Embrace your inner dictoddler

I spent last week writing essays about how to respond to brutal, intentionally cruel regimes. I did this for friends and family who've been full of dread, or panicking, or facing real horrors of loss and displacement and violence already, and also for me. Writing therapy is real folks, I highly recommend it. I was adulting my ass off last week! Piece after piece about how to resist, prepare for the worst, what we've learned from the communities most at risk about how best to support them, how to move as community first--when possible--instead of as individuals or individual families first, mutual aid, tips for moving with ever-present grief that will not be going away in this lifetime, and so on.

And yet.

This feels like a time for calling forth our bravest, most real, most unexpected, and strangest selves.

Enter, the dictoddler.

A community member introduced me to this word yesterday. A word that's actually been around for some time, researcher me learned. Not having children myself, I completely missed the word's beginnings from within the community of parents of young children (ages 1 to 4) more than a decade ago. This word makes me smile from ear to ear. And not just because I'm a currently well-rested auntie and not a currently exhausted new parent. ;-)

Rarely does a single word in the English language so perfectly sum up the shadow side of an entire nation– one that so many of us refuse to face, look at, and accept about our history and ourselves, let alone embrace. As a former-yet-always researcher, I am a noticer of words born of significant moments of personal and community and global shifts--a documenter of what shows up after human beings say "wow" or "huh" or "I can't do this alone anymore" or after our mouths simply drop wide open in wonder. Key moments of unlearning and learning. My friend used dictoddler to refer to one physically grownup person in particular this week. They applied it to the only grownup person in the whole of the U.S. today who appears to have fully, 100%, entirely embraced this particular shadow self, and by doing so while not surrounded by loving adults, he's apparently now trying to rise to a dictoddler supreme type position. A dictoddler with all the toppings and trappings and car keys, if you will.

As a loving and busy adult, I don't typically call other people names except under extreme duress or silliness, which I image most parents of 1- to 4-year-olds live with round the clock for those years--hence, the eminently creative and fun term dictoddler was born. Out of love and shared community frustration--a community that crosses many fear-imaged borders: parents of toddlers. I don't share the word here to cruelly make fun of anyone. I don't have the time or energy anymore for the energy drain that name calling– except when done in deep reverence for shared community frustration and silliness– is for me. I share it here because I think there is great power and magic in this word. A word that shines a light on our shadow side as a nation– and doesn't take itself or us too seriously– and has the potential to bring more of us together as community across what's making almost ALL of us exhausted now? Yeah. That sounds American to me. And powerful. And needed, yesterday.

The word dictoddler began by making me think about two things in particular:

1. As a nation, we've gone peak dictoddler now. Everyone can see it. All we're left to deal with today is the levels of denial and hiding and blaming and rage angry adults believe they must hold on to now to keep themselves and loved ones safe. And, well, the catastrophic fallout of collectively ignoring for too long a collection of billionaire dictoddlers never socialized to care about others. As a nation we're now (or for some time, depending on your perspective) trying to run the whole world while throwing tantrum after tantrum and shaking our tiny angry fists in the air and wearing nothing but a diaper. And a poopy diaper at that. And we're flinging our doo doo everywhere. It's not just us taking these toddler-dookie-to-the-face hits day after day. It's people around the globe. Neighbors. Friends. Women. Countries. Oceans. Children. The earth herself. Our dictoddler has left the building. That's not all we are, of course. We are amazing too. Fun kids, hardworking and creative adults, playful and grateful elders on wild, remarkably beautiful land full of wise and patient creatures, forests, fields, rivers, and all we love about here. And don't even get me started on the indigenous folks and newest immigrants here. They're so fucking funny and kind and generous and warm and bad ass and, just, wow, are we surrounded by awesome. It keeps most of us humble as we grow, despite the reputation of our most wealthy. But, people adore toddlers for a reason too. It's time to admit that. Dictoddlers are a simple and wide-open book– appearing honest about everything they want because they believe everything they say and don't fully understand the concept of lying. Confident in a way that adults and elders cannot possibly be. Clueless about real-world consequences. Accident prone. Chaotic. Funny, usually by accident. Unapologetically themselves. Extremely happy, then extremely unhappy, then extremely happy again to be here. In clear need of help and not afraid to loudly demand it 24/7 until they get it. And courageous in ways that adults who disparage and squash their own inner dictoddlers eventually forget they can even be. We've got to address the dictoddler in the room people--we've got to fight dictoddler with dictoddler. And love. Always love. But also, dictoddler.
2. What we resist persists. I've heard this phrase across my communities again and again the past few decades now: what you resist persists. I'm sure I was taught this at some point, but I'd forgotten who said it. Apparently, Carl Jung said it. Good for him. A lot of equally amazing people have said it since– and a lot of equally amazing people likely said it before him too– which is the point here, I think. These four words have something to teach us across human communities. All of us. They live in the wind herself now. And in the wildfires, hurricanes, floods, genocide, ecocide, systems failing us, medical bankruptcies, and in climate refugees and war refugees too. These four words are among some of those we're all supposed to remember together. In our DNA. Our bones. In our battles. Or our souls, if you prefer. Even if we don't understand them or they make us angry or our people said it better. I'm not here to convince you of anything. I'm just sharing where I'm personally at today: which is back to loving most of the living beings on planet earth again– and feeling new energy rising within me to take an even braver stand on the side of the living--when I think about what you resist persists and dictoddler at the same time.

So, wow, yes, ok. A point.

I am embracing my inner dictoddler today. She's getting a highchair at the big Lori table going forward.

And with that comes embracing that my entire nation is being experienced as a dictoddler now by the vast majority of earthlings within our tiny-handed, poo-flinging reach both at home and abroad.

Part of me has always known this. Part of me has always resisted this. Hoped for something better. Something cooler (or fire, Gen Zers) or more noble. Hoped to have wiser lessons to learn and teach as I became an elder. But today I don't need hope. I need skills. Dictoddler skills. The skills humans are born with and that we teens and adults and elders in denial have to remember and lean on ASAP.

What we accept about ourselves, we can love.

And when we're full of love and aware that we're completely surrounded by others who dearly love life too, we can do something lasting about changing things for good. And not just diapers.

As I let my two cats in, and then out, and then in, and then out again across the past 20 minutes– never together, always separately, so it's twice the work for me– I realized that part of the reason we adore cats so much is that none of them are foolish enough to abandon and leave their dictoddler selves in the past the way so many people do. Cats hold and channel their inner dictoddler exquisitely!

So, we've got 1) our own inner dictoddlers to learn from, and 2) all cats, and 3) all the 1- to 4-year-olds in our lives and online to learn from, and 4) all kids and teens and parents and grandparents and great grandparents who've survived to tell the tale of surviving the dictoddler years of others, and their own, too. This is really good news.

Even better news. Most of us were loved during those years. Hugged. Played with. Bathed. Fed. Snuggled. Adored even. We know this because most of us are loving, generous, and playful-at-heart kids, teens, adults, or elders. Intentionally cruel people hate themselves. We don't hate ourselves. That might be dictoddler supremo– who was neglected as a youngster and then zero loving adults stepped up to help and love and teach valuable lessons about how connected we all are– but that's not us. If we lean on our own dictoddler skills, together, right now, I think the space opens up again for solidarity and community across fear lines that need to fall. I think great things can happen.

Here's what my own inner dictoddler has to say today. If you don't read all of this, all your hair will probably fall out or spontaneously combust or turn to straw, so this is pretty damn serious and important, key, core dictoddler skills stuff. Pass it on. Add your own. Take the credit. Dictoddler me couldn't care less about who gets the credit. Adult me agrees.

Stick close to who you naturally love– kids, grownups, elders, including strangers, and to non-human beings you love too– without apology.

Stick beside those who dictoddler you– your least discerning and discriminating and afraid self– would choose. Those whose eyes sparkle and crinkle with the unshakable laughter and the joy of generations or the unshakeable wonder of the brand new or just renewed or humble. Those whose eyes hold sorrow and who cry together and who learn and unlearn and grow together instead of turning violent or permanently cruel and bitter alone. Keep your eyes on those who play, those who feed us, those who change us, those who help others and receive help gratefully, those who make you laugh, those who make you feel completely safe or newly curious from within, or those who make you feel completely connected and like you belong on earth, and to those who light you up from the inside. Keep your eyes on those who love you (even if it's from a distance) through your own dictoddler hissy fits. Those who will forgive you. Keep your eyes on anyone and everyone who would never, ever, ask you to be intentionally cruel. Who this is will be different for each of us– which is a reason why those still fighting Mama Nature's DEI plans are always failing and always angry– but they're also remarkably similar in how they make us feel from within. Loved. And like we belong.

Notice who your inner dictoddler feels at home with. This can be very different than your teen or adult or elder selves feel at home with. Here we find love among family and friends (lucky, lucky us), and humor writers, dancers, comedians, musicians, creators, makers, herbalists, scientists, neighbors on the block, photographers, authors, fiction and Science fiction writers, kids, caregivers and nurses and other great healers, bus drivers, teachers and learners, actors and performers, people with dementia and their families, people in genocide zones and those fighting for them, foragers and gardeners, activists, friends in the LGBTQ+ and Black and disabled and veteran and indigenous communities, kind strangers, refugees escaping war and violence and climate disasters, unhoused people, and finally, within the only-feels-fully-safe-in-my-body religious folks (since angry religious adults were those who hurt me as a kid, and hurt my dad before me, too, I tread most carefully here still, but you do you--tread carefully where you need to tread carefully, adult you).

Follow all those who bring out feelings of love and wonder and curiosity and connection from within you, without apology. We become who we follow. And we eventually lead like all those we follow too. I aspire to lead like a forest and field full of laughing, generous, sensitive, grieving, loving, and unafraid wandering beings. Beings who float across all man-made borders together and beings whose roots speak to each other without words. Beings who tell great jokes and make great music and make great food and who tell great stories that others naturally want to remember and share to survive their own dictoddlers. Beings who welcome strangers as those who make us brave and loving enough to find friends almost anywhere.

Rest whenever you want to, without apology.

Period. No exceptions. Screw the grownups in your head or on your phone or tv or in your history, including former selves, who say otherwise. Dictoddlers don't give a shit about any of that. They just need sleep. And naps. And restful play time.

As living beings, if we can't rest as needed, we don't have true community. Here, true community is everyone who believes in us even when we don't believe in ourselves and everyone who shows up to help out of love, typically before we're exhausted, not after. If we don't have true community, then we can't also have communities that expand and overlap and support all of us better. This is where courage and bravery and learning and unlearning– while knowing the consequences of actions– are born. That's our bigger long-term problem as humanity here: not having true community. Dictoddler supremo simply grew out of our lived reality. So, instead of silently powering and adulting your way through pain day after day after day like a cranky toddler who needs desperately needs a nap until your body gives out, just stop. Stop. Rest.

Stop for the sake of your children and grandchildren and others if you won't prioritize yourself, foolish grownup.

Find people to help. Let them do it today. Rest in their embrace or generosity. Notice who else is helping, strong, present. Get under a blankie for an hour or a day. Accept that soup made by someone else. Accept help. Ask for advice and accept it. Rest. And if you think that's stupid and shortsighted (hey generational or personal or family pain) or privileged (hey lefties) or too woke and snowflakey (hey righties), well, you're a big old poopie pants who needs a change too. It's never just them. It's always, always us too.

Rest without apology. And if you just have to apologize, then apply a grownup-type reason to make resting ok again. Such as. When I rest I do so for all women who couldn't or can't rest today. I rest for past and current generations of stretched-too-thin humans, including everyone I've ever loved or who has loved me. I rest so that I don't make the same assumptions and mistakes my worst ancestors made and so that I remember that I hold the love and courage and guidance and example and faith of all my best ancestors too. I rest so that rest is in the DNA of human beings and groups and organizations and nations and governments or whatever comes next.

My inner dictoddler will defend the right of living beings to rest without apology as long as she lives. And she never gets old!

Play whenever you possibly can, without apology.

Play with your whole heart– with energy and joy and curiosity and creativity and passion and devotion and determination and wonder and surprise and delight. Like toddlers and puppies and kittens and calves and kits and colts and all the truly greats of our time do. Baby, dictoddlers play. And they rarely stop playing, except to grieve.

If you're a grownup tired of being bested by dictoddlers, buckle up buttercup, maybe you need to play more. I'm not saying this is easy for grownups. We're stiff and scared and guilty and tired as hell or we're oppressed and mad or sad as hell. Many of us are all of the above. Most of us seem far more comfortable with seriousness than silliness: with our ethics and judgements and heads-down routines and our titles and day jobs and our bill paying and our care giving and our well-deserved exhaustion and anger and blaming, and our dissociating escapes. We also understand that the human-centered world is overflowing with painful, real, and life-draining and -killing deadly consequences.

Great news! Dictoddlers don't have these problems and worries.

Give your dictoddler self the reigns just for a moment, see what happens. Dictoddlers move with the wordless logic of the living and a remarkable peace about not being able to forsee what's coming or worry about consequences at all. That's only horrifying when no loving kids, teens, adults or elders are present at all, so make sure your loving older self is present too. Just ask them to play too. Or rest.

Here in Dictoddler Land, all strangers are potential playmates. Here I can revel in utter chaos again, surrounded by friends, the way I got to as an itty bitty kiddo. Personally, my loving grownup selves and friends or family or loving strangers must be fully present beside me– or within my imagination– to make this remarkably free and freeing dictoddler-style play a reality for adult me. But I've had great play mentors as an adult--most were under the age of 10 and over the age of 75. Look at that. More secret weapons of mass play.

Not all dictoddlers are surrounded in all directions by love: a few have no choice but to become dick adults and bitter, abusive elders who never stop blaming and hurting others while hating themselves. But you do have that choice. You do. So do I. That becomes especially clear when we play. When we soften, relax, get more fluid, lighten up for a bit.

When you can be playful in the moment, be it. Try it. Playful you has far more choices than fearful you could imagine today. Far more imagination too. And ways to connect. When I have to fight, I fight dictoddler style now--I fight boldly for the right of all living beings (represented by dictoddler me) to play freely and within the relative safety of loving community wherever they go. At our best, we become more playful in the moment not by talking about play or thinking about play, but by playing. Play!

Cry whenever crying is required by your body, without apology.

Yes, all of us.

And yes, my always-guilty white adult friends, even when people of color who you admire and respect and learn from may think less of you for it and may even ask you to leave a space because of it, because your tears make them feel uncentered and unsafe. Dictoddler you can take this particular hit even when adult you can't. We crying dictoddlers aren't as fragile as we look. As a crying adult, if you must leave, leave. But don't lose the chance to have a real, vulnerable conversation about what happened. Circle back. Listen. Learn. Make a friend. That's living. And.

Crying is a trickster. Like forgiveness. Humanity as a whole can't pin her down or ever control her completely. She can just as easily show up to center and change or protect a whole community or family or planet earth or neighbors your heart loves beyond all measure and reason or animals you love or land you all love or faith or joy or grief as she does showing up to center an individual self and their pain.

Yep, white adults sometimes cry inappropriately. We sometimes face things as adults that others had to face as kids and are long since over, and it shows. And. The fact that we might cry makes a lot of adults stop showing up to– or leaving too soon– places we actually really need to be.

All ancestors (including earlier you) who avoided crying or making noise or making trouble to stay safe or feel accepted are saying– today– that human beings need to be allowed to cry when we feel like crying. Kids, teens, adults, and elders, too. All of us. Without exception. I'm putting my teeny tiny dictoddler foot down about this one.

And since I know so many adults who fear or don't value crying, I'll say this. Beyond all the physiological benefits of crying to our bodies, most true comfort, learning, discomfort, and unlearning– personal and family and community and neighborhood and global too– all happen on the other side of being visibly vulnerable and open. When we're visibly vulnerable and open, crying is one powerful possibility. We invite her in when we can. If you think you can always control her, fine. I can't. Because dictoddler won't, and dictoddler is present here whether you acknowledge them or not. Some of us can't stop crying no matter who asks it of us and no matter how old we get. Empaths, for example, who naturally hold all emotions present– we sometimes cry tears that desperately need to be shed in the space by someone– not necessarily by us as individuals. So don't shut the door on crying unless you absolutely have to to feel safe. When the whole world feels unsafe, do what you have to do.

Adults who stop crying, and who hide and avoid feelings and stop sharing feelings with others, may eventually stop feeling almost everything. But a stagnant, oozing resentment, contempt, or bitterness tends to remain. Held alone for too long, that's where cruelty is born. I see it today in the bat-shite (whoops, hey dictoddler) evangelical adults now saying that empathy is of the devil and that loving, generous bishops who care about everyone in the world and quote Jesus' most loving words to dictoddlers should censured and be fired immediately. Not to mention those saying that the American people can't easily and swiftly topple a dictoddler together. Ha! If you're worried that we can't do that, friend, you likely aren't playing enough or crying enough or trusting your whole self or community enough to love your neighbors, flaws and all. Like adult me, just last week. Fear focused me on the wrong thing. Community brought me back.

Dictoddlers don't need reasons to cry or explanations: they trust their own body's wisdom unconditionally and they cry when they need to cry. Can you say the same? Wouldn't it be nice if we could all do that? What would that take?

Crying clears emotional cobwebs from a space so we can speak and move with our own realities and with others' realities again.

Spending more time with neighbors– especially when we ourselves need the help and we're not just offering the help all the time without receiving help too– teaches us what we need to know most: that there are good people all around us who are strong where we are weak and strong enough to hold us in our time of need whether any of us knew that or not before today. In 2017, when I walked in to my Dad's place sobbing having just left my Mom in her new memory care home overnight for the first few nights (they asked us to stay away for a few days so she could adjust to her new loved ones and environment), it was my Dad's neighbor– a political polar opposite of me– who stood up, walked across the room, and embraced me and my tears. I was stunned. And humbled in the only way that humbling has ever worked: wordlessly, from love, and from within. I was also almost instantly ashamed of all the assumptions I'd dumped on him from a safe distance too. Fortunately, we dictoddlers don't need to feel shame--ever. That was adult me. Dictoddler me says...

Scream loudly and proudly when screaming is required by your body.

Dictoddlers scream!

As adults within real community, we understand the impact that screaming has on those around us, which is why most of us save it for special occaisions only. Screaming bloody murder is rarely required by our bodies, because we know reliable love and support and from there more options are born beyond screaming. We know each other well enough to feel supported and generous and loved and loving, to feel intentions and connections even when we get the words wrong, to receive and give loving help wading through all the adult human nonsense and horrors of life, to have time to listen and learn with minimal fear, and to have our needs met most of the time, long before screaming must happen.

But a whole lot of us aren't fully there yet, are we? We aren't ready to allow others to simply scream when they need a good scream now and then. It's cathartic to our whole being, similar to crying. How could we be ready to allow others to scream when we deny this basic need of the living (hey wolves and coyotes and dogs, we see you girls!) to ourselves even when we really, really need it?

My own primal dictoddler scream returned to adult me in its full glory last year. I was forced– because I love them– to watch our friends in Gaza lose so much day after day and then month after month with nowhere to escape to and nowhere safe to be and witnessing horrors far beyond what any of us could imagine. I returned to screaming when screaming became preferable to (and antidote for) the daily nausea and vomiting that surfaced from what I was witnessing and feeling with my friends. Yep, it turns out that the range of empathic living beings is quite far. When the guy I voted for drops bombs and tanks and snipers and horror on my civilian friends, you better fucking believe that I will be screaming.

People afraid of marches and protestors and others screaming into the night for comfort and support have lost complete touch with their inner dictoddler. They've allowed themselves to be adulted almost to death. Scream. Get back in touch with more of you.

When you're own diaper runneth over and you can't stand the feeling or the stink of being alone in the horror of it anymore, remember the scream. Or just add a scream into your weekly practice. Scream alone and scream with safe others, first, if you can. Doesn't have to be people. Trees, dogs, cats, plants, kids, screens, old clothes in the attic or boxes in the basement--all helpful scream partners. See what happens.

If you decide that you then want to be adult about it, notice what happens within your body and to your energy after a scream. Notice what happens to your desire to sit silently about things that hurt you/others. Notice what happens to your desire to scream at random strangers online or in person when you so value screaming that you've accepted it as a primal healer or hero within yourself and practiced screaming at home. Notice what happens within loving adult you when you remember that neglected beings whose diapers runneth over all the time, and who can't feel any real and loving support around them to change said diaper, have no other choice but to scream at others. Pro tip: Singing and chanting and humming and talking to neighbors and physical exercise are all useful substitutes whenever you become too adult again to want to disturb the neighbors with your screaming. Just don't give it up entirely.

Throw that poo, baby!

For toddlers, poo is new and this can be done honestly for a while for the pure fun and adventure of simply seeing what happens with a new substance. Most toddlers quickly learn that all living folks around them aren't big fans of being hit by poo, and they will actually move away or grow disgusted or angry and expect better, so most dictoddlers decide to stop this one pretty fast.

Chronically neglected toddlers who become chronically neglected kids and then teens and then young adults, like dictoddler supremo, may learn that poo flinging– and only this– will get them the attention they desperately need. They didn't learn to center love. They couldn't without loving others around them. So they center on getting attention by any means necessary. If no loving adults show up for you over time, you can get trapped in permanent dictoddlerhood, and then you're left with only this one sad option into adulthood, then into elderhood. Most of us can't afford to drag this poo-flinging nonsense into childhood, let alone adulthood or elderhood. But a few really sad folks do, and they fling poo at people and everything on repeat, over and over and over. Which can be terrifying and also so damn dull and predictable at the same time because the approach never changes. Online, you may strongly suspect you're listening to a pre-programmed, poo-flinging bot instead of a human being.

Spending all your grownup days flinging poo at people isn't living. That isn't a life. It's just sad. Life wants to play and run and help and work and connect and breathe and rest and laugh and cry and learn and love. Life wants to love. Flinging poo feels good only for one second. I refuse to settle for that measly morsel. Flinging poo isn't a fully honest way of being for any grown and loving being. It leaves you feeling hollow, empty, sad, alone. How I wish I could say I know this simply by learning from others' recent actions instead of my own.

In older kids and adults and elders, throwing poo at people is a sign of abandonment and neglect of your most vulnerable, open, loves-almost-everyone self. A sign that you need to be leaning on your community more right now. A sign that--for a moment--no loving adults are present and helping, and you've decided to simply toss out all humor, context, nuance, history, love, skill, ability, creativity, fun, empathy, connection, and everything else we've learned and created as humanity as a whole and just return to a simpler, imaginary time. A simple time when dictoddlers appeared to rule all! Majestically! King Poo Flinger--huzzah! A time that both existed for us, ages 1 to 4, and also a time that didn't exist at all, because loving, connected, and listening kids, grownups, elders, and non-human beings– together– have never, ever, been foolish enough to bow to a dictoddler supreme together. Not on this beautiful planet. Some of us lose our way now and then, but it's never been all of us at once. Never.

We all have ancestors who loved, and learned, and changed, and fought, and created, and were wounded, and even died to make sure that we can be more of our whole selves here. Our more whole selves are loving, well-supported beings who grow and change and eventually hold our own dictoddler selves safely and lovingly within us.

But we've never had to bow to a dictoddler supreme. Ever. And we never will.

We have an entire planet of loving beings and history and ways of being to lean on together now.

We are not fools here, are we? Or toddlers?

Don't let billionaire, massive poo flinging, dictoddler supremo wannabes (hey dictoddler Lori, with the name calling) fool you with their insatiable need for attention. That's not us.

There's no need to shotgun scatter poo out at the whole universe like they do. Focus. Breathe. Connect. Triage. Love. Play. Rest. Act. Regroup. Center on community. Learn. Share. That's what we more grownup beings do.

I'm just saying, likely mostly to myself at this point.

There's another way to be right now instead of feeling full of dread, or rage, or panicking, or fear, dear adults and elders.

Be more of your real, whole, true selves together. Embrace your inner dictoddler and lean on those dictoddler skills today.

Include your inner dictoddler– hear what he demands and has to say– these needs matter to all of us. Including the people our billionaire-stoked fears tell us are our enemies. What a crock of shit.

Just don't let your dictoddler drive the car, know the combination to the gun safe, know the codes to launch weapons of mass destruction, or rain toxic billionaire dictoddler poo down on all of humanity and the earth. Mama Earth is all out of patience for that nonsense, and nobody's happy when Mama's not happy. Climate refugees are real. And American citizens. I had tea with a lovely climate refugee here just yesterday. Their family has had to move three times in the past 10 years due to out-of-control wildfires.

Connect to loving kids, adults, elders, and wise non-human beings, and to toddlers too– bravely, across old boundaries when possible– to co-create the strength and courage to embrace your more whole and playful selves and these strange dictoddler-centered times.

Embrace your own inner dictoddler, and theirs. Keep the faith. I suspect we're all about to learn just how strong we really are. And how much we need each other. And how much we all care.