An important factor in happiness is adaptability. Because we adapt quickly to any improvements, we stop appreciating them and instead take them for granted.

One unenjoyable cure for this “hedonic treadmill” is deprivation. Deny yourself something, and your pleasure in it will be re-activated when the denial stops.

For example, a friend spent some time in Russia. Periodically, the hot water stopped working, for weeks at a time. It was a huge inconvenience, of course, but she said that very few experiences have matched the happiness she felt on the days when the hot water started working again. But now that she’s back in the United States, where her hot water has never failed, she never thinks about it.

Well, I’m experiencing this kind of post-deprivation happiness now. I had a forced deprivation when my beloved New York Society Library closed for two weeks for renovations. Today was my first day back.

It’s easy to take Society Library for granted—after all, I’ve been coming here several times a week for seven years.

But this two weeks have given me a new jolt of pleasure. Ah, the library. Just one block from my house. The open stacks. The quiet computer room (and it is quiet—if you dare have a conversation, or worse, talk on your cell phone, well, it’s not nice to contemplate the consequences…)

I love the freedom to get books that might interest me, without having to commit to buying anything. Today I checked out Kraybill’s The Riddle of Amish Culture; Bender’s Plain and Simple; Swandler’s Out of This World—not sure why I feel like reading about the Amish, but I decided to indulge myself. I also got Pinchbeck’s Breaking Open the Head, which a friend recommended, and Gibbons’s Cold Comfort Farm, which was featured in Slightly Foxed.

When Shakespeare wrote, “And yet not cloy thy lips with loathed satiety/But rather famish them amid their plenty…” he anticipated the arguments made by Barry Schwartz in his recent book, The Paradox of Choice. Schwartz advises: “No matter what you can afford, save great wine for special occasions…a silk blouse a special treat…it’s a way to make sure that you can continue to experience pleasure.”

It may seem artificial to deprive yourself of something deliberately. But at the very least, the hedonic treadmill argues for keeping indulgences in check. A luxury ceases to be a luxury when you experience it often. And even a modest pleasure can be a luxury, if it’s scarce enough—a pleasure like ordering coffee at a restaurant, or buying a book, or watching TV.

The Big Man and I don’t watch much TV. We record The Shield, Lost, The Sopranos, Entourage, and a few other shows on TiVO and watch them together. (He also watches 24 and Alias, but I don’t.)

Now that we don’t just catch whatever happens to be on at a particular time, TV has become a real treat for us—because we rarely watch, and because it’s always excellent when we do watch. Also, along with deprivation, a key to happiness is anticipation, and now we can really look forward to lying in bed (yes, we watch TV in bed against all advice I’ve ever read) and watching a new episode of something.

I wish I could claim that this pattern was the result of careful happiness-project research, but we just lucked into it.

“One is happy as a result of one’s own efforts, once one knows of the necessary ingredients of happiness—simple tastes, a certain degree of courage, self-denial to a point, love of work, and, above all, a clear conscience. Happiness is no vague dream, of that I now feel certain.” George Sand

Every Wednesday is Tip Day.
Because of an internet problem, I’m reposting this Wednesday’s tips today.
Today: Tips…for being a more light-hearted parent.

I’ve been working on being a more light-hearted parent: less nagging, more laughing. Here are some tips—many suggested by friends—that have helped.

1. At least once a day, make each child helpless with laughter.

2. Folk wisdom holds that unless you want to do something every day, never do it three times in a row. So when the Big Girl had the flu, I lay in bed with her until she fell asleep for two nights. But not three nights.

3. Sing in the morning. It’s hard both to sing and to maintain a grouchy mood, and it sets a happy tone for everyone—particularly in my case, because I’m tone deaf and my audience finds my singing a source of great hilarity.

4. Get enough sleep. It’s so tempting to stay up late, to enjoy the peace and quiet. But 6:30 a.m. comes fast.

5. I’m often crabby with my children when I’m actually annoyed with myself. I forgot to buy more diapers for the Little Girl, so I snap at the Big Girl. Because I’m not good at concealing crankiness, I try to avoid feeling cranky by getting organized the night before, making sure I’m not rushed, etc.

6. I’ve been researching the “hedonic treadmill”: people quickly adapt to new pleasures or luxuries, so it takes a new pleasure to give them a jolt of gratification. As a result, I’ve cut back on treats and impulse buys. The ice-cream sandwich or the Polly Pockets set won’t be an exciting treat if it isn’t rare.

7. Most messages to kids are negative: “stop,” “don’t,” “no.” So I try to cast my answers as “yes.” “Yes, we’ll go as soon as you’ve finished eating,” not “We’re not leaving until you’ve finished eating.” It’s not easy to remember to do this, but I’m trying.

8. One friend prods his children into cleaning their rooms by telling them, “I’m going to clean your room unless you want to.” They can’t stand the thought of him messing with their stuff, so they take over. The Big Girl doesn’t care if I clean up her room, so this threat doesn’t make her do any cleaning, but then at least she can’t protest at how I’ve done it.

9. Repetition works with kids, so use the school mantras: “Sit square in your chair;” “accidents will happen,” “you get what you get, and you don’t get upset” (i.e., when cupcakes or shakers or whatever are handed out, you don’t keep trying to switch).

10. Make up your own mantras. A friend told me he was yelling at his kids too much, so he distilled all rules of behavior into four key phrases: “keep your hands to yourself”; “answer the first time you’re asked”; “ask first”; and “stay with us” (his kids tended to bolt).

11. Say “no” only when it really matters. Wear a bright red shirt with bright orange shorts? Sure. Put water in the toy tea set? Okay. Sleep with your head at the foot of the bed? Fine. Samuel Johnson said, “All severity that does not tend to increase good, or prevent evil, is idle.”

12. When I find myself thinking, “Soon, no more stroller,” or “Soon, no more high chair,” I remind myself how fleeting this is. All too soon the age of Cheerios and the Tooth Fairy will be over. The days are long, but the years are short.

We all want a peaceful, cheerful, even joyous, atmosphere at home—but we can’t nag and yell our way to get there. It’s taking me a lot of effort to alter my parental habits, but even minor changes have made a big difference. So think about ways, like those listed above, to cut back on the shouting and to add moments of laughing, singing, and saying “yes.”

The Big Man travels a lot for work, sometimes for a week at a time. I’ve hit on an incredibly obvious, yet very effective, thoughtful gesture: constant reports from home.

I always emailed him when he was out of town, but I usually kept it to one or two emails a day. But I’ve realized that he loves hearing any bit of gossip from home, no matter how insignificant.

So now when the Big Man is away, I send emails whenever I can scrounge up any news at all to report.

The Little Girl is usually good for an adorable story or two; the Big Girl generally has some anecdote from her day at camp, if I can drag it out of her; and then there’s the “Your mother stopped by for a visit,” or “we’re having dinner with friends next Wednesday,” or what makes him happiest, “your Sports Illustrated is waiting for you.”

He loves getting the emails; what has surprised me is how much I love sending them.

This reminds me of one of my personal commandments: act as I want to feel. Making frequent, little loving gestures makes me feel more loving.

This morning, I woke up with a sore, swollen eyelid. I’m prone to sties, but this didn’t look like a sty.

The Big Girl is allowed to watch cartoons in the morning until the Little Girl comes to the kitchen (is that terrible?). So I sent the Big Girl to the TV and left the Little Girl talking in her crib while I checked Internet health sites.

Usually I’m nonchalant about symptoms like swollen eyelids, but my sister’s diabetes diagnosis has made me more paranoid about health issues.

So I poked around and assured myself that this was nothing serious.

By then the Little Girl was roaring “Up, up! Mama!” so I went in to rescue her. She pointed to her diaper and said, “Hurts.” The night before, she’d had a little diaper rash, and I scooped her up to change her diaper—and discovered that not only were we out of baby wipes at the changing table, but as I searched various stashes throughout the apartment, we only had a single wipe in the whole place.

I also discovered an angry diaper rash. I felt guilty of Mommy Malpractice because of the rash and because of the lack of a key supply. As I changed the diaper, using every inch of the sole wipe, the Big Girl, still in her nightgown, came charging in.

“It’s 7:18, and I haven’t even eaten breakfast!” she wailed in accusation. The Big Girl hates to be late; in fact, she hates to be on time; she likes to be early. “I’m supposed to be done eating and getting dressed at 7:20! We’re going to be late for camp!”

Did I laugh in a merry but comforting way? Did I burst into cheering song? Did I say reassuringly, “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we have plenty of time”?

No. I snarled in my most menacing voice, “WAIT A MINUTE!” She backed off and started sobbing in terror.

So apparently I haven’t quite internalized my own good-parenting tips.

I was angry with myself for getting distracted from our routine and for running out of essential baby supplies. So I reacted with anger to the Big Girl’s agitation.

I lost it there. But some happiness-project practices did help to restore peace.

First, I managed to get a grip on myself pretty quickly. I gave the Big Girl a hug, and said, “You go get dressed while I make breakfast. We still have plenty of time.” (“Make breakfast” in my case means spreading peanut butter on toast, not a lengthy process.)

Second, I’d forced myself to make her lunch the night before, so that was done.

Third and most important, we did, in fact, have a huge amount of extra time. Knowing the Big Girl’s concern for promptness, our mornings are organized to have a big cushion. Even with all the commotion, we were ready to go thirty-five minutes before we had to walk out the door.

I stopped at the drugstore after I dropped off the Big Girl. It’s one of the most important, if grammatically inelegant, of Life’s True Rules for happiness: There are some items that you can’t let yourself run out of.