be passed down through those whose lives I’ve touched, be they my children, or my friends, or even some random stranger who saw my actions in passing. That is the legacy I would be most proud to have passed on.

Remembering Dad(s)

My dad passed away when I was in my 30s, years before I met and married my husband. I often wish they had been able to meet. I have no doubt they would have been fast friends, bonded not only through their mutual love of me, but because they were cut from the same cloth.

My favorite memories of my dad are from my early childhood. I remember him as a dad who involved us in what he did, whether it was fixing the car or noodling on the piano or the guitar or setting up the camper. When I was little, my "help" was along the lines of holding the flashlight or passing him a screwdriver or reading the next step in the instruction manual. When I was older, I got to actually use the wrench or the soldering iron or the hand saw. I never truly appreciated what he did for me until I saw my husband doing the same thing with my own children. That was when I realized that a child holding the light does not really help Dad see anything, that the screwdriver passed to him was often the wrong screwdriver (or, frequently, not a screwdriver at all but a wrench or a drill or pliers or whatever else was handy that seemed to fall in the "tool" category), that a 6-year-old attempting to read directions including words like "torque" and "receptacle" and "ventilation" is not particularly conducive to understanding what you should do next. And seeing my husband's endless patience with our children as they "help" him makes me appreciative of my dad's endless patience with me.

I also see my dad in my husband in their remarkable shared ability to be both stern and silly. Sometimes, when my husband barks at the kids, my heart jumps in a visceral, deeply-ingrained (and probably Pavlovian) response as in my mind I hear my father's voice barking at me. I often have to stifle a sense of unfairness as I realize my husband is right in chastising them, since they are generally doing something dangerous, foolish, or clearly forbidden. And I realize again that my dad's barking, like my husband's, comes from a place of deep love and a need to protect his family. That deep love also sparks a delicious - and often unexpected - silliness and playfulness. I also see my dad when I see my husband carelessly shed his dignity to roll on the floor and wrestle, to start a tickle fight, to make silly faces, to allow a small child to wrap him in a blanket like a mummy or put a sparkly tiara on his head or whack him with a pillow.

Even though my dad has been gone for 10 years, there are many moments when I miss him so much my heart hurts. There are so many parts of my life I wish I could share with him. I wish he could have been there to walk me down the aisle at my wedding, to see that his quiet and wise advice and example had led me to choose such a good man to be my partner throughout life. I wish he could have been there to see my beautiful children, his grandchildren, take their place in the world. I wish I could watch him be stern and silly with his grandchildren. I wish he could be here so I could tell him how much I learned from him, how he made me a better person, a better wife, a better mother. But since he isn't here, I can tell my husband the same thing: Thank you, sweetheart, for being the kind of dad I had, for being loving, and kind, and tough, and silly, and all the wonderful things you are.

I look forward to seeing my son carry on his grandfather's and his father's legacy as a dad. I know he'll be fantastic.