I had my coffee pot confiscated last night by the coffee-pots-cannot-be-plugged-in-overnight police. It did not seem to matter that it had a build in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it was plugged into a surge protector, also with a built in off-switch. It did not seem to matter that it is not a coffee pot, but a water heating pot with no actual burner or exposed element. Yeah, the rule is the rule is the rule, and I had it taken.
Yes, I got the pot back, with a sincere promise that I would remember to unplug the damn thing every night before walking out the door. I wonder if it is worth for a cup of tea that couple times a week I need it. This however got me thinking about rules, and where they come from. And I suppose, how to change them.
I used to work for TSA. Yep, the people who make you miserable at the airport by insisting that your shoes and recently purchased bottle of water constitute a national security risk. I know how to use a hand wand, search a bag full of golf clubs, and run an x-ray machine. I also know that 3oz of liquid explosives will disable an airplane, and it might make it back to solid ground. But 4oz of the same stuff will blow a hole the size of a ping pong table in the side of the economy section and the plane will hit the ground without much chance of survivors. Even worse if it happened as it was simultaneously flying into the Golden Gate Bridge.
Having had this rule drilled into me, I had a small understanding of why we (I mean me, and my coworkers with the sucky airport security job) had to take away your diet coke (12 oz), your bottle of wine (750ml), your Lush lotion (10oz) and your hairspray (14.5oz). What I didn't like was there was no alternate choice. No redeeming value in pumped breast milk (4-6oz), coffee fresh from the vending machine on the outside of security (8oz), hand sanitizer (5oz) or a sippy cup of grape juice for a cranky two-year-old (less than an ounce because the rest was just spilled on your uniform or x-ray machine). I quit that job. Besides the 4am start time, I could not wrap my brain all the way around that compliance.
My mother had a rule about finishing everything on your plate. From a woman who lived through a depression and a war, this does not seem that unreasonable. Starving children and the Baby Jesus who will suffer if I don't eat my peas. The weirdness of the rule came from when you wanted more of something. Seconds of meatloaf for instance. In my mom's world, seconds of one thing meant seconds of everything. Something about a balanced plate that I never understood, and she filled your plate all over again with the desired meatloaf slice, the tolerable mashed potatoes, and the hated peas, in possibly smaller portions than the original go around, but not by much. A whole second meal was to be finished to the crumbs, again, to please the Lord. Rules are rules are rules. I am a fat adult. Duh. I quit that rule, and my kids never have to clean their plates.
My children create rules all the time. We can only eat See's candy on Tuesdays if having pizza. Milk, if it is fat-free, must be consumed through a swirly straw. Bed time is 8 o'clock, unless there is a Lego creation or picture or great book to finish, then bedtime is 8:15. You must wear matching socks, unless you are giving your extras to your brother. Honking horns in tunnels is perfectly acceptable and required, especially if no emergency requiring a horn exists. Stuffed animals are to be given confusing names (a tiger named Lion, a dog named Toast, and a cat named Tow Truck) and shoes that are too small must live in the bottom of the closet forever! I like these rules. The rules turn into routines. The routines turn into traditions. Traditions that make you happy and laugh, and that you want to continue are totally worth following.
But back to my original reason for thinking about rules to begin with, the coffee pot and redeeming value in having rules and complying. It has brought me somewhere I was not expecting. That is that there are no rules written in stone. Everything changes. I got my coffee pot back, I don't have to tell people that mascara makes them a terrorist, and I can say that I am fat and own it. I also get to explain and listen to things with my kids that work and don't work. The rule when they were little that said they had to hold hands with an adult has changed to being able to be within visual surveillance. I am okay with that. There was redeeming value in the hand-holding rule when they were 3, and it had to be let go now that they are 8 and 10.
So I have also learned to let go of my personal rules, be kinder to myself in my observation and judgement. I have also set up some new ones that are based in wanting new traditions. I like that, too. What I really want though, is someone to come unplug my coffee pot for me every night, because I know I will forget, and what will be the point of the rule then? Maybe I will find a way to change the rule. Maybe I will comply. Maybe I will move the coffee pot so it is not in my office any more. Choices. It makes all the difference.
