Elsie reinforced for me tonight how good our lives are. How lucky we are. I’ve been seeing it in a lot of places lately. Like when the really big deal in our shire recently was the introduction of a recycling bin and the downsizing of the other wheelie bin and whether our rubbish would be picked up from immediately outside our house or whether we’d have to take the bins a couple of kilometres down the road. To be collected. Our rubbish. A first world problem, no?
And that we got to have a say in who runs the country by voting recently. But either way, we still live in an amazing country.
Elsie got some of these worry dolls as a gift on her birthday:
Here’s the description from the same website:
According to legend,
When the Mayan People of Guatemala have worries,
They tell their worries to the Worry Dolls
and place them under their pillow at night
When they wake up in the morning….
The worry dolls have taken their worries away!
So tonight I stopped outside the girls’ bedroom door before I went in to read their stories. Elsie was telling one of the dolls her ‘worry’ but I had just missed it. Elsie asked Maeve if she would like to tell the doll a worry, but reminded her that the doll would have to go under her own pillow rather than Maeve’s once she’d finished. Maeve began, ‘I worry about… What worry did you tell it?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Oh. I worry about… Elsie has to go to school.’
‘Maeve, you can’t tell it that. That’s not a worry; I have to go to school. When are you going to take that bandaid off?’
At which point I stepped into the room (as I didn’t want Maeve to take that bandaid off, lest we should have a similar breakdown as we saw earlier in the day when Maeve cut her thumb and chin a tiny bit with a razor. If I say ‘a tiny bit’, maybe we won’t feel so bad that Maeve was in the bathroom on her own helping herself to the razors we leave at 3yo height in the shower recess, but I also said it so that no-one needs to comment with an ‘OMG is Maeve okay?’ Cos’ she is. Not that she thought so at the time.).
Elsie was popping the doll under her pillow and said that she’d told the worry doll her worry in a big loud voice. (The big loud voice part – that’s not on the printed instructions that came in the little woven bag. The day after her birthday Elsie announced that the worry dolls didn’t work; her worry had come true.
‘What are you worried about, sweetheart?’ I had asked, thinking she’d confide in me something that we could solve together as one of life’s first hard lessons. She didn’t want to tell me. So I suggested that perhaps she didn’t say it loud enough, that you had to use a big loud voice for the worry doll to hear (and maybe, just maybe, anyone looking for girls’ jarmies in the laundry at bed time might be able to hear as well…)).
Tonight she did share her worry.
‘I told the worry doll in a big loud voice that I was worried it might get wrecked under my pillow.’
And that, my listeners, is how good our lives are. First world worry, no?