The River

     One of my favorite Christmas songs is River by Joni Mitchell (though I am partial to the Robert Downey Jr version!). It may be a stretch to really classify it as a true Christmas song, but I always come back to it at this time of year. Last year I wrote about the magic of Christmas and I feel that still. But there is also a sadness that comes with this season that River manages to capture.
      It’s nothing new to point out that everyone makes mistakes and everyone suffers some form of hardship. But knowing it doesn’t make it any easier. When it comes to the time of year when you are supposed to be looking back listing out all of the things you are grateful for, it’s hard not to come back around at all of those things you regret.
     Unfortunately there are far too many places to find examples of your own failure to live up to expectation. Parents magazine points out that I should be sculpting forest scenes out of vegetables on dinner plates to entice my children to eat better. The Millennium Running Facebook page I liked asks me if I have fit in a run today. The look on my boss’s face when I roll in to work at 9:45 after 2 solid hours of traffic reminds me that I am letting him down. And the picture my daughter draws and leaves in her backpack of a face covered in tears that says “I miss you Mom” makes me want to skip everything and hold her all day long.
     Then there are those truly personal failures as well when you don’t live up to the person you thought you were- words you shouldn’t have allowed yourself to say, choices that were clearly wrong and situations where the way to handle yourself was so obvious yet you went the other way. Everyone says it is about finding balance. If only there were a magic button, ‘cause balance ain’t so easy to come by.
     So why the pity-party? It’s not because I don’t feel that happiness of being with family, giving gifts, honoring traditions and all of the other joys that came with Christmas- I do. But because those tougher thoughts also come with The Most Wonderful Time of The Year for me in many way, and for so many other people when it’s pointed out over and over how happy we are supposed to be. So that’s it really- the contrast of expectation and reality.
     Where to go from here? I’m not sure. Taking the advice of the people who I respect (thanks guys!) would be the smartest step. They tell me the balancing act is working, things are getting done and my children are turning out pretty great. They happen to be the same people who support me the most and knowing that support comes with a huge heap of love sure doesn’t hurt. I still get that feeling that Joni Mitchell points out so well of wishing I had a river to skate away on when I am feeling like I’ve failed. But the good thing about rivers, especially frozen ones…you can always come skating back.

Not Me

Don't touch me.
Memory of some petrified day.
This armor you see,
still needs work.
Still soft to certain forces.

Don't hang your presence here.
Not where I can see it.
Not in these hollowed out halls.

Don't reach out
and make this backwards step
across all I have tried to heal from.

Don't haunt this home,
newly clean of your ghosts.
Your obstinate spirit.

Don't touch me.
It is not me.
It is not me you reach for.
Not the me your hands will know.
Not me.

Full of Breath

Stepping over their miniature clothes

pollinated with the remains

of today,

and wishing they had picked them up.

Smoothing their blankets,

casting a hand over their warm foreheads.

Sticky sweet reprimand

for skipping their baths.

 

Brushing back her clouds of hair,

tucking in his trailing arm,

laying a kiss on their moon-bright skin.

Matching their breath one by one,

folding into mine,

pools on the pillows.

Their breath

holding more consequence

then my own.

 

It’s a school night.

It’s a work day.

And the air  

is full of things I was supposed to do.

 

There is no exhaustion greater

than carrying the weight of their care.

But there is no life,

without breath.

Food Stamps

           Today I heard two women talking in line at the grocery store. The line was long and their own carts overflowed with food. These women were upset about how long they had to wait to pay for their groceries. The problem, apparently, was a technical one. A cashier had trouble redeeming a woman’s food stamps, which triggered computer issue that was slowing up all of the registers. These two women took personal issue with the woman redeeming her food stamps. Both expressed loud and lengthy outrage that someone would “live off of the system,” “take advantage when everyone else has to work,” and, most horrifically, “come to this country and take American handouts when she doesn’t even speak our language.” Their anger extended further, to include the fact that the woman had the audacity to have a child with her, as this meant that she was “creating more of them.”

            As of the beginning of 2013 the average recipient in Massachusetts received the equivalent of $132 in food stamps per month. This does not cover toilet paper, diapers, soap, or medicine.

            These two women in line did not know the women they were talking about. They couldn’t know her life story or how she came to be in a grocery store in Malden, Massachusetts on a Thursday afternoon. They didn’t care. They threw a label on her and not only chose to focus on their negative impression in that frustrated moment, but also chose to discuss it at such a volume that everyone waiting in line got to hear their misguided judgment.   

            Recent federal cuts to the food stamp program will decrease the average family’s monthly food budget by $39.

            It’s easy to grab on to the idea that people take things that they haven’t earned. It is undeniable that this happens. But federal programs are designed to help people who, if you can believe it, NEED HELP. I sleep well knowing that I live in a country where I can get help if, for some reason, I become unable to work (even if that help equals $132 a month- far less than I spend a month on food). I’m glad to know my children won’t starve. These women made me sad about the state of humanity but all that more determined to teach my children not to be the kind of people who stand in line and pass judgment with a cart full of food while someone in front of them struggles to buy a carton of milk.

Breathing

I'll write more...
when children sleep
and needs are met
and I'm awake
and the alarm is set...
when dinner is done
and the cats are fed
and the day is gone
and I'm not yet dead

I'll write more...
when I can put
two thoughts together
to make a whole
and words come out
to purge this soul
and I've no excuse
and I find the phrase
and can concentrate
and begin to raise
a brand new sound
and speak this noise
and emancipate this
silent voice
and suddenly
with nothing left
to do but give
these words some breath
I'll speak them out
and write them down
and know that I
have more to keep
and take them
with me as I sleep
but soon I'll come
and write once more-
and find that breath
I've been waiting for.

Morning by the River

Months ago…

He walks quickly, the bulging pockets of his cargo pants swaying as he moves. He is one of many by the river. Some run, others walk, mothers push strollers, old men fish, children ride their bikes. This man moves with a purpose, his pace brisk and determined. A cap is pulled low over his eyes, a scowl twists his mouth. Ordinarily I wouldn’t give him a second thought among the many others I pass. Suddenly, though, ahead of me, he swerves off the paved path onto the grass. In a perfect movement that appears to be rehearsed, planned, repeated, his hand dips into his pocket and he stoops towards the ground. There, from its perch at the base of a tree- a gray squirrel. They move at the same time, in a moment that speaks of expectation. He hands over the nut from his pocket that the squirrel is already reaching for. Neither of them stop or even pause but fluidly return to their original paths. The exchange only took a moment, neither man nor squirrel breaking pace. It was over so quickly I think I may have imagined it, so unnatural did it seem. I wonder how they knew. Did they anticipate the other would be there? Was this particular squirrel a friend? Such a simple act but so trusting. And so beautifully unexpected, at least for me.

 

It is one of those mornings I wait the whole year for. It is the first morning I need long pants. I am warm but the air feels cool on my face. The river smells fresh this morning, which is a nice change from the hot staleness of it in the summer. The sun is on the water, a beautiful million lights flashing. I can breathe. It's why I come. To breathe. Most days it's also to run. To work and sweat, to push myself and go as far and as hard as possible. Not today. It's too calm, too quiet, too perfectly poised in this moment between summer and fall when I'm ready for a change, when things feel like they're turning over. Today I'll just walk, feel the air, breathe, look for peace. My instinct, sadly, is to do what I do when I run. List things in my head. Errands, shopping lists, worries, failures, problems. The stresses of ‘Oh-I-wish,’ ‘If-only,’ ‘Maybe-I-could-just,’ ‘I-never-have-time-to,’ and ‘What-will-people-think.’ The stresses that everyone has. I usually take this time to try and rearrange, organize my thoughts, force the worst of it back down and figure out how to keep moving forward, day after day, going through my life. It's a pessimist’s exercise. One who is constantly trying to do better, to think cleaner, to wish for greater thoughts, to not be blind to the bright side. 

 

But not today. Optimism came in with the fall weather, if only for a morning. Today I think of things I am grateful for. Things I have now that I used to long for. People who love me. Plans that inspire me. The life I am living, choosing to live, want to live. The power to move myself forward. This walk by the river that I love.

 

I wonder about the people I pass. I wonder how their hardships compare to mine. I wonder if this river represents peace to them, or escape, or motivation, or joy- whether they are running or strolling or sitting on a bench with their coffee. I watch two dog owners approach each other. They chat politely. The dogs greet each other with a sniff and then lay in the grass, noses touching, as comfortable as old friends and I envy them for just a second. I look out at the river. The sun silhouettes a bird on the water. From where I stand it seems to be a swan. But I’ve never seen a swan on this river. Only the endless march of ducks and geese, common as rain. I can see the perfect curve of its neck, imagine the snowy whiteness of its feathers, the black jet of its beak. The bird moves towards the edge of the sun’s glare and I know if I keep watching, it will reveal its true identity in a moment. I look away and keep walking, at peace.

 

This morning…

I recognize him from the stooping movement. Same determined pace, same scowling countenance, same bent exchange in the grass next to the path. He straightens and swerves back on course as the squirrel runs back towards his tree. I want to ask him. Curiosity is strong. One particular squirrel? Scheduled meeting place? Why only one nut? But then, as soon as the first squirrel arrives home, another from a tree further down the path emerges. Scoop, swerve, reach. But this one has climbed the back of a bench and perches there, hands outstretched. The man carefully places the nut in its hands and keeps walking with hardly a pause. The squirrel stands so still, and watches him walk away.

Eat. Right?

I’m just back from the grocery store and am on that full-fridge high. I feel good. I bought lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, whole grain cereal, whole wheat pasta and bread, low fat milk, yogurt and cheese, nuts, raisins and applesauce. There's no soda, white bread or potato chips in my house. No electric blue candy, no regular ice cream, no Kool-Aid or Doritos. Granted, there are some Goldfish, some granola bars (which, let's be honest are closer to candy bars than health food) and some pancake mix. Ok, so we're not perfect eaters but I like to think I'm doing pretty good for me and my kids.

But wait. My kids love ice cream. My kids would trade their very souls for a bowl of peppermint stick (for Evelyn) or coffee (for Roman). There is, seemingly, no easier way to get a huge cheer out of them then to offer a trip to the local ice cream stand. I get it. I've been going there since I was a kid- the dozens of flavor choices, cup or cone, chocolate sprinkles or rainbow. It's a kid's (and an ice cream-loving mommy's) dream.

So what do you do when one of your kids' favorite things conflicts pretty strongly with their general well-being? One of the primary things a parent is required to provide for their kids is food. A roof over their head, clothes on their back and good food in their tummies. But what about smiles on their faces? And what do you do when those things conflict? How do you balance giving your kids a healthy diet with their love of mac and cheese? I think every parent has faced the frustration of placing a healthy home-cooked meal in front of their children to only to have it flat-out rejected. Then it's a question of whipping up a grilled cheese or fighting the hard battle of trying to convince them to eat something they don't want to eat. It's a battle not only of wills but of long-term health. We have all given in, going back to the idea that your job as a parent is to give your children enough to eat. We imagine if we don't get them to eat a full dinner (or breakfast, or lunch, of course) that their precious bellies will grumble all night and their will hate or resent us and/or end up malnourished and sickly by morning. It’s a really tough part of parenting to navigate.

As adult we face this same dilemma in our own diets every day. Oatmeal and fruit for breakfast? Or latte and a donut? I know which is easier, which tastes better and which most of us would likely choose if there were no such thing as consequences. We fight (to whatever degree of success) that inner child every day who is voting for glazed over steel-cut. Despite my best efforts our diets, again, aren't perfect. We have pizza. We go to the ice cream stand. I try to make the best choices while still allowing them to have treats, but I wonder, almost every day, if I'm doing enough to keep my kids healthy.

Here's one big thing that makes us different though. My two kids and I are vegetarians- me for the last 18 years, them since birth. (Pause for gasps of horror). No really. The fact that my 5 and 3 year old have never tasted a chicken nugget, bacon or (eww eww eww!) a hot dog is shocking to some people, as if I am taking away something that is their right to experience. However, our pediatrician is on board. My family is on board despite some good-natured teasing and pepperoni jokes. I know how to combat the “But how do they get enough protein??” question. (How to cows get enough protein when they only eat grass? Think about it!) And, I have to say, my kids are amazingly healthy. They get normal kids' colds and bugs, the occasional sore throat, etc. But in terms of development and overall healthy, they are pretty awesome. They are tall, energetic, and (of course!) completely brilliant. I feel very strongly that their diet has a lot to do with that, and for that I am proud.

So what does it all add up to? I wish I knew. What I do know is that this country is heavier and unhealthier than it has ever been. The explosion of processed food, high-fructose corn syrup, added sugars, fast food, and a tri-fold increase in the consumption of animal-based proteins over the last several decades has gone hand-in-hand with the ridiculous increase in heart-disease, obesity, diabetes, and other weight-related health issues. (Lipitor is the best-selling drug in the U.S. according to WebMD.com!)

I’m not saying I know all about it or have the answers. I believe in moderation. I believe that you can’t do everything exactly right all the time. But I believe that your body is a pretty straight-forward system- give it good fuel and it will do good by you. And what better gift can we give our kids than the gift of a long healthy life.

 

Big Announcement

Big announcement. Huge, epic, life-altering, look-out-world, kind of announcement: After five long years we are, officially. Done. With. Diapers.

Acknowledgements:

I’d like to thank Pampers for consistently making a quality product. I used Luvs, mostly, but we all know they are made by Pampers and sold for less. Or, if you didn’t know, now you do.

I’d like to thank Target, for your well-lit diaper aisles, frequent sales, printable coupons and for selling Starbucks coffee when I most need it.

I’d like to thank every one of my childless friends and family members who have, in the past, held out one of my children at arm’s length while looking about for me wildly with that look on your face that can only mean one thing.

I’d like to thank my mother who never once shied away from changing my kids. Never once.

I’d like to thank my diaper bag which is so awesomely arranged with handy pockets that I will continue to use it but will now refer to it as a “trendy tote.”

And lastly I would like to thank my children. For always producing a dirty diaper at the very worst possible moment (usually when we are horrible late or have a cart full of groceries or at 2 am). For taking me down a notch yet continually making me feel like the most important person in the world. And most of all, for always reminding me that no matter how strongly I feel convinced that I have experienced the grossest thing in the world, there is always a way to top it.

 

A note to my Mommy friends:  You will get here. I know it feels impossible. But paradise is achievable. Hang in there.

 

Adieu diapers!

 

P.S. Just gotta say- the one crazy, empty-nest related part inside of me…..is sad. End of an era! L/J

Who am I racing?

I don't hear the starting bell or there just isn’t one for this race. I'm standing ready to go when all of a sudden the people in front of me start running. I barely have time to hit the start button on my phone's GPS/pedometer App to start the clock. The music is already playing in my ears. It's a rush of bodies all clamoring to find their spot in line. There is plenty of passing, the skirting of people, the going around the slower runners, the general sorting of speed. I try not to get in anyone's way but I also try not to get stuck behind someone with a slower pace. Bob and weave. My hands were shaking to start the race. I don't know why I get nervous. There isn’t much at stake, is there. My heart was already sprinting ahead of me and now it's pounding along with my feet. I find a stride for the first half-mile. It's muggy and I am already sweating unbecomingly. It only gets worse. We run over rocks, across small covered bridges, down some dirt paths. It's sandy and my feet stink in. It's gonna make me go slower so I push a little harder. It's too long until the first mile marker. But my GPS tells me I made good time. Better than normal. This is not a good sign. I will burn out. I slow down a little. I am already tired. Out of breath.The voices start.

 

Stop they say.

Rest they say.

You can’t do this.

Why do you try?  

It's a battle between head and body- but with each contributing to both sides. Determination and exhaustion. Doubt and strength. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I tried to think of other things. What I read on Facebook this morning. How pretty the scenery is. Not how much my thighs hurt. I try not to look at the runners around me but it's hard. They seem to be breathing easier than me. They seem to have good strides in their neon running shoes. I assume they have a strategy that I don't know about. I look at their faces but can’t decide if they show proud resolve or simple misery. I pass a few people who actually look like runners. I feel good about that. Others pass me. It’s hard to pull in a real breath. I’m afraid the others can hear me trying too hard. We run a trail through a field and I try not to step on the horse manure. The other races have been on roads. Manure is a new challenge. I smile for a second.

We get to a steep downhill section of rocks, roots and overgrown grass. I run down it with a thrill in my stomach trying not to trip. Like when you're a kid and your legs go faster than you think they can to save themselves. We hit 2 miles and my legs are jelly. Burning jelly, if there is such a thing. All I want to do is stop. This is awful. Horrible. Painful. Why do I do this? It's hard to remember. My throat has chosen this moment to close in upon itself, each side adhering together like the sticky inside of a plastic baggie. I try to swallow and it loosens just a bit. There, ahead, salvation. I grab a plastic cup of water from those generous hands that hold them out and I gulp it down. 30 seconds later I regret it. Cramp. I breathe through it.

We turn a corner onto a paved road. It goes up for eternity. All I see are runners spaced along it like beads on a string. Chugging their way up this horrible hill. I know the end is not far after but I’ve got nothing left in the tank. I slow to a walk for a few seconds. I try to convince my legs to go. The voices are winning. A girl with braids in her hair like my five-year-old wears passes me. I don't like this. I don’t like it at all. I look behind me down the hill. Lots of people back there, threatening to pass me. I speed up. Why do I care? I'm here for me. Right? I know this is my slowest mile yet. Spent too much in the first mile and I’m angry at myself.  Finally, agonizingly, I read the top of the hill. I make the turn. At the end of this dirt road is the finish. People are clapping. They look happy. The ones that already finished. And the ones waiting to see their runner turn the final corner. I see the clock. Damn. Definitely not my best. Failure? I push myself. I thought I was on empty. I sprint towards the end. I actually sprint. People clap. Some cheer. Not just for me but for the other ones around me. And the ones behind me. It feels good anyway. Many have crossed before me. Long before me.

I reach the finish line. And cross. The pain falls away as I slow down. I pull in long breaths. My fly-paper throat relaxes. The sweat drips off of me. I grab a bottle of water. It's the best damn thing I've ever tasted. I stop and look around. People are high-fiving, calling out their times, celebrating their best record. No one I know is there at this finish. I've done this one alone. God, that hurt. I wait for the reward. There is nothing I know of in life that I hate more right up until the second I love it. My breath back, the ache in my legs slowly receding, I smile. Slowly. Deliciously. Satisfaction finds me.

Later my daughter asks me if I won the race. Yes I did.

Five

          It’s curious to think of how much in a life can change in the course of say, 5 years. Thinking about that length of time is naturally linked to the proportion of your life that it represents.  For me, a woman in her (sigh) 30’s, 5 years is right in the middle of starting to feel insignificant and still being pretty monumental.  When I think of some of the 5 years stretches that I have lived through- age 5 to 10 when you transition from substantial  parental dependence to burgeoning adulthood, age 12 to 17 when everything in your world seems so darn important and dramatic that it’s hard to see beyond the next football game, the college years (plus 1) when the pressure is on to decide which direction your life will go, etc- it seems hard to imagine that any stretch could encompass that much change and forward motion.

            But, of course, what is life but a series of moments where you realize that you are totally and absolutely wrong.  My darling daughter turns 5 tomorrow.  And while I have watched her, day in and day out (and through many long sleepless nights as well) grown and change and develop from a swaddled pink bundle to a back-talking, ballet-dancing, somersault-rolling, firecracker of a kindergartener-to-be, somehow my brain cannot comprehend that the two are one and the same and that all of those changes have taken place in a mere 5 years.  The significance of these 5 years is not only huge to her (obviously!) but to me as well (equally obvious!) because of the impact of motherhood and far beyond.  It is hard to clearly remember a time when a major portion of my conscious mind was not focused on her, her needs, her interests and her well-being. 

            Now past the demands of toddler-dom, she is quite suddenly and startlingly an independent person.  It somehow snuck up on me despite all of the signs and movement in that direction.  Over the past few years she has shed the need for me like leaves, one by one.  Once diapers were done, the crib was gone, she no longer needed a nap, could dress herself, brush her own teeth and reach the snack cabinet, suddenly Mommy was not so necessary.  And in only five years. 

            So who am I after 5 years of parenting- the last 3 of which were compounded by child #2? What do I do with all of the brain power that was devoted to remembering when the last breast-feeding session ended or counting how many minutes she was actually asleep at naptime?   Now she’s zipping around the house on her scooter, waving on the way by like it’s no big deal. When did all of this happen?

            It’s not to say that I don’t enjoy the return of some functioning parts of my brain.  (Though some of that released brain power has switched over to focus on how to answer her unending questions about the complexities of dinosaurs vs. dragons and on tv and computer-usage negotiations!) I fully enjoying sleeping the whole night through and not having double diaper duty.  And watching her be this independent person has, I admit, produced thus far unheard of levels of pride.  Case in point- I dropped her off backstage at her dance recital last week.  She waved over her shoulder and called out “Bye Mom!” without even looking back to see if I was still there, so eager was she to join her friends.  A big part of me wanted to pull her back, give her a big hug and several well-planted kisses and ask her a couple times if she would be ok without me.  A clearly unnecessary move and one that would have been all about me and not her.  Instead I said goodbye and took my seat in the audience and watched her big shining moment while one proud tear rolled down my cheek. And it was, of course, totally brilliant. The pride I felt seeing her on that stage, dancing her dance with a huge happy smile on her face, was enormous.  And I gave her plenty of hugs and kisses afterwards- which she accepted and returned with huge enthusiasm.  A decent balance, I would say.

            I’m not saying she doesn’t need me.  She still wants to cuddle when she drinks her milk and requires bedtime stories at night and kisses for her boo-boos.  All fine by me.  It helps me hold on to those days when she needed nothing more than to fall asleep on her momma’s shoulder to calm whatever was bothering her.  But while she’s off playing with her Barbies or generously entertaining her younger brother, I’m figuring out where to go from here.  I had thought 5 years ago that the major decisions in my life were generally made.  Now on the other side of that span of time, I see that the all of those old clichés are true- time changes everyone, times rolls on, this too shall pass, and so on.  Adventures in motherhood are only part of the re-vamping of every conceivable aspect of my life.  I’d like to claim that the effort to give my children the best lives I can possibly provide has led me to create a better life for myself.  I’m not sure it’s that simple, but I’m holding on to the idea.  At the very least, I want to be the best role model- not always an easy thing to be.  But if I can change, well, everything in 5 years, then I’m pretty sure anything is possible. 

It Should Be

It should be the dreamt blue

But the river is brown and still.

Not moved by tide

Nor flooded by rain
 

But stopped and thick

And muddied.
 

There should be a rising moon

But the sky is dark, unfilled

Not sacred night

Nor starlight’s reign
 

But stopped and thick

And emptied.

 

 

It should be blowing through
But the air's condensed, distilled.
 

No breath supplied

Nor lungful gained
 

But stopped and hot

And sullied.

 

I should be moving too

But I cannot find the will.


Not held by pride
Nor bound by name


But stopped and thick
And buried.

 

Confessions of a Bad Mother

Single parent.  A phrase that defines or redefines parenthood in monumental ways. It takes more work, more strength, more conviction in all that you do, more of you. There is no automatic backup. No tag-teaming.  No bench strength.  I am the spokesperson for my family unit.  There is no checking with anyone or worrying if a decision will be questioned or disapproved of.  It’s just me. And everything the little devils throw my way.  Did I say devils?  Of course not.  My children are perfect.  Just like everyone else’s.  I’m the imperfect one.  Here’s the proof:

-Sometimes I let my kids go to bed without brushing their teeth. (They are just going to fall out anyway, right?)

-Sometimes I let them stay in their pajamas all day.

-Once I let my children have frozen yogurt for dinner. Or maybe twice.

-I sometimes tell them that Disney Jr. is broken.  And Netflix.  And Youtube.  And my iPhone.  Then I marvel at the things they know.

-I have convinced them that “Naptime” is an awesome game.  That’s where I lay on the couch and “pretend” to sleep while they cover me with blankets and stuffed animals.

-When they whine for something in a store I tell them “Maybe for your birthday!” even if their birthday is 9 months away.  And even if they are asking for gum.

-I make them pay for snacks with hugs and kisses.  But everyone wins in that one.

-I am in no rush to teach them how to tell time.

-My two year old says damn it. So does my four year old. That’s all on me.

-I have told them that no one will ever love them as much as their mom.  Good luck to their future spouses.

 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Implanted

A bulb, not of light, but of seed,

rich with fertility and grainy un-grown potential. 
Dirty, rounded, stone-like, staining fingertips.
A weighted heaviness in the palm of the hand.
Its denseness like bone, like thick, hardened clay,
like iron boldness.
Buried far beneath a thin surface of grass, beneath.
Four inches maybe.
Six inches maybe.
Ten miles.  Maybe that too.
The mass of black earth smothering,
blocking the air from reaching such depths,
thick and moist and oppressive.
Entombed for the wait,
the long hibernation of now.
There is small chance for early exposure,
not when the cold grip of wind still whips above,
whips the grass, scourges the top layer of soil,
forbids something so fragile from exposure.
There is no opportunity for full articulation in winter.
 
The potential on hold, the possibility still buried.
Stems, leaves, berries, petals,
sunk in the ground, unborn, as yet unready,
concealed in the extreme.  Patient, still.
Still under.
Waiting while other things freeze and rain falls,
and skies fall and things fall down.
That unborn seedling, the unseen greenness,
the undiscovered newness inching upward.
Its strength unknown, heart untested.
Up it moves.  Closer it travels,
until bravery overcomes density,
through the darkness of earth and dirt and
ancient deposited layer upon layer of sediment,
toward its destined realization.
Up. Out. Until finally,
Lightbulb.

Moving On

              I don't remember my first home. I was too young- moved on too soon. I don't remember the bassinet where my parents first laid me down to sleep. Or the room where I first dreamed. I don't know the address and can only dimly recollect what the house looked like from a faded picture my mother showed me once. But ask either of my parents and they will tell you the exact layout, what color they wallpapered the kitchen, the exact price they paid, and how the house first smelled when they walked in that day holding the keys ready to start the next step of their lives.

               So now, as I pack up and prepare to leave the first place my kids called home I can't help but hurt a bit knowing that they won't remember. I will have to tell them how they played in the yard, throwing rocks down the sewer grates in the street and drawing chalk pictures on the walkway. I will smile and tell them the stories of their first few days at home, tiny and new born in my arms and about how much I loved them even then.

               It's hard not to stop and re-examine your life as you try to fit everything you own into boxes. You have to take the time to decide if every object is worth carrying forward, if everything that you have spent money on, shopped for, contemplated acquiring, received as a gift, inherited from your grandmother, or otherwise ended up with, is worth the space and effort it takes to take with you. Or, perhaps more importantly, if that thing will fit into your new space. 

               We hold onto things. Some more than others or not enough. Some un-necessarily or unhealthily. Sometimes we bury ourselves in those things we don't need or find too difficult to part with, often because we have simple grown used to their presence. Often these things hold us back or get in the way of progress but once they are gone, we truly don’t miss them.  I’m finding this overhaul that comes along with moving one of the most refreshing experiences I’ve ever been through. (True, I’ve moved before, but once the kids came along the level of “stuff” at home multiplied exponentially.)  It’s making me think about what counts, what matters, what is necessary.  It’s like boiling down your life experiences into whatever weight you can carry on your back.  Four years of carrying kids around has made my back pretty strong but luckily has made the definition of my priorities even stronger.  So even if they don’t remember this home, or any of the stuff that won’t make the transition with us, we will help each other carry forward those pieces that brought us the most happiness.    

For Sale

There is a For Sale sign in my front yard, pounded it into the frozen grass under the snow.  And suddenly we are under the scrutinizing eye of (what feels to me like) the whole world and nothing less than perfection is acceptable.  The only thing I can compare it to is the last week before my due date with my second child. I knew if I had to go to the hospital to give birth and there was a cup in the sink, that cup would be there waiting to be washed when I got back even though I had just expelled a child from my body and would not be sleeping for the next year. So I didn't leave dishes in the sink, didn't leave laundry undone, perfected and re-perfected the nursery, and convinced my daughter it was more fun to look at her toys than to actually take them out and play with them. Selling a house is pretty much the same thing. Flawlessness is expected at all times because you never know when the bomb will drop (aka. someone will want to do a last-minute showing).

The realtor advised that nothing should be on any surfaces- kitchen counters, mantle, tops of bookshelves or dressers, etc. I can't live like that. My house is normally neat, but relatively full. Now I've put everything that was on those places into closets or boxes in the basement. I can't find the lint brush for the life of me. I've been wearing the same pair of earings for two weeks because it's too much trouble to dig out my carefully hidden jewelry box. And there are no pictures of my babies anywhere.

Those were particularly hard to take down. They left marks on the walls and empty places where I normally get to see their faces and remember their still-round cheeks. Instead the realtor hung pictures of wine glasses. I think she was going for sophisticated. Instead it looks like a liquor store.

So every day I barely hold the mess at bay, wiping down the counters and sweeping up the cat litter because those things may convince a potential buyer that my house isn't good enough for them to live in. They will, theoretically, be unable to see past the Peter Pan (removable!!!) decals on my daughter's walls or the tiniest spot of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror and see the big rooms, the nice street, the new appliances, the spaces where they could bring their things and live their lives. I get the theory. I understand that they want to see their life and not mine. They don't care that my kids took their first steps on these floors, or walked out that front door on her first day of school, or looked in fascination out of these windows to see their first snowfall. They care about square footage and the number of closets. It makes sense and I am doing the same in looking for a new place to live. But it stings a bit to undo the years of living in this house, to erase ourselves from our home, to remove our footprints from the place that we felt most comfortable and at ease.

I look forward to finding our new place. I am anxious to take their pictures back out, to remind myself of those moments and memories and start to plan all the new ones as I unpack boxes and find the perfect place for every thing. Just as soon as I can get someone to fall in love with this place that I have loved and lived. 

A Brave Girl

            My daughter is enamored with the Disney-Pixar movie Brave.  In it Merida, a young tomboy princess, rebels against the restrictive expectations of her mother, the queen.  Each has a different vision of how Merida’s life should best be lived.  For Merida it means adventure, freedom, and thrilling pastimes like horseback riding and archery.  She believes in herself, recognizes her personal strength and wants to make her own decisions.  Queen Elinor envisions a life of service for her daughter- to the land and people over which their family reigns.  That means a strict observance of tradition and decorum (ie. “A princess doesn’t not place her weapons on the dinner table.”) and, most specifically, an arranged marriage to the son of a noble lord.  Merida and Elinor, after nearly losing each other in the course of the movie, must smash their strained relationship to pieces and put it together, motivated by the love they have for one another.  Once they each learn to respect those things that are important to one another, they find a middle ground that works for both of them.    

            After seeing the movie for the 6^th or 7^th time (or rather, being close by while the kids watch it) I realized how much respect I have for both strong female characters and, even more, the mother-daughter relationship they end up with when the credits roll- something that’s very rare for Disney women.  In fact, not only are mother-daughter relationships scarce, they are almost  non-existent.  Think about it- Cinderella and Snow White? Dead Mom is replaced with evil Step-Mother.  Ariel, Belle, Pocahontas, and Jasmine? No mom to be seen, but daddy is very very important.  Rapunzel and Sleeping Beauty? Separated from Mom for 16 or 18 years, and in Rapunzel’s case, mom is replaced by an evil child-abusing witch who pretends to be her mother.  Mulan and Tiana have moms but she is a very minor character and their respective movies focus on the girls’ relationships with their fathers. 

It is possible to read the collective Disney Princess story in a few different ways.  Young woman without a strong mother figure need to find their prince in order to be happy?  Or is it that you don’t need a mother to live a princess life?  Each princess struggles, even Merida, so it’s not necessarily an easy answer.  But with all that in mind, I’m glad my daughter has gravitated toward this new movie that examines one of, if not the, most important relationship in a young woman’s life.  In particular she likes a flashback scene where the queen is holding a very young Merida close, the girl’s head tucked under Mom’s chin, as lighting flashes outside the castle.  In that moment, there is nothing Merida needs more than the safety of being held by her mother.  I likewise get a bit misty when I see that image.  It makes me want to pull her close, smell her hair and not think about those years when she and I will not be able to agree on anything.  I know they are coming- I even see flashes of it now. 

I have confidence we will survive it.  When the movie is done- every time without fail- my daughter comes to me, pulls me down to her level, looks me in the eye and wraps her growing arms around my neck.  It makes me think about my grandmothers.  One of whom lost her own mom as a young teenager and had to be mother to her siblings, the other who survived years of domestic abuse and disappointment to finally find a happier life.  It makes me think about my mother, who is brave in ways I can’t begin to define and who still holds me, both in her arms and in her heart, depending on how far apart we are.  It makes me love my daughter’s feistiness, her unwillingness to accept what she knows is wrong, her ability to be both stubborn as a rock and flexible as the breeze.  And I know despite the unexpected chaos that life is tuning out to hold that we will, both together and as individuals, find our own ways to be Brave. 

The Case is Closed

 

            She slid the glass door open on the jewelry case as the small man walked away. She had been dusting the inside of the case when he came in but always made sure to lock it when he was there.  He was a plague on her days, a recurring dark spot on her otherwise smooth hours.  His stale scent lingered in the over-lit space of the store and so she pulled out a can of lemon-scented air freshener and gave a discreet spray as the door swung shut behind him.  His departure left her alone, as was common on these endless weekday afternoons.  At times she longed for customers, prayed for them, mentally bargained for them- promising to give up caramel lattes, misplaced negativity and shoe shopping if someone would just walk in the door and buy something.  But then, when someone finally did walk in it was a struggle to make herself greet them, to force her mouth into a smile, to let her eyes shine and her voice suggest and sell. 

            The days were long, especially now in the summer when the sun set slowly and people lingered on the sidewalks.  The store had the misfortune to be next to one of those self-serve frozen yogurt places that had been popping up like a rash across the area.  She was convinced their main goal was to test the collective sugar tolerance of humanity.  At night she had begun to have nightmares about cleaning the sticky rings and smudgy fingerprints left behind from customers who felt like gawking at jewelry as they ate their yogurt treats.  She passed the days swiping a cloth over the glass, back and forth, removing the residue of those aimless shoppers, cursing the yogurt stand, and counting the hours until closing.

            Harold arrived every day at 3:45.  The jewelry store was just one stop on his daily rounds of the shops on Middlesex St.  He took slow, careful steps down the sidewalk, gently swung open the heavy glass doors of each business and often called out a sweet Hello! to the cashiers, waitresses, receptionists and sales people who had long ago learned his name and routine.  Nina dreaded the moment of his arrival, waiting with renewed hope each day that he would not appear.  She was rewarded with a daily dose of disappointment when Harold hobbled his bent form across the sales floor and leaned his dirty elbows on the counter over the emeralds. 

            “Hello, gorgeous,” he would say, bearing his yellow teeth in a wide grin,  ignoring or not seeing her discomfort or false smile.  “What’s your sign?” 

The first time he had asked her, on her very first day of work at the store, she was caught completely off-guard and answered without thinking. 

“Uh, Taurus,” she had said, unsure of what exactly the man wanted.  Bethany, the owner’s aunt and the woman whom Nina had been hired to replace, gave a moan of sadness. 

“Oh Harold! I’m gonna miss you, honey!” she said, bustling around the counter to give him a hug.  Nina could see the dust rise off of his shirt as Bethany patted him enthusiastically on the back.  “It’s my last week, if you can believe it! Twenty-two years of selling this stuff, and now I’m done, headed for Florida for good.  But what am I gonna do without seeing your handsome face every day?” she said, as Harold beamed a gap-toothed grin and they wasted the better part of the next half an hour gossiping about the other businesses on the street. 

Nina was unable to hide the disgust she felt.