O Marks the Spot

“Kids do well when they can.”

A friend said this to me when my children were toddlers, and it set me free. She’d been reading a book about behavioral challenges in children. In addition to some innate physiological predispositions, she learned that some children are especially challenged by certain foods, fatigue, and overstimulation. She was concerned about her son’s behavior, and became more compassionate when she understood that most times, he really was doing his best.

Children also do well in environments designed for their physical scale. If there are low hooks on the wall, kids are more likely to hang up their coats. They’re also able to fix a simple snack if food and utensils are placed within reach. Lately my kids have been leaving the lights on in their rooms when they leave for school. The problem is not forgetfulness; it’s darkness. The no-cord hooks on their toddler-era window shades are out of reach, and out of date. The kids need curtains they can operate themselves so they won’t need lights in the first place.

Recently a dinnertime design stumped me. Every night as a family, we review table manners ad nauseum. We re-re-re-remind: Stay in your chair. Chew with your mouth closed. Use your fork. Put your napkin in your lap. Use an inside voice. Say ‘excuse me’ before getting up.

And this one: return your glass to its spot above your plate.

It’s not that I’m a stickler for place settings, just that I don’t like glass stuck in my foot. We buy IKEA ShrÃ¥pnel juice glasses by the case because they sail off our table with freakish frequency. The glasses perch on the edge of the table and take flight during dramatic recreations of playground scuffles or game-saving hits.

My dinner design assignment is two-fold:1) teach skills for verbal recounting, not physical re-enactment, and 2) create a visual cue for proper glass placement.

This challenge, and the hundred others that precede it in a given day, are why my brain aches by bedtime. I look across the candles at my earnest kids. Their eyebrows lift and their smiles widen as they share their important news. Their sense that their lives matter, that we want to hear what they have to say, must be safeguarded. Then I think of stand-up comedian Mike Birbiglia, whose sleep disorder causes him to act out what’s happening in his dreams. Once during a nightmare, he ran through a second floor plate-glass window trying to escape a missile. To stay safe at night, he seals himself up in a sleeping bag and wears gloves so he can’t undo the zippers. I wonder: should my family suit up after grace?

For now my imperfect solution is also two-part: 1) I lead by example by recounting events with my arms pinned to my sides like a robot, and 2) I’ve taped a circle to the dining table to show where my son’s glass should go. The paper’s getting a bit skeezy with guacamole and spaghetti sauce, but it beats the grinding clank of glass in the vacuum cleaner at mealtime. To add value, I also tell a story—just to myself—that my dinner design is what inspired modernist glass architect Mies van der Rohe to proclaim, “God is in the details.” (And by God, he meant parenting.)