To Be Loveable, Or Not To Be

To be loveable, as Ovid advised, is harder than I thought. Yesterday morning when my son woke up, he asked for a glass of orange juice as well as his book. A short while later, he wanted breakfast. Figuring I'd be a good mom, I served him a bowl of Rice Krispies in bed.

While he ate, I got myself ready to take him to the History Museum, where he had to learn about Al Capone for school. Afterward, I drove him to his orchestra rehearsal, then to REI to return the three shirts he didn't like, and finally to Trader Joes, where I only had time to grab a couple of items because he was in a rush to get back home

By the time we did, I'd had enough. I told him if he wanted dinner, there was soup in the fridge. Otherwise, he was on his own. I had learned my lesson. Doing for others doesn't make you loveable. It makes you a martyr.

The dictionary defines loveable as "having qualities that attract affection." I was definitely attracted to my ex, but he often wondered why. He also wondered whether I'd have liked him if we'd met while he was working in his former job, and whether I'd continue to like him as I got to know him better. Considering how gaga I was about him, his questions didn't seem to make sense. But obviously he knew more than I did about who he was or wasn't, and in the long run, his view of himself and his own loveability made all the difference in the world.

If I were asked to make a list of "attracting qualities," I'd include kindness and generosity, listening well and curiosity, perhaps having a nice smile or a good, hearty laugh. Yet if I think about displaying these attributes myself, my first impulse is to run the other way. They make being loveable sound like a "to do" list or even worse, like being a drone.

Better, I think, to take each moment as it comes. Like this moment in my living room, sitting in a big, blue chair with a fire on in the fireplace and a vanilla-scented candle burning nearby. My son, still in his pajamas, lies on the couch, using his old stuffed tiger as a pillow while he finishes his book. Our aquarium gurgles. Outside, a city bus rumbles. Does it sound loveable? You bet. And without my having to lift a finger.