There’s something inexpressibly luxurious about returning from a vacation midway through the week…and still having several days left before the kids have to go back to school.
It’s not even like we were gone that long – five days, four nights – but arriving home on a Tuesday night and having all of Wednesday wide open was the best way our trip could have possibly ended. We had nothing on our calendar yesterday. We just…cocooned. And it’s the best way we could have spent the day.
At least that’s my excuse for why Holly stayed in her pajamas until after lunch.
Yes, we were decadent, the kids and I. But I just didn’t have it in my heart to hurry anyone along yesterday. They both slept late. When Tim finally awoke after eight, he took a very long shower. He loves our oversized shower stall; it’s what he misses most in terms of material items when he’s away from home. I let him relish the comfort of the hot water and steam for as long as he wanted. Holly slept even later: until quarter to ten. When she finally emerged from her room, looking rumpled, she said she was still a little tired. Too tired, naturally, to give any thought to getting dressed. Normally I’m not a fan of what I call “slopping around in pj’s” – experience has led me to believe that the kids’ attitudes tend to brighten and their energy levels to pick up once they’re dressed and groomed – but yesterday I let Holly go with it.
We’d been gone for only five days, which is nothing compared to most of the families we know, who routinely travel to Europe or take cross-country drives for weeks on end. We usually take a weeklong vacation at least once a year as well. So I know four nights away isn’t anything that should require reentry. But for us, whether it was required or not, indulging in reentry was a huge luxury yesterday. We didn’t need to be anywhere or see anyone. Even my parents, who live next door, were away for the most of the day and didn’t drop by.
Even gone for just a few days, the kids craved time to reconnect with their home environment and everything they like about it. Holly missed the dog much more than I expected she would; she spent time with Belle just rolling around on the floor the way they like to do. Tim, besides the shower, just wanted to sit in his room and read, or play a few computer games. After plenty of slobbery time with Belle (and a shower of her own), Holly took out her beading kit and did some crafting. It’s what she likes to do when she has time to herself, and I certainly wasn’t going to interfere.
Not surprisingly, I had plenty to do myself. I had emails to sort through and deskwork to catch up on, as well as bags to unpack and laundry to start. Rick kept the house nice while we were away, but the downstairs floors clearly hadn’t been swept since I left. Grateful for the long free day and the extent to which the kids were keeping themselves busy, I immersed myself in household responsibilities and the small amount of assigned work that was waiting for my return.
All this cocooning meant we didn’t take quite as much advantage of the day’s beautiful, mild, sunny weather as we might have otherwise. I was out briefly in the morning to let the sheep out of their pen, but didn’t even feel all that guilty about neglecting to spend more time outside. I felt like we were doing exactly what we most needed to do: luxuriating in the option of not doing anything. Tim had a baseball scrimmage in the late afternoon, so he eventually got his dose of fresh air and exercise, plus he pulled out the backstop and practiced catching for a while before that. Holly and I headed out midafternoon for a little bit of running (for me) and biking (for her) up and down the common driveway.
Even though by nightfall I’d also fit in a stop at the post office, a visit to the library and a grocery shopping trip, it goes without saying that I didn’t get to everything. There’s still more laundry to do, and my editor surprised me with a story assignment I need to move on quickly. (I’d been hoping to stay assignment-free for school vacation week, but I never turn work down.) The kids haven’t unpacked their suitcases yet, and Tim needs to write our hosts a thankyou note. No matter. Tomorrow is a mostly free day as well; we can cocoon a little more. It’s a luxury, one for which we’re thankful and one we don’t plan to turn down. A few more days of vacation; no urgent plans. Cocoon away, is my motto for now.
Showing posts with label cocooning. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cocooning. Show all posts
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Monday, February 8, 2010
Cocooning: Is it a sign of contentment, or is it complacency?
I’m conflicted on the subject of cocooning.
Or, to put it another way, what one day I can justify as the cozy desire to stay home on other days looks a little like a very mild case of agoraphobia.
I don’t mean to make light of agoraphobia. It’s a serious issue, and I can’t pretend that my frequent (and somewhat seasonal) aversion to leaving the house is anything like a crippling anxiety disorder associated with crowds. Once I’m out somewhere, I generally enjoy the bustle of strangers and the opportunity to meet new people.
What I find hard to confront some days is the part that comes before that: the requirement that I venture out of my own house. This desire to bask in the comforts of home rather than get out into the world is what trend-watcher and business guru Faith Popcorn termed “cocooning” in her 1991 book The Popcorn Report: The Future of Your Company, Your World, Your Life.
Sometimes I can justify cocooning as a positive thing. It’s good to appreciate what you have -- a warm well-lit home full of family members, books, fresh food, wireless connectivity and friends dropping by – not to mention the ecological correctness of staying put rather than traveling somewhere by car, which where we live is the only practical way to get to a destination more than a mile or two away, at least at this chilly time of year.
But sometimes I have to remind myself that too much contentment goes by the less affirmative name of complacency. Too much aversion to going out suggests self-limitations. It’s important to expose yourself to the ideas, personalities and issues of the outside world.
I was thinking about this earlier this week as I debated with myself about whether to accept an invitation to a newly forming book group. On the one hand, it seemed like an ideal opportunity. This one is local, ensuring I’d never have to travel more than five miles to a meeting, and the group has already decided to meet every other month. Also, they are going to discuss two or three short stories at each meeting, so I wouldn’t have to worry about getting stuck reading a 400-page novel I didn’t like.
But when the organizer sent out a follow-up email asking for commitments from members, I found myself procrastinating on a response. Going out at night is always a hassle during the week, not because my kids make it difficult – they’re old enough now that the bedtime routine is easy and consistent whether it’s me, my husband, their grandparents or a paid sitter overseeing the process – but just because it takes away valuable time from my daily routine. The hours of 7 to 10 are when I clean up from dinner, make the kids’ lunches, check that they’ve done their homework, and finish up any deskwork that didn’t get done during the day, not to mention try to get to bed early enough that eight hours of sleep is a possibility (seven is usually a more realistic goal; six and a half is typical). Even if it was just once every two months, I knew when the evening came, I’d wish I were staying home.
At the same time, my more objective side knows there are compelling reasons to accept the invitation. The guest list comprises women from a variety of professional backgrounds whom the organizer chose because of their commitment to intellectual discourse; I’d learn a lot from them, and the reading list would surely expose me to works I wouldn’t otherwise read, since I almost never opt for short story collections.
Yesterday the question about the thin line between cocooning and pseudo-agoraphobia arose again when I let the kids talk me out of going to church. On the one hand, the idea of staying home for Sunday morning was so appealing. We’d hosted a cocktail party the night before; we were tired and still had a lot of cleaning up to do. If I stayed home, I could catch up with a bunch of things on my To Do list: not just the post-party cleanup but balancing my checkbook and cleaning the guinea pig’s cage as well. And for Unitarians, church is essentially considered optional on any given Sunday.
On the other hand, it’s church. Of course it’s a good idea to go, I told myself. Don’t be so complacent. Church is always a character-building experience; it’s good for you to make the effort, to mingle with the congregation, to sing the hymns, to listen to the sermon.
But I love Sunday mornings at home, the first voice argued. It will be so cozy to just cocoon here, and I’ll get so much done.
But you could use that argument to never go to church, the second voice retorted. You could avoid every party, every community organizing meeting, every possible opportunity to benefit from society as a character-building entity. Where’s the line between staying contentedly at home appreciating what you have and failing to fulfill your obligations – social, spiritual, civic – to being part of a community?
I don’t know the answer. I skipped church and decided to decline the book club, but I promised myself I’d attend every Town Meeting this year. I suppose one rule of thumb might be that if it’s something I’ll it I feel guilty about missing– like church – I should just go. But for the most part, it’s a case-by-case judgment call.
Or, to put it another way, what one day I can justify as the cozy desire to stay home on other days looks a little like a very mild case of agoraphobia.
I don’t mean to make light of agoraphobia. It’s a serious issue, and I can’t pretend that my frequent (and somewhat seasonal) aversion to leaving the house is anything like a crippling anxiety disorder associated with crowds. Once I’m out somewhere, I generally enjoy the bustle of strangers and the opportunity to meet new people.
What I find hard to confront some days is the part that comes before that: the requirement that I venture out of my own house. This desire to bask in the comforts of home rather than get out into the world is what trend-watcher and business guru Faith Popcorn termed “cocooning” in her 1991 book The Popcorn Report: The Future of Your Company, Your World, Your Life.
Sometimes I can justify cocooning as a positive thing. It’s good to appreciate what you have -- a warm well-lit home full of family members, books, fresh food, wireless connectivity and friends dropping by – not to mention the ecological correctness of staying put rather than traveling somewhere by car, which where we live is the only practical way to get to a destination more than a mile or two away, at least at this chilly time of year.
But sometimes I have to remind myself that too much contentment goes by the less affirmative name of complacency. Too much aversion to going out suggests self-limitations. It’s important to expose yourself to the ideas, personalities and issues of the outside world.
I was thinking about this earlier this week as I debated with myself about whether to accept an invitation to a newly forming book group. On the one hand, it seemed like an ideal opportunity. This one is local, ensuring I’d never have to travel more than five miles to a meeting, and the group has already decided to meet every other month. Also, they are going to discuss two or three short stories at each meeting, so I wouldn’t have to worry about getting stuck reading a 400-page novel I didn’t like.
But when the organizer sent out a follow-up email asking for commitments from members, I found myself procrastinating on a response. Going out at night is always a hassle during the week, not because my kids make it difficult – they’re old enough now that the bedtime routine is easy and consistent whether it’s me, my husband, their grandparents or a paid sitter overseeing the process – but just because it takes away valuable time from my daily routine. The hours of 7 to 10 are when I clean up from dinner, make the kids’ lunches, check that they’ve done their homework, and finish up any deskwork that didn’t get done during the day, not to mention try to get to bed early enough that eight hours of sleep is a possibility (seven is usually a more realistic goal; six and a half is typical). Even if it was just once every two months, I knew when the evening came, I’d wish I were staying home.
At the same time, my more objective side knows there are compelling reasons to accept the invitation. The guest list comprises women from a variety of professional backgrounds whom the organizer chose because of their commitment to intellectual discourse; I’d learn a lot from them, and the reading list would surely expose me to works I wouldn’t otherwise read, since I almost never opt for short story collections.
Yesterday the question about the thin line between cocooning and pseudo-agoraphobia arose again when I let the kids talk me out of going to church. On the one hand, the idea of staying home for Sunday morning was so appealing. We’d hosted a cocktail party the night before; we were tired and still had a lot of cleaning up to do. If I stayed home, I could catch up with a bunch of things on my To Do list: not just the post-party cleanup but balancing my checkbook and cleaning the guinea pig’s cage as well. And for Unitarians, church is essentially considered optional on any given Sunday.
On the other hand, it’s church. Of course it’s a good idea to go, I told myself. Don’t be so complacent. Church is always a character-building experience; it’s good for you to make the effort, to mingle with the congregation, to sing the hymns, to listen to the sermon.
But I love Sunday mornings at home, the first voice argued. It will be so cozy to just cocoon here, and I’ll get so much done.
But you could use that argument to never go to church, the second voice retorted. You could avoid every party, every community organizing meeting, every possible opportunity to benefit from society as a character-building entity. Where’s the line between staying contentedly at home appreciating what you have and failing to fulfill your obligations – social, spiritual, civic – to being part of a community?
I don’t know the answer. I skipped church and decided to decline the book club, but I promised myself I’d attend every Town Meeting this year. I suppose one rule of thumb might be that if it’s something I’ll it I feel guilty about missing– like church – I should just go. But for the most part, it’s a case-by-case judgment call.
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