Oh Silver Bells....

            It’s difficult to write about Christmas without being sentimentally cliché.  Season of giving, families gathering, peace and joy, etc.  It’s also difficult in many ways to avoid being cynical about holiday stress, materialism and overindulgence.  So, in an attempt to avoid all of that, I starting thinking about Christmas and what else might be said about it. 

            The idea I keep coming back to is this- I love Christmas.  I love the lights and the shopping and the wrapping and the cookies and the snow and the anticipation and the whole package.  It makes me happy.  And, god bless them, my family has always made Christmas a special, happy time and, as my grandmother pointed out to me, our family has been gathering in the same general way for the past 60 years, tacking on kids, spouses and grandkids as they happen along.  The details have evolved and developed over that time; the gathering spot, the food and the rules for the Yankee Swap may be different from year to year, but the sentiment is the same.  And each year on Christmas morning, we have been blessed with an overabundance of generosity.

            For me (and my brothers in particular), the gift-getting was the huge focus throughout our childhood.  I know my parents spent a good deal of time shopping for gifts they knew we would love, making sure the three of us were equally spoiled, and hiding them where they knew prying eyes were least likely to sneak a look.  But now, looking back, the gifts are the least important part.  That’s not to say they weren’t wonderful and exciting and so so so special.  There are certain gifts that I will never forget opening (ie. strawberry lip balm from The Body Shop that all my friends had, circa 1992- amazing!), but when I look back at Christmas the exact items are not what stays solidly etched in memory.

            It is the feeling I get when I remember Christmas as a child.  My dad slowly and precisely turning the pages as he read The Polar Express.  The cool green linoleum of the kitchen floor of my grandmother’s house as we ran through to the dining room for dinner.  The thrilling anticipation of sneaking down the stairs with my brothers at 3 am on Christmas morning to peek at the haul from Santa.  Trying to see how much whip cream you could get away with spraying on your apple pie.  The Johnny Mathis Christmas CD on repeat.  The embarrassed pride I felt when my parents gushed over the gifts we bought them at the elementary school holiday fair, (ornaments made out of popsicle sticks, anyone?).

            Thinking about these things, and the thousand other Christmas memories I have that are jogged back to mind every year when I see the popsicle ornaments that have survived, makes me think about my own kids and what their memories will be.  Because I think that is why Christmas makes people so happy.  For one day you get to be that kid you were, opening presents, believing in magic, carefree and overjoyed.  On Christmas, if only for a few hours, you can set aside those distractions that normally plague you, and not think about bills or unemployment or divorce or laundry or the price of gas.  Granted, you may have to cook for a houseful of people, or drive three hours to make it to your in-laws, or regret that there isn’t more under the tree for those that deserve it.  But I know for me, being able to focus on that childish happiness, and helping to create the same sense of wonder for my kids, is what makes it what it is.

 

            I may not have avoided cliché, but what the heck.  Merry Christmas.   

I Wish I Was Cold As Stone

Her hands were pressed against the stone.  The cold had run down from her fingernails, now as grey as the rock, through her hands and along her wrists, slowing the blood in the blue strings of her veins, spreading up her arms and into her chest.  She willed her heart to stop pumping so that it wouldn’t stab with every beat.  The tingling in her folded legs had long since faded, leaving her numb under the stiff folds of her jeans.  She had worn them for weeks, sleeping or awake, not bothering to wash them or fold up the fraying cuffs to keep them out from under her feet when she walked.  Now they were soaked through with old rain the ground still held, making her skin underneath pale and wrinkled.

            If she noticed the cold, she didn’t show it.  She didn’t lift her gaze from the words etched in the stone, but traced the letters with her eyes one by one, spelling out the words, examining every sound, every syllable until she reached the end and could start over.  Her lips moved, forming the words, allowing the sounds to echo inside her, so different from the way they sounded months before when she spoke them out loud.  The idea of pushing the sounds out of her mouth to strike the solidness of the air around her head did not seem possible.  Only her eyes and lips moved.  Short hours passed and she did not shift to relieve the strain that pulled across her shoulders from being hunched over.  It was a constant battle- the desire to stop the hurt that threatened her rationality and the need to feel physical pain in her body. 

            Others came.  They talked to her, or they didn’t.  It didn’t change.  Their presence, their words didn’t move her or alter the position of each finger laid carefully on the stone.  Darkness came and her eyes would have strained to see the letters if they weren’t already carved into her.  Her eyes eventually closed, but moved behind the dark lids, still tracing the M’s and the B’s and the L’s.  If rain fell, if fog moved in, if frosted dew covered the dry grass, she didn’t know.  She knew the sun wouldn’t rise, the day wouldn’t come to warm the stone or dry the earth under her.  She imagined the world floating to a stop, ending orbit, slowing its broad spin through the night so that the thin crust of the moon overhead would be the only light to ever again be cast down on that place. 

            It was a resting place and so her body rested, arrested in its vigil, endless in its watch.  There was no walking of souls, no howling winds, no haunted voices that whispered in her ear.  There was only her body, slowly dropping into the ground, absorbing through the creases in the rock that formed the words her mind repeated.  There was only herself, woven into the grass, seeping down to the dirt, falling piece by piece, so slowly that no movement could be seen.  She was whole on the outside, but cut through the middle with weakness, veined like marble.  Two hands on the stone and nothing else. 

Work It

Evelyn, at the beautifully complex age of 4, wants to be many things.  I know they translate to different sorts of things in her mind, which show the ever-changing, constantly growing facets of her development.  She wants to be an astronaut (fly in a rocket ship), a ballerina (wear a tutu), a doctor (help people/give out stickers), and a mom (be in charge of everything.) Of course, Roman at age 2, wants to be Thomas the Tank Engine, which is ambitious, for sure, but darn cute.  It is exhilarating as a parent to imagine Evelyn becoming something that she aspires to be.  Obviously this is early on and I’m not sure there is a huge job market for dancing astronaut doctor mommies, but the possibilities for her are so wonderfully open at this point.

When you think of all the steps you have to go through to become an adult, it is a daunting idea- from the first day of kindergarten to checking off your choice of major on your college applications.  And even then most people don’t know what they want to be.  I’m envious of the people who were able to choose early, gain a specific set of skills and set out on an actual career path.  It seems, more and more, that people who are able to do that are in the distinct minority.  Instead it seems as though people accidentally happen upon jobs, good or bad, or discover their passion later in life and either have to start over or leave it behind. 

I have this (probably delusion) idea that there is a jackpot of a job out there waiting for me.  All that’s left to do is wait for my number to be called.  There are, I know, perfect jobs- ones that would pay well, use and develop my skills, talents and experience, and that I would completely love.  But that’s like saying you will eventually run into Johnny Depp at Target where he will instantly realize that he is in love with you and (after paying for your paper towels and gum) whisk you away to live a perfectly happy life.  (Might be, subconsciously, why I go to Target so often. Hmmm….). 

So here we are in the meantime, hoping and wishing, searching, applying and interviewing.  And all of that can be draining and frustrating and disappointing.  But here’s the thing.  The experience of looking for a job that exactly fits me, makes me more confident in that me.  I am happy to go out there and be that person that is right for the job I want.  In other words, I know what I want and I’m going to get it.

           

Wings

Splendid free falling wonder

A wish to fly

But with no wings

A glitter black sky

Swooping plunging desire

Rushing air lifting, upswept

Wild joy of

Riding the current

Of feeling the scourge of wind

The rebirth of tumble

The purification of bird’s flight

Midnight and old prayers

Fall in

Power in closing eyes

Night full of empty skies

Arm’s length just short of

Catching the breeze as

Feathers

Through fingertips

I float, flee, fly

Like going over the edge.

Inner-View

There is nothing like a good, intense, two-hour interview to really help you evaluate your worth as a human being.  It’s also an experience in self-promotion.  Not only do you have to prove you are qualified, but also prove that you have the ability to explain exactly why you are in articulate, clear pronouncements.  Experience, successes, jobs, classes, degrees, promotions, goals, aspirations, oh my. 

It’s hard to find a potential job that seems just right.  Location, pay, experience, required skills- too many factors to name.  It seems that in ”Today’s Job Market” (aren’t you sick of hearing that phrase?) you need to have started gaining experience in a particular field from infancy if you want a shot at a good career.  Even companies hiring for entry level jobs want candidates that have very specific skills and experiences to make them eligible for the position.  Many times have I seen a job that I would be perfect for, if only I spoke fluent German or knew how to disassemble a laptop with a bobby pin. 

It is both ironic and beyond frustrating that the hardest, most challenging, most stress-inducing, most rewarding job I’ve ever had is not one you can put on a resume.  For anyone that has grocery shopped with two kids under age 3, or gotten out of bed for the fifth time in the same night to feed a newborn, or tried to explain to a 2 year old that punching their mother in face will not actually get them the lollipop they are crying for, you might understand.  But it’s true.  I’ve never worked harder or been more proud of anything. 

I define myself as a mom, first and foremost.  But it was a huge confidence building exercise to spend those two hours selling myself.  To be honest, I did talk about my kids in the interview (a move that can either help or backfire, depending on the audience).  At the risk of sounding Parent’s-Magazine-cliché, being a mom makes me a better worker. 

Can you handle stress?

“Yup. Yup yup yup.”

How do you deal with multitasking?

“Give the baby a pacifier and run with the 2 year old to the potty.”    

Have you done budgeting before?

“Diapers are cheapest at BJ’s but if you are in a rush, Target sells them for almost the same. And I always have a coupon.”

Are you afraid of getting your hands dirty?

“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.”

Wish me luck!

9/11- Remembering

I can clearly see the blue pattern on my sheets and feel the sun filtering in through the windows, in that exact moment after my radio alarm went off.  I had planned to get up and go to the gym before my classes started later in the morning.  But my bed was so comfortable and the will to work out was weak that morning.  I hit the snooze button before the words of the usually blithe and sarcastic radio DJ had really sunk in.  Something about a plane and a fire.  I distinctly remember thinking that it was one of their normal jokes.  I slept for seven more minutes and when the radio clicked on again, they were still talking about the plane.  I started to listen, sitting up on the edge of my single dorm room bed not yet knowing that this was a moment, a day, that I would never forget.  I was 20 years old. 

            Several other moments from that day remain remarkable clear to me.  My roommate yelling from her room that “They just hit the Pentagon!”  The horror beyond anything I had ever known as the first tower collapsed, as if my stomach fell with it.  A student whom I didn’t know, standing next to me in a crowd around a TV in a classroom later that morning, turning to me with vacant eyes and saying “I know someone that works there. He won’t answer his phone,” before he walked slowly away. 

            I assume most people have similar memories of that day, just as my parents and grandparents will never forget where they were the day Kennedy was shot or when Armstrong landed on the moon.  In fact, my own kids will most likely refer to 9/11 in the same way some day- mentioning how their their parents were moved by events that they read about but can never truly understand the experience of living through.  It’s hard to believe 11 years have passed and the memories are still so clear.  I hope they will always remain that way, because I think we all can agree that remembering such a day is important.  Remembering not only pays tribute to those who were lost but also keeps in the forefront of our minds the greater lessons from 9/11- knowing what is important, what is valuable and what is worth fighting for.  

Beginning of a new fictional story.....

It is not possible to stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon and not imagine falling in.  The extraordinarily vast emptiness where solid rock should be, pulls with long-winded fingers, drawing eye and breath and balance downward.  A person cannot but search the descending slope beneath them for a safe way down, a path to traverse, a way to safely discover what lays at the bottom.  Vertigo snakes out, threatening to push a body over, making it necessary to shut the eyes, reach out for a railing, turn towards safe ground in order to rebalance.  Even the bravest feel a nip of fear deep in the stomach, knowing that pain and death are only one wrong step away; an ending preceded by a long, rock-pierced, dusty tumble to the canyon floor.  

Yet crowds line the edges, testing their resolve, wondering at the depth and distance.  It is the same in other such places.  Niagara Falls- where the water has the potential to crush, wash away, annihilate, and drown, as well as mist and fascinate its visitors.  Alaskan bound cruises- where people seek to know the cutting glaciers, the jagged mountains and the untouched edge of wilderness, safely aboard a slow moving vessel.  Helicopter rides over the Hawaiian volcanos- teetering over the steaming craters and lava-hot peaks, reveling in the swooping ride over untouchable danger, but knowing that solid ground is only moments away.  It is the threat of danger, the opportunity to imagine disaster close-up, that drives people to those destinations, ever ready to pronounce that they did it, they tried it, they survived to bring home a postcard and a picture of themselves next to the sign. 

Lute Balthasar and Ari Stone had been there- yawned at the Grand Canyon, blinked at Niagara Falls, passively passed over the volcanos and pyramids and hungry rivers of the world.  They weren’t looking for postcards or snapshots or clichéd, prepackaged adventures.  Through ten years of trying, the two men had spent more time lamenting the inability to find truly novel experiences then they had doing pretty much anything else.  Everywhere they went, no matter how distant, how uninhabited, how off the edges of the guide-books’ maps, they knew that someone had been there before them. 

They had found gum wrappers on mountain tops, burnt-out fires in deep caves and frozen gloves on Artic wastelands.  There was no place new to discover, no final frontier.  The world, for them, was simply not big enough. 

First Day

The first day of school is terrifying.  At least, it always was for me.  All first days are scary, if you think about it- first day at a new job, first day of grad school, first day at a new pilates class- they all give me the same pit-of-the-stomach ache, the same shortness of breath, the same intense feeling of apprehension.  Where should I sit? Who can I talk to? Am I doing this right?  I know it is the desire to fit in and be comfortable that is not yet established when you walk into a new situation that brings about these worries, and that soon the feeling will fade and the new will eventually become known. But those first few days? Pretty tough.

In just over a week my baby, my first born, will go to her first day of school.  Being four years old she has the luxury of not yet feeling self-conscious.  Her only worry about school is that Mommy won’t be with her all day.  But once it was explained to her that at school she will do projects, make friends, listen to music and have snacks, she was totally on board.  This is not to say that a melt-down may not occur the first time I try to leave her there, but so far so good.  Eventually (sadly) she will learn that apprehension and worry about the first day.  She will learn that not everyone will be her friend, that she won’t like all of the snacks or books or songs, and that someday school will be hard work.  For now, thankfully, we are focused on the positive. 

I am so excited to picture her there, taking turns, listening to the teacher, raising her hand, and learning about the world outside of the one her family has created for her so far.  Someone was recently telling me that having kids is like building a ship.  You have hopefully chosen the right materials, given it the strength and solidity to withstand hardship, stocked it with enough provisions and given it the proper anchor for when standing still is necessary.  But eventually all ships must leave the dock and test their seaworthiness.  While this may be a bit of a dramatic example when thinking about sending a girl to preschool for three hours a day, it still feels right in a lot of ways.  This is my daughter’s first real experience in the world where I or another family member are not either directly involved or are waiting on the other side of the door.  I know, even if I worry or feel that first-day fear for her, that she will take the wind, and sail. 

October

I dreamed of the smell of October,

reaching out in heavy sleep

to touch the red leaves on the grass,

feeling them drift against my skin,

breathing in the places that are usually

so distant.

I dreamed of an ash covered lawn

I must cross to,

past long buried shoeboxes

and smoldering fallen branches,

taped up windows

and un-growable grass.

I dreamed of the static shoreline.

Rock meets water,

water lifts the sky,

stretches of sand push back

against three hundred years of

insistent crossings,

only a façade of yielding,

freckled with crushed,

unspent sand dollars and

hopelessly tangled seaweed.

I dreamed of a dim gallery,

white-tiled floor shifting,

black curtained portraits hung,

jaded art un-transfixed,

shaded amber lights burning

in compact caged air,

domed doorway far ahead.

A redesigned reverie,

leading to a most beautiful place.

A Reflection on Seven Years

Last night, after seven long years, I went to my final grad school class.  Now, I know seven years is both a long time, in terms of trying to get a degree, but also a short time when considering the bigger picture.  When I think about my life when I sat down in the first class- scared out of my mind, convinced that I wasn’t smart enough to be there, unsure just what I expected to get out of it- the differences compared to now are shocking.  I was 25, selling bras and underwear for a living, with loads of free time on my hands, very few responsibilities to get in the way and an awareness that I needed more in my life.  Now, eleven classes later, I have two kids, two cats, a house to clean and never enough time to get anything done, it often seems.  School, in fact, has been one of the most consistent things in those seven years, apart from the larger chunks of time I took off to have the kids. 

            I was glad to walk out of class last night, knowing that I would never again have to sit in the alternating sauna and igloo of the English graduate classroom at Fitchburg State, never again have to run through the poorly lit parking lot, ever aware of the likihood of impending crime in the area.  But I was also exceedingly sad.  I (shocker!) really like school and will miss it more than I am probably even admitting to myself.  I laughed in that room- at really nerdy literary jokes, at bad puns and ridiculous stories completely unrelated to what we were supposed to be talking about.  I learned in that room- about how people learn, about the differences people can find in the same written words, about history and life and shared experiences and about how powerful literature is.  I struggled in that room- with finding the motivation to pay attention on the bad days, with trying to learn from people whose opinions I strongly disagreed with, with trying not to be totally overwhelmed by the pile of work that was soon due and with trying to believe in myself.  I found things in that room- incredible people who moved me, books I never otherwise would have read, insights into many many things that I value to this day, and an open-mindedness I didn’t think I had.  But I also found something there that I know I didn’t have before- my voice.

I’m pretty sure I didn’t say one word in that first grad class.  I was so quiet that the professor eventually asked me after class one day, towards the end of the semester, why I never spoke.  She probably figured I wasn’t reading the material and so wasn’t prepared to participate in the conversation.  She was wrong, of course.  I read every word (and she was a tough professor- there were LOTS of words to read).  I absorbed those words, felt them, stored them up and loved them.  I was just too afraid to open my mouth, sure that people would think that what I had to say was not worth listening to. 

Over the next few classes I started, slowly, to speak.  I would think and think and think about the comment I wanted to make.  And don’t get me wrong, I wanted to make those comments. I had things to say, opinions to give and ideas to share.  There was room for them in those classes.  When I did find the courage to raise my hand and say whatever it was that I had just practiced saying fifty times in my head, my face would turn beet red and I would blurt it out as fast as possible so people would stop looking at me.  But I am certain, looking back, that each time I spoke, I learned a little more about the value of my voice.

Skipping ahead to the last few classes, my voice was a presence for sure.  I would speak as much as anyone in class, especially if it was a topic I was passionate about.  In the class in which we were discussing A Streetcar Named Desire, which I had just written a long research paper on, no one could shut me up.  And don’t even get me started on Pride and Prejudice- we would be here all day. 

The point is, I learned more in grad school than the curriculum planned and more than all of those professors (life-changingly amazing or horridly inadequate as they respectively were) were attempting to teach.  My voice, my work, my words, my life, my goals- all grew out of those classes into something new and something so exhilarating.  I may not know the exact destination I am headed for, but I’m going there now with tools that will enable me to find the way.  And the even better part? I know how to use ‘em.

Shot in the....

Wearing only her Tinkerbell underwear and two pink clips in her hair, she hops nervously back and forth, from one foot to the other.  We’re at Evelyn’s four year pediatric check-up and she looks at me with those enormous brown eyes and asks the question I’ve been dreading. 

“Do I have to get shots, Mom?” she asks, wringing her little hands.

I take a deep breath.  Lie, lie, lie! the peace-keeping part of my brain screams.  Tell her it will be all puppy dogs and lollipops! Do anything you can to delay the moment when she will realize what is to come.  Alas, no, it can’t be.  At four years old she is already more aware and perceptive than I knew a child could possibly be.  Lying to her would not only be wrong, but would also backfire once the truth was revealed as the nurse attacked her with the giant, child-torturing needle.  Was it better to let her live in terror, and what would most likely be a state of extreme resistance, for the duration of the exam if I told the truth?  Would a white lie suffice?  Aren’t you always supposed to be honest with your children? (Mothers of the world will insert wild laughter at this question because, as we know, it’s just not possible or even wise to be completely honest with them all the time- The playground is closing now…They are all out of ice cream at this grocery store, sweetie…Of course you like peas…).  But I tell her the truth.

“I don’t know, honey. Let’s ask the doctor,” I say, then quickly change the subject. 

Ok, so the whole truth is that I am about 90% sure that shots are in her near future, but not completely sure, so it’s not a lie, right?  I think, probably to the point of obsession sometimes, about how to make good choices as a parent.  Organic food, scheduled bed times, educational toys, supportive sneakers.  Those things are difficult in the sense that it is often easier to give them  M&M’s, not fight the bed time battle, and let them play with plastic swords while wearing flip-flops.  But in the never-ending attempt to do the right thing for your kids, you run up against these moral questions like the whole lying thing.

I know one day, in the near future, my daughter will lose her first tooth. (May the squeamish part of me pause here to say, “Ewwww!”)  I will then have to decide- Tooth Fairy or not?  It’s a lie, even worse than Santa, since there is no religious or even really a long-standing cultural link for the Tooth Fairy. The upside to telling this particular lie is two-fold: losing teeth is kind of traumatic and the promise of a reward may just smooth the path, and, perhaps more importantly, other kids will be talking about the dollar (or the twenty dollars or the iPad or whatever else) their particular Tooth Fairy left for them.  Do I want my kids left out of that conversation?  It’s hard to decide.  Honesty is not always a sunny day.

Recently facing those brown eyes and their persistent questions, Evelyn and I talked about death.  She wanted to know if she was getting older.  I told her yes.  She asked if everyone gets older.  I said yes.  She wanted to know if people die when they get old.  Knowing what I was in for but, again, not wanting to lie, I told her yes, eventually everyone dies.  She looked at me for a long moment then burst into tears. 

“I don’t feel like I want to diiiiiiiiiie!” she howled.

“I know, honey.  But don’t be upset.  It’s not something you have to worry about for a long long time,” I tried to convince her.  She calmed down a bit, but then I could see a new, and even worse horror occur to her innocent mind.  She climbed into my lap, her small hands grabbed for me, clinging desperately around my neck.

“Mom…..are YOU gonna die?” she squealed.  Oh dear.  I really asked for that one.  We talked our way through it, though, and she eventually lost interest in the conversation.  But every so often now, when I remind her to drink her milk or eat her veggies since they will make her healthy, she lifts an eyebrow at me and reminds me to do the same, ordering me to stay alive for as long as possible.  And, well, she’s right.

So back in the doctor’s office, Evelyn bombards the pediatrician with the same question the moment she opens the door.  The doctor gives her a smile and a quick “we’ll see!” before conducting the exam.  When she’s done she looks at me and confirms that there will indeed be two quick “inoculations” today, then swiftly leaves the room to firmly detach herself from the scene which is about to ensue.  I must admit a brief moment of envy, wishing I could somehow skip the next five minutes.  I start to tell Evelyn the bad news, but before she can really react, the door swings open.

Like a pair of ninja spies, two nurses storm the exam room.

“Hi sweetie!” one says cheerfully, looking at Evelyn.  “Ok, mom, help her lay on the table please,” she says to me, in an undertone.  I swiftly obey, motivated by their stealthy, efficient manner.

“What pretty toenail polish you have!” says the other as she grabs Evelyn’s feet, pining them down.

“Mom, grab her hands,” ninja nurse number one says under her breath, and she reaches for my daughter’s pale thigh.  I do as she says and Evelyn starts to protest and twist around to try and see what they are doing. 

“Look at Mommy, baby,” I say nervously, not believing for one instant that she will, tensing my own body for what I know she is about to feel as the first shot goes in.  Evelyn turns towards me, eyes filled with accusation, face aghast, as a wild, rolling howl erupts from her mouth.  The second shot has already gone in, only adding anger to the pain.  One nurse is already out the door, but the second turns back as I gather my wailing child in my arms.

“I really didn’t want to do that one.  She is just so cute!” she said, closing the door behind her.  (I’m not sure ninja spies are supposed to say something like that, but still).

This was a small case in the overall “being honest with your kids” question, but for me, a significant one.  Now that she is four, and just too darn smart for her own good, I have to loosen up on that idea of making everything ideal for her.  It’s a natural mindset, I suppose, developed from the days of first caring for a newborn and thinking primarily of their comfort, padding (both literally and figuratively) everything in their little world to protect them.  But bumps and scrapes, and I really do believe this, make them stronger and teach them lessons, whether they be mental or physical.  Horrible as it feels, I know it’s important for a girl, even one as young as four, to know that people die and shots have to happen.  Honesty builds trust, of course, and even though her brown eyes flashed anger at me for just a moment, somehow linking me to that pain, she still turned towards me for comfort and will eventually learn that such things are part of life. I held her for as long as she needed, until the tears dried and the sting went away.  Well, ok, I held her longer than that, for my own sting, until she started inquiring about reward stickers and we got up to leave.  Honesty, just like the shots, can hurt.  Sometimes it hurts a lot.  But in the end, as they will come to realize, it’s necessarily and ultimately good for them. 

Fallen

 

A storm blew in at our design

and took the day

while our heads were lost.

In its rush, in its hurry,

it swept through, rising while

we chose only to watch.

Clouds perched along

the very edge of the sky,

looming dark and sure.

I swept the summer from the air

before Autumn had the chance,

clearing space for something new,

unexpected in this sweet season.

The winds came down,

smelling of ideas renewed

and places silently known.

How deeply we breathed,

and then believed.

Without a sound,

feet lifted off the ground,

we made up our minds.

And set everything up to Fall.

Life Lessons from Water Country

I recently spent a long, hot day with my daughter at Water Country, a huge outdoor water park in Portsmouth, NH.  If ever there is a place on Earth to contemplate the human race, this is the spot.  There are few other places to fully observe not only the human form on extreme display, but also different aspects of human nature and the wild variation therein.  For instance, in a place where most people are barefoot (I am particularly partial to highly unfashionable but extreme useful water shoes, but nevertheless) I saw people spitting, tossing gum, and carelessly dropping food with abandon.  There were parents screaming and cursing at their children, teenagers recklessly disturbing other people with their rude behavior and people shoving by each other to claim lounge chairs and picnic tables when the park opened.  But there were the better sides of people on display as well.  I saw parents lovingly teaching their children to swim, couples completely at ease floating down the lazy river together holding hands and smiling, and families taking advantage of a beautiful July to just have fun with each other.  I know, for me, it was an opportunity to forget obligations, responsibilities and burdens, to stop worrying about all the things I normally worry about, and focus on just how big my 4-year-old smiled and how loud she laughed as we went down the water slides over and over. 

Of course, the part that’s hard to miss at a water park, is the profusion of skin on display.  It’s hard to not judge what’s visible all around you, hard not to wonder at questionable garment choices, hard not to compare yourself to 18-year-olds in teeny tiny bikinis.  But, all that aside, three separate but related situations really stood out to me. 

The first was a woman I saw with her young son.  She was a beautiful woman, fair skin and long red hair.  Her son was adorable, bundled in a huge life jacket, enjoying the kiddie play area.  The woman was wearing a moderately revealing black bikini, which she wore quite well and was obviously in great physical shape.  She was also at least 8 months pregnant.  Her belly was perfectly round and lovely, and completely on display.  My first thought was that I was wildly jealous.  She was glowing and gorgeous and seemed to be completely comfortable wearing what she was wearing.  I would never have had the courage when I was pregnant to show my stomach, and it was not long ago that no one would even consider such a thing.  I could see people watching her, perhaps thinking that she exposed too much.  But I was totally in awe and had to suppress the strong desire to walk over and either personally commend her or rub her belly in admiration.

The second situation that stood out to me was a family also in the kiddie area.  They were a large family, with multiple generations present.  The men and boys all wore regular bathing trunks in the water.  The women were completely clothed- khaki pants and polo shirts or t-shirts with leggings or shorts.  They were all swimming and having fun but I had to wonder about the clothes.  The most obvious reason was that it was a modesty issue, but some were ok wearing shorts while other swam in full-length pants.  I wondered why the women didn’t choose to wear men’s bathing suits that would have covered just as much, if not more, than their shorts were covering.  Then there is, of course, the double standard of the men being shirt-less while the women covered up.  Either way, it didn’t seem to stop them from enjoying themselves in any way but I wondered if they felt conspicuous compared to the masses of people hardly wearing any clothes at all.  It made me wonder about social standards and the belief in what is acceptable in public.  My standards of both appropriateness and comfort (one piece bathing suit plus mesh shorts) probably seemed conservative to a lot of the people there.  Just observing the spectrum of choices on display in this one place, only points how just how differently people can think about one simple thing like swimming attire. 

The last situation involved a child of probably 9 or 10 years old.  This child was wearing a bikini bottom and no top.  It was clearly a girl’s bikini bottom, with tie-sides and a floral print.  Shoulder length hair, a huge smile and feet that never stopped running made this child a joy to see.  But it was hard to look and not wonder at the child’s gender.  Either it was a girl who was going topless right at that age where it starts to seem inappropriate, or it was a boy who was not held back by the idea of gender standards.  I could see other parents watching this child, and the young male lifeguard even mentioned the situation to me as “totally wrong.”  I wondered which situation he was judging- girl uncovered or boy in girls’ clothing, and which of those situations would be considered worse.  I consider myself pretty open minded when it comes to gender ideals and admit to letting my son wear my daughter’s princess dress-up clothes if he gets the notion.  If he wanted to wear them in public though, I would certainly have to think twice about it.  It’s not that I care in general if he prefers pink over blue or chooses mermaid stories over ones about trains- it’s the idea that he would be criticized, judged, discriminated against, or physically or mentally hurt by others who are far more closed-minded about those things.  In wanting to protect him, it is possible, unlike the parents of the topless child, that I may influence his choices towards more traditional gender standards, much as I would like to think otherwise.  Even in writing that, it feels wrong.  I want my children to be who they want to be and develop a strong enough belief in themselves to not let the judgment of other bother them.  I suppose, in the end, it is up to me to allow them to do just that.

At the end of the day, my daughter and I went home happy, exhausted and smelling like chlorine.  In reflecting on our experience, I wouldn’t have believed it possible to find so many life lessons at Water Country.  One other lesson I seem eternally incapable of learning- it’s just not possible to ever use too much sunscreen!

   

Run

5:30 AM and time to run.  Brush teeth, spandex and sneakers, grab the iPod, out the door.  Then I wake up.  Despite the obvious upside of staying in bed until a decent hour, I'm drawn to the early morning peacefulness that somehow motivates me to complete the morning's goal- a good, sweaty run.  It was not always this way.  For the majority of my life, the idea of being a runner was beyond ridiculous. To be clear, I am not athletic.  Not flexible, not terribly strong, not the sporty type though I do love to be outside.  I used to take long walks around my neighborhood in the name of getting exercise, but it was a minimal effort.  But it was a year after my daughter was born and my pants still didn't fit.  I had always worked out and was doing so at the time, but to no real tangible outcome.  I went through every day hating myself, my body, my inability to make changes for the better.  One day, absorbed in anger and frustration with myself, I started to run.  It was pathetic.  Legs burning, heart about to burst, lungs on the edge of collapse.  Needless to say, I didn't get very far.  But. But, but, but.  I did it again the next day.  And the next.  Eventually, I was running, sort of.  I would go for maybe a mile or so, then walk for awhile, run another half mile, etc.  Not too bad for a staunchly un-athletic lady.  I had lost weight, felt better in general, and though I still had to push myself at every step, had to overcome the urge to stop or slow down, had to decide on a daily basis that doing what was hard to do was better than being miserable, I was proud of myself. 

I felt victorious, even though a small part of me knew that saying I was a runner was only partly true since I was only running for parts of those workouts, punctuated with lengthy sections of walking.  Then, not that long ago, I went on vacation.  Nice hotel, too many good meals and glasses of wine, an amazing view.  I didn't know the area and so, feeling the drive to get a workout in, I hit the hotel gym.  It was state-of-the-art, with treadmills lined up against a huge picture window overlooking the lake, boats on the water, rising sun, the whole deal.  It must be said, I hate treadmills.  Hate 'em.  For me, running on a treadmill is absolute torture compared to the relative peace of running outside and I can feel every step like a weight dragging me down, making me want to quit, so I avoid them at all costs.  But that day my choices were limited.  These particular treadmills had built-in TV's and fans and more buttons than a spaceship.  One button said 5K.  Huh, I thought.  5K is like, what, three miles or so? (yeah, I wasn't totally sure).  What the heck, I will just slow it down when I need to.  I started to run.  I looked at the lake.  I thought about life.  I thought about breakfast.  I thought about the sweat dripping down my back.  I thought about the slightly awkward girl reflected in the window wearing my workout clothes.  She almost looks like a runner, I thought.  The treadmill beeped at me.  5K COMPLETED, it said.  Huh. I hadn’t needed to slow down at all.  Crap, I thought.  This must be a metaphor for life.  And I had always hated the treadmill.  

 Running three miles without stopping might seem like a small victory. But it was one of those things you convince yourself you are not capable of doing until you actually get it done.  Getting a pedicure recently, the girl asked me if I was a runner (not a good sign about the condition of my feet, sadly) and I said yes without hesitation, so that is the real victory, I guess. I do consider myself a runner.  I like the label and take pride in it, as if declaring it to other people makes it more true, makes me better.  This is, of course, very much like declaring oneself a writer.  I say I'm a writer, therefore I am. (Feel free to argue!) I say I'm a runner, so it must be true.  I don’t usually like labels.  I've been called stubborn, pessimistic, shy and maybe they do fit, some of the time.  But runner...writer...yeah, I'm good with those. 

My Daughter's Hair

People stop us in the street every day to admire my daughter’s hair.  Also at the mall, the grocery store, the playground and the doctor’s office.  They exclaim about its beauty and perfection, the shiny, gorgeous, bouncy black curls that are so amazing, they almost look fake.  But fake they are not.  Evelyn was blessed with beautiful hair.  She was born with just a few wisps of dark brown fluff.  Even then, it was nicer than my hair.  It took about a year, but when it started to grow, a little loop of a curl appeared over each ear.  It slowly filled in, darkening and thickening with every day.  By the time she was three, my sweet daughter had a full head of glossy hair that hung in curled perfection down her back.  Every day in the bath she reaches behind her and feels it cling wetly to her back.

 “Is it as long as Rapunzel’s yet?” she asks, and smiles when I tell her it’s almost there. 

The idea of cutting it has never even been a passing thought.  I cherish her hair, knowing that it is a rare and wonderful gift that most people don’t get. 

                My hair is sadly lacking in the shiny, bouncy, and curly departments.  Limp, thin and pin straight, my ordinary brown hair has been a disappointment every single day of my life.  I was positively bald until I was two years old.  I looked so much like my older brother that everyone thought we were twins and my mother put lacy bonnets on me so people would know she had a daughter.  When I think of the amount of my life I have spent working on my hair, it makes me wonder what else I may have accomplished.  Medical degree perhaps?  Every day- wash, condition, mousse, root-lifting spray, blow dry, curling iron, hairspray.  If not, it’s a slicked back pony-tail gym-style with no hope of recovery until the next washing.  When I was old enough to care, some cruel person told me I looked like a boy when my hair was pulled back so I’ve avoided pony-tails as much as possible.  That means spending at least 45 minutes a day on hair maintenance if I want to leave the house somewhat proudly.  And all that work really only leaves my hair barely passable.  Rain or wind will ruin me.  It’s a sad state to live in.

                When Evelyn’s hair started to get longer, I had to learn curly hair maintenance.  She actually has as many, or more, hair products than I do.  If left to its own natural state, her hair ends up gigantically frizzy and tangled.  So some leave-in conditioner and spray-on gel are necessary just to head all the curls in the same direction.  We’ve perfected a quick scrunch technique that dries into the perfect spirals that strangers so admire.  On non-bath mornings, a quick wet down with a spray bottle of water and a wide toothed comb send her on her way.  When we’ve got a bit more time, I am able to relive my Barbie-playing days and practice my styling skills.  Pig-tails, French braids, twists, buns, clips, ribbons, and headbands abound.  Luckily I have a very patient little girl. 

                Though I, genetically, have contributed nothing to this startling feature of my daughter, I take a great amount of pride in it.  I wonder if there is anything about myself for which I have ever felt that kind of pride.  I am tall, which some people admire.  But there is also a requisite discomfort associated with being taller than a lot of men, as if you are somehow out of proportion with the rest of the world.  I have pretty eyes, I suppose.  Pale blue, as opposed to my daughter’s deep brown.  But I’ve never been stopped on the street and marveled at. 

                While I do admit a certain amount of jealousy, I couldn’t be happier that Evelyn did not get my hair.  I imagine it will change her life in miraculous, positive ways but I’m willing to acknowledge my optimistic overestimation of the power of hair.  In the meantime, I am happy to bask in the happiness that Evie’s hair seems to bring to the general public.  And why not?  She is pure joy to me.  I take every opportunity to hold her and breath in her little girl smell, mixed with the scent of Pantene.  I curl her hair around my finger, over and over and over.  I gather the big bunch of it into my hands and love the delicate curve of the back of her neck.  We sit together sometime and talk about crazy things we would like for our birthdays, even though they are months away.  I wonder at the amazingness of her tiny mind that absorbs everything around it, and then remind myself to watch what I say.  I hold her tiny hand up against mine and we discuss just how long it will take until they are the same size.  When I was pregnant and found out I was having a girl, I was euphoric.  Oh, the things we could bond over!  And we do.  But what came as quite a shock to me is that she is not me.  We couldn’t look any different, to start with.  Those strangers on the street smile at Evelyn, then look at me, puzzled.  They are probably wondering if I am the nanny or perhaps stole her from some gorgeous dark-haired mother. 

                Though I knew my child would not be an exact replica of myself, I figured a daughter would be pretty much a smaller me until she got old enough to develop her own personality.  But Evelyn was born with personality in spades.  We were working on writing her alphabet recently and I was checking in with her on occasion.  When I gave her one too many suggestions, she sighed and said, “Mom, you just focus on what you are doing and I will work on my M’s, ok?” 

Even as a baby, Evelyn was in charge.  A happy baby, yet determined that everything should go her way; a trait that seems to multiply as she grows.  My little firecracker surprises me, challenges me and intrigues me daily.  What a mystery to have a little part of yourself running around, choosing sparkly orange skirts to wear and manipulating every grandparent she sees into giving her “just one more M&M.”  She’s always just one sweet smile away from making you forget her latest tantrum. 

I know, without a doubt, that Evelyn is destined to break my heart, as only a daughter can do.  One day she will come to me and ask to change her hair.  Either straighten it or, horror of horrors, cut it short.  It will be her right, naturally, to experiment with her looks, wear clothes I don’t understand, befriend questionable people, and spend time on things I think to be wasteful.  I distinctly remember looking at my mother when I was young and wondering why she couldn’t understand anything about me.  I imagine it will be the same with my daughter and consider myself forward-thinking enough to plan on not being hurt by it.  I also know that plan is doomed to fail.  What keeps me calm is the knowledge that my mother and I weathered the storm and now, even though we are vastly different in so many ways, we are the closest friends. 

My mother looks at me the same way I look at Evelyn, I’m sure, in the long chain of women who hope their daughters’ lives exceed their own in as many ways as possible but still check to see if there are glimmers of themselves existing there.  It’s a rare day that Evelyn and I don’t bake something or read together; our favorite activities.  Maybe they are trivial things, but I like to think she’ll treasure my killer banana bread recipe when she grows up and hopefully keep her devoted love of books.  While I can’t know the person Evelyn will be, I can rest easy knowing I’m giving her everything of myself that I can.  

 To say life changes when you become a parent is beyond cliché.  But there it is.  I must say I’ve sported a few more ponytails since becoming a mom.  I wouldn’t say I’ve stopped caring about how I look; it’s just that there is far less time to think about it before we run out of the door in the morning.  It’s rare these days to actually make it through a whole shower or blow-dry without a little face peeking around the corner at me…and then putting on my chap-stick, touching my makeup, smelling my perfume, and asking profoundly endearing yet relentlessly unending questions.   Whether my hair is done or not, I still have to make time for finding lost pink sneakers, bagging snacks,  and of course, making sure Evelyn’s clips match her mermaid shirt. 

                 One evening recently, I was brushing Evelyn’s hair.  She asked if she could brush mine.

 “A wonderful idea,” I told her as she started brushing with long strokes. “I think the last person who brushed my hair was my mom,” I said.

 Evelyn thought that was hilarious.  She brushed for a while and then leaned her cheek against the smoothed hair on the back of my head.

 “Mom,” she said. 

“Yes baby?” I answered.

“Your hair is so beautiful,” she said.  I smiled.  

“Really?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she replied, “like a really excellent princess.”  Excellent.

Island Rock

A stubborn rock in the sea

With mist sitting low to hide the green

Hills ring with a history unending

With no one ever to admit a beginning

A place she dreamed of

Calling home but never dared

A place of pale skin and

Centuries of echoes

Dancers and singers

Poets and drinkers

Rain filled streets home to

Lost sons who believe the stories

Here the world isn’t ending.

A past of dancing gaiety

A suffering bondage to the land

A pipe’s long lonely moan,

And an eye turned toward the hills

Still green across the wide blue

That separates time from place

A dream no Highland woman

Would surrender.

"Not Willing to Accept"

            It is both a calming and exhilarating feeling to read the last page of a book that you know will forever be a part of your official Favorites list.  You feel lucky to have found it, a bit sad that the experience of the first read is over, and the burning need to tell everyone you know all about it and insist that they read it and appreciate it as much as you do.  I have the incredible luck to have several people very close to me (most specifically my father and grandmother) who appreciate and reciprocate this love of reading and are always willing to give and take recommendations.  It is a strong connection between us and I never tire of hearing what they are reading and sharing what I have found.  They will be hearing from me soon, and emphatically so, about a book I just finished. 

            Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake has been placed very near to the top of my All-Time Favorites list and I can’t imagine it losing that spot ever.  I don’t believe I’ve ever read anything more carefully written, more sensitively detailed, more profoundly real to human nature and the dynamics of family.  The story is one that, I believe, every American needs to understand- the infinitely complex issues of immigrant families, and the next American-born generation, trying to find a home here, trying to fit in, both denying and clinging to aspect of their culture and race, creating a space for themselves that is so particular to who they are, what they know and believe, and how they want to be seen and understood by their community. 

            It is also a book about relationships- the intimate connections between people that shape them, force them to grow up, allow them to see themselves through the eyes of others, and again, cause them to both cling to their roots and try to deny them.  One important idea that the story conveys is that sometimes who or what you think is the most ideal fit, the most appropriate thing, is not always what the heart wants. There is one line in the story, when the narrator is speaking about a failed marriage:

“They were not willing to accept, to adjust, to settle for something less than their ideal of happiness.”

            I’m considering putting it on a t-shirt.  Why do we live with less?  There has to be compromise in life, no question, and the reasons for those compromises are infinite but so often we accept more than we should, adjust things we really shouldn’t budge on and live in a state so far below that ideal, that it raises big questions of why we are willing to do those things.  So yeah, Jhumpa, I sure do get what you are saying.

            Here’s what I’m saying:  read the book.    

A Mother's Melodies

A boy's memory...

She only knew three lullabies but she sang them laughing soft in my ear, and held my tiny body against her.  She swayed and rocked and paced for mile after mile on the beige carpet of my room as every word wrote itself down in my mind.  Hush now, my baby, be still love don’t cry… The white glow of the nightlight was enough to see her face, which looked tired and ready for sleep though I never wanted her to leave.  I kept my eyes open, laid my head on her shoulder and willed her to stay with me, swearing to stay awake so that she would.  In my room, with blue painted walls, one hundred picture books, my first teddy bear wearing my first baseball hat, she sang.  Sleep like you’re rocked by the stream…  Her hair tickled my cheek and smelled like everything I loved- sun and warmth and comfort and sweet milk.  I grabbed it with my small fingers, tangling them deep, deciding to keep that reign on her forever and never let it go. 

            Around and around she walked, her body humming with the music; songs about love and rivers and sleep and nighttime.  Sleep and remember my lullaby and I’ll be with you when you dream… The world ran by outside the window, but I didn’t know it.  Everything I needed was there in that room.  All I could feel, all I had the energy to believe was that she and I could always be as we were.  Her heart beat under me, a slow steady beat I could feel through her skin; a sound and a feeling I had always known.  Sleep on a river that flows through my arms…

            A deep sigh escaped me as my body sank deeper against hers and I could see her smile down at me, although my eyes were getting heavy.  I fought against them, trying to keep them open, keep her there.  She leaned her face into my neck and breathed me in, filling her lungs and making my body rise, then fall again.  Slowly we swayed.  Sleep as I’m singing to you… If I could just stay awake, I convinced myself the songs might go on forever.  My body was giving up, drifting away from my control, disappearing as sleep took over.  No, I thought, hang on.  I see you smiling, so peaceful and calm.  Holding you I’m smiling too… It was the same last night and would be the same tomorrow.  On and on we would walk that room in the last moments of each day, spending it wrapped up in each other.  It always had been so and I believed, with every bit of my small self, that it would be for all time.

Then, so softly and gently that I couldn’t protest, she laid me down in bed and touched our noses together.  Her hands pushed back my hair and held my face.  She laid her warm cheek against mine for a long moment.  Only a sliver of her face still showed through my closing eyes but I could see the peace glowing around her like a halo.  In a soft, humming whisper she sang all three lullabies again.  River, oh River, flow gently for me. Such precious cargo you bear. Do you know somewhere he can be free? River, deliver him there… That is what I remember.