For years, I’ve been conscientiously maintaining our photo albums. I use them as a kind of family diary, to capture little family jokes or funny incidences as well as the usual round of birthday party, Christmas morning, and vacation scenes.

I performed this task with a fair amount of grumbling—no one cared, no one helped, no one appreciated what a big job it was, no one ever cooperated when I wanted to take pictures, the Big Man wouldn’t even help write captions, blah, blah.

As part of the Happiness Project, however, I’ve admonished myself to do such tasks (sending out our annual Valentine’s cards, buying baby gifts for friends, paying bills) without expecting appreciation. I should do them for myself. This sounds like a selfish approach, but in fact, it’s less selfish, because it means I don’t wait for praise or recognition.

Nevertheless, the whole elaborate photo album process had begun to seem a bit futile, as the fat albums sat neglected on the shelves.

But at last all that hard work is paying off. For the last several days, the Big Girl and even the Little Girl have been poring over the albums, going through each one several times (the Little Girl has been wreaking some damage, but nothing that can’t be fixed). The Big Girl loves to see pictures of herself as young as the Little Girl, and to see herself wearing the adorable outfits that the Little Girl is wearing now. The Little Girl shrieks with excitement each time she spots a familiar face.

Advice often given to a parent—and it’s just as useful for a spouse—is to be a storehouse for happy memories for the family.

Research has shown that depressed people have as many nice experiences as other people, but they don’t remember them as well. And even for people who aren’t depressed, thinking back on happy times elevates mood.

Observing and preserving memories is one of the most satisfying ways of bringing order to life. Both the process of preparing the albums (though I did complain) and looking back at them were deeply gratifying.

Looking back at photographs is always fun; it’s fascinating to see the appearances of children (and myself! the Big Man always looks the same) change over time.

Also, it scares me to realize just how little of my own past I remember.

Looking at the photographs helps keep my memories more active, as I recall the little details that seemed unforgettable, but fade so quickly: how the Big Man used to make rice pudding all the time, and how he used to swim for exercise; how tiny the Big Girl was when she was born (four pounds, four ounces) and how she used to love to see people pretend to cry; and how the Little Girl loves to show off her belly button, and how she looked before any of her teeth grew in.

How wistful I was when I no longer had my sweet toothless baby! It makes me happy that, at least, I still have the photos.

I just finished Daniel Gilbert’s new book, Stumbling on Happiness. It’s thought-provoking, but in case you don’t have time to read it yourself, here’s my fourth-grade-book-report-style summary of “The parts I found most interesting.”

Gilbert’s main argument is that we aren’t very good at predicting what will make us happy in the future. This matters, because if we want to take steps in the present that will contribute to our future happiness, we need to be able to anticipate what, in fact, will make us happy—consider the person who splurges on a $300 professional tattoo today, only to pay a painful $6,000 in ten years to remove it. The job you have, the body you have, the city you live in—all reflect decisions you made in the past about what you’d care about in the future.

Gilbert suggests a remedy: To predict what’s likely to make you happy in the future, ask someone who is having that experience at the moment. So ask people who are associates at law firms whether they like their jobs; ask people who just visited Prague with their kids whether they had fun (the more similar such surrogates are to you, the more helpful their information is likely to be).

Gilbert maintains that although we all feel very idiosyncratic, we’re much more alike in our preferences than we imagine—so the experience of other people is the best guide to follow.

I recently applied this principle myself, without realizing it. When considering starting a blog, instead of reading among the dozens of Internet articles about the joys, trials, and lessons about running a blog, I asked three bloggers I knew whether they enjoyed doing it, and how they did it.

One friend is a prominent columnist for Vanity Fair who keeps his blog as an extension of his writing. James Wolcott. One is a novelist who keeps her blog for a lark, to indulge her love for food, restaurants, and cooking. Lunch for Two. One is a law professor who runs a blog to generate discussion on legal topics that interest him. Volokh Conspiracy.

These three gave me uncannily accurate and useful advice. Although at the time, I felt like a loser for doing nothing more than talking to people I randomly happened to know, this approach was probably far more helpful than doing proper “research.”

On a slightly different topic, I was intrigued to learn from Stumbling on Happiness that often, our behavior is designed to ward off the nasty feeling of regret (the feeling of self-blame for an unfortunate outcome that we might have prevented if we’d acted differently). Apparently people regret not taking an action more than they regret taking an action. Gilbert speculates that that’s because it’s easier to console ourselves with the lessons learned by some action gone awry than to see the good that came from the failure to act.

This is a very helpful observation about actions ; I think, however, that it’s absolutely not true of speech. I very often regret a remark that I made. In fact, I’m trying to train myself that if it even crosses my mind that I should refrain from saying something, I should think no further, but just shut up.

Idle criticism, sharp remarks, needling jokes, minor gossip…I don’t need to consult with anyone else to predict that, in the future, I won’t regret having kept silent.

“The capacity to endure a more or less monotonous life is one which should be acquired in childhood. Modern parents are greatly to blame in this respect; they provide their children with far too many passive amusements, such as shows and good things to eat, and they do not realize the importance to a child of having one day like another, except, of course, for somewhat rare occasions. The pleasures of childhood should in the main be such as the child extracts himself from his environment by means of some effort and inventiveness…certain good things are not possible except where there is a certain degree of monotony. Take, say, Wordsworth’s ‘Prelude.’” –Bertrand Russell

A friend who works at the Wall Street Journal mentioned a comment she’d heard from a financial advisor: if you want to make a big, indulgent purchase, you’re better off splurging on a one-time expense instead of a continuing expense. Buy a painting instead of joining a country-club. Buy some DVDs instead of signing up for HBO.

The next day, I happened to read Francis Bacon’s elegant articulation of that rule: “A man ought warily to begin charges which once begun will continue; but in matters that return not he may be more magnificent.”

This rule is a sub-set of a very important Secret of Adulthood: what you do every day matters more than what you do once in a while.

Going for a long run once a week isn’t as beneficial as going for a shorter run four times a week. I never make my work-out unpleasantly challenging, because I know that if I dread it, I won’t go as often.

You’re better off splurging on occasional super-decadent dessert when you go out for a nice dinner, than stopping for a Krispy Kreme doughnut each day on the way to work.

A gourmet grocery store near my apartment keeps a tray of cookie samples in the bakery section. Whenever I shopped there, I took two or three (large) pieces. Then I started going into the store every time I passed by, just to get the samples. Finally I realized: I was probably eating the equivalent of two or three enormous cookies each week. Now I take a sample when I’m actually shopping (almost never, because the Big Man likes to shop there himself), and I never go in otherwise.

It’s discouraging, but true, that a spouse or a child will remember the one time you yelled better than the hundred times you held your temper. Or in my case, the one day when we were five minutes late for kindergarten drop-off, instead of every other day, when we were waiting ahead of time. Take heart, though; in the long run, it’s what we usually do that sets the tone for the household.

At work, it’s acceptable to lose your temper in an obnoxious way every once in a while. It happens. If you do it rarely, people will ignore your lapse except to feel embarrassed for you. But if you do it regularly, you’ll get a reputation as a jerk.

Be realistic about what, in fact, you do “every day.” I had dinner with a friend who told me, “I don’t eat dessert anymore, but that tiramisu looks so delicious that I’m going to break my rules and allow myself a piece.” He always loved sweets, so I was impressed by this self-control. “When did you give up dessert?” I asked. “Last week,” he said. He’d only gone without dessert for a few days, but in his mind, he was now a person who “never ate dessert.”

We often overestimate what we can accomplish in a short amount of time, but underestimate what we can accomplish a little bit at a time, over a long period. You’ll probably make more progress on your novel if you write for an hour a day, every day, than if you try (and usually fail) to spend your entire Sunday writing.

In most cases, the rule matters more than the exception.

family; happiness; daily life

This month’s theme is “Buy a white t-shirt; throw away a white t-shirt.” I set myself this goal because I have trouble making myself buy things I truly need or would love to possess, and once I own something, it’s hard to make myself let go of it—even when I should.

My favorite summer uniform is jeans or khakis with a v-neck white t-shirt. The burn rate on white t-shirts is pretty high, so I really should buy some new ones each year.

But instead, I hang on to the old ones too long—even when they’re looking very dingy. Because I hate to buy new shirts, I don’t want to let the old ones go.

Even though buying a white t-shirt was a key mission for July, it was July 15 before I actually managed to make a purchase.

It was only recently that I noticed that I vastly preferred white t-shirts. In the past, when I did go shopping, I’d buy a variety of colors and styles, on the assumption that I’d like some choices.

But then every morning, I’d reach for the same tired white shirts.

I’m not alone in failing to predict what I’ll want in the future. Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling on Happiness describes a study in which volunteers were asked to come to the lab for a snack once a week for several weeks. Some volunteers received their favorite snack each time; some volunteers got their favorite snack most of the time, and their second-favorite snack at other times. Which group was happier? The no-variety group. People preferred to have their favorite snack each time.

In the same way, I’ve realized that every day, I will choose the white shirt. So that’s what I should buy.

I find it tough to shop for myself, and I’m only somewhat better about buying needful things for my family. For example, the Big Girl was frustrated by her backpack. She’s had it for several years, and it’s too small to hold her camp impedimenta and her Tae Kwon Do uniform. As for her lunch—no way that’s going to fit.

She’s been asking for a bigger backpack since camp started, and she really needs one. And she’ll need it for school, too. But did I buy a backpack as soon as it was clear she needed it? No.

Now, I think it’s good for children to work up some real longing and anticipation. But the Big Girl needs the backpack for purely practical reasons. It’s not a treat.

I finally followed my own rule: Identify the problem. Why hadn’t I bought a backpack? Answer: I didn’t know where to buy it and dreaded hunting through a lot of stores.

As soon as I recognized the problem, I knew the solution. I have a friend who always knows where to buy all the stuff kids need: the soft insulated lunch bag, the kind of swimcap that doesn’t pull hair.

So I asked her where she bought her son’s backpack. She told me where I could buy a backpack for $15, at a store six blocks from my house. I went; I chose the blue one; I bought.

It’s one of Life’s True Rules: take advantage of someone else’s research.

science; daily life; personal; money