When I divorced my children's father, I took the kids, the barest of furnishings, and my dog. I left much behind, including assets. It's the kind of decision most people never understand having to make until they themselves must do it. I was criticized by people close to me for leaving the house, the 401K, the wedding china. I was even asked by the movers if I was sure what I was taking was all I was taking as they loaded up about half the space of a small truck. I was okay, I said. I had my kids and my dog, I said. Friends moved us into my sister's rental home, and we settled in for a new life, my kids and my dog, and we were as okay as we could be, but Buster missed Dakota, as he had spent about a decade with her in our former life.
I culled through the belongings I had and sold many of them on Craigslist or at a garage sale to help pay bills. I watched shards of that former life go away and pondered both the grief and adventure of it all. I put my daughter in therapy to coach her through shock and change, and braced myself for the rebellion of my youngest, who was too young for therapy. I did not miss the big house nor the man in it. I did not miss the many belongings (except for a pasta bowl set, which I had really liked). And it was ok, because I had my kids... and my dog-- yet he was growing more and more depressed.
Worried Buster would not survive without his mate, I eventually returned him to my children's father. I had volunteered to take Dakota too and care for them both, but it was an all or nothing choice when he refused to let go of her, a choice I could understand. My dog was so suddenly like the baby brought to the court of King Solomon. You know the story-- the mother, out of love and the desire to preserve life, would rather give her child to another than divide and therefore kill. My dog, whom I had adored for all his quirks--who had an obsession for peeing on my ex's belongings, would sleep perched on the pitch of a dog house roof, wore an extremely comedic expression on his wrinkled face, killed a beaver in our backyard and bore the scars, hated snow, and loved to steal my daughter's rag doll-- was no longer mine. Yet unlike the baby that was eventually restored with his birth mother in that old tale, Buster would never be able to come home with me. And I was fine, I said, because I had my kids and I did the right thing for the dog. It gave me comfort to know he was happy with his mate. But two or three years later, Dakota having grown older and passed, Buster died too, and I grieved as though he had been with me all along. By then I had remarried, was caring for my husband's old husky, and had relocated hundreds of miles away. I had never regretted returning Buster to his former home, but his absence loomed larger than ever. While I would swear to my husband that we weren't getting another dog when our husky would pass (her hair, her random shitting about the house), I found myself shopping online in my spare time. I would visit the adoption center on Saturdays. And this Christmas, I found a litter of puppies up for adoption, told the kids I would think about it, and then a month later, after wringing my hands over the impracticality of bringing home a new dog to train, I learned a puppy in that precious litter was still available, and adopted him. It was a hard decision. It was also the right one.
Toby is my dog, a dog that lies in resigned hopelessness when I leave for work in the morning. He functions as a therapy dog for my son, company for my daughter after school, and a sentry to my home. He has been easy to train, sweet, forgiving, and devoted. And he has been excellent company on mornings like this one, when my husband is occupied elsewhere, my kids are gone with their dad for the summer, and I am feeling the absence of my husband's husky, Sydni.
Nearly two weeks ago, we called a mobile veterinarian to help Syd pass from suffering and old age into the great beyond. My husband wrote his ex-wife and his daughters with the news of his decision. In veritable prose, he described Sydni as going to a place where she could again climb fences, chase rabbits, and snatch salmon from wild streams. Like saying goodbye to Buster that first time, I knew then and still know this was the right decision, one that provided relief. But this morning, I thought about her stable, fuzzy presence, the charm of her contented smile when she napped, and her ceaseless giving of her "fur babies," which my kids and I would roll between our fingers when we plucked loose her shedding coat. When I was struggling to adjust to life in a new city in a new family arrangement, I would stroke her and tell her everything I wasn't telling others, and she would silently take it all in, letting me tickle her ears and play with her tail. I can say now though, that I am ok-- that our old husky lived to make sure we would all be okay, and having seen that, and the entry of a new puppy to our home, she was ready to go.
I am a practical person, one for whom there is always, as a college girlfriend once said to me, a means to my madness. I do nothing without a solid reason for doing so. I make careful, well-deliberated decisions. But I am a fool for dogs.
I love dogs. Loved them before I was even allowed or able to have one. I love the furry bodies, wagging tails, and insistent noses. I love that dogs have facial expressions with eyebrows that raise, furrow, relax. I love that dogs are so forgiving and so friendly. I love ears that perk and flop and puppy cankles and toe feathers and drippy jowls. Much to be said for dogs. My husband and I are both aware of the power of a dog, especially dogs that survive the end of your previous relationship, sit with you when you are sick, and help you in your tasks (chewing on your socks while you are trying to put them on). We love the heavy sigh the puppy gives when he settles down to sleep, the manner in which he drops his rope toy into our laps for play, or the way he obligingly lets us put his gentle leader on his nose for walks. Oh, much to be said for dogs.
It has been the year of the dog for us, seeing one die peacefully at home, her fuzzy head cradled by my husband, my hand feeling her side rise and fall for that final breath; and for bringing home one mellow, sprawling puppy who thinks playtime is 3:40 in the morning, and who, as he rests at my feet even now, provides a restful, comforting presence, and one of hope. We are going to be okay. We are okay.
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Saturday, July 20, 2013
Sunday, June 23, 2013
Conversation, Nudity, and a Mini-Tyrant: The Relative Social Life of the Working Mother
One evening, my children and I visited an orchid specialist, which is
really a blog post in itself, but anyway, the conversation between the
shopkeeper and me went the way it often does when I make a new
acquaintance: food and family.
"Where's your favorite restaurant?" he asked.
"Depends on what I like to order," I said, and then elaborated.
"So what restaurant do you go to... to be social?"
"Social? I don't have a social life."
"You don't have a social life?"
I pointed to my children who were sucking on mints, swinging their legs on a settee in the shop, and toying with orchid blossoms they had been given. "That's my social life."
I think it was Barbara Walters who once said that there exists family, career, and a social life, but you cannot have all three; you must choose two. I once resented the truth of this and wondered what I was missing socially, but as my children have grown older, I have become better at embracing time with them for the gift it really is. Time is fleeting. We are creating memories. We still have our frustrations though.
Last week, after comical drills about the tennis court, we admired the lightening bugs flitting about, and then dawdled home hand-in-hand. Houses slipped into silhouettes against a dimming sky and the air held the magic of almost-summer... but then the kids' joking and chatter morphed into crabbing and arguing, an obvious signal for bedtime. I sent them in to start baths, planning to take a few minutes of solace before the usual routine of monitoring and tucking in. The youngest suddenly appeared naked on the front porch to hotly voice a bitter complaint about his sister. He made no sense whatsoever. I scratched my head a minute and thought how nice it would be to have a glass of wine at the restaurant around the corner... with someone who wasn't six years old, irrational, naked, and non-compliant.
I often say that my social life is at the office, and I think for many of us, that's true. I have a group of good women friends there-- mostly mothers like myself, some of whom have raised children under extraordinary circumstances and pressures. The peace and wisdom they give me is priceless, and I find that work provides a sense of relief rather than duress because of that. It's been a wonderful cure for the isolation I felt in a new state four years ago, and besides-- no one has ever shown up at my cube naked and irrational. :)
"Where's your favorite restaurant?" he asked.
"Depends on what I like to order," I said, and then elaborated.
"So what restaurant do you go to... to be social?"
"Social? I don't have a social life."
"You don't have a social life?"
I pointed to my children who were sucking on mints, swinging their legs on a settee in the shop, and toying with orchid blossoms they had been given. "That's my social life."
I think it was Barbara Walters who once said that there exists family, career, and a social life, but you cannot have all three; you must choose two. I once resented the truth of this and wondered what I was missing socially, but as my children have grown older, I have become better at embracing time with them for the gift it really is. Time is fleeting. We are creating memories. We still have our frustrations though.
Last week, after comical drills about the tennis court, we admired the lightening bugs flitting about, and then dawdled home hand-in-hand. Houses slipped into silhouettes against a dimming sky and the air held the magic of almost-summer... but then the kids' joking and chatter morphed into crabbing and arguing, an obvious signal for bedtime. I sent them in to start baths, planning to take a few minutes of solace before the usual routine of monitoring and tucking in. The youngest suddenly appeared naked on the front porch to hotly voice a bitter complaint about his sister. He made no sense whatsoever. I scratched my head a minute and thought how nice it would be to have a glass of wine at the restaurant around the corner... with someone who wasn't six years old, irrational, naked, and non-compliant.
I often say that my social life is at the office, and I think for many of us, that's true. I have a group of good women friends there-- mostly mothers like myself, some of whom have raised children under extraordinary circumstances and pressures. The peace and wisdom they give me is priceless, and I find that work provides a sense of relief rather than duress because of that. It's been a wonderful cure for the isolation I felt in a new state four years ago, and besides-- no one has ever shown up at my cube naked and irrational. :)
Sunday, December 2, 2012
ADHD: The Best Boy in the World
My son was officially diagnosed with ADHD this year. This comes as no surprise to anyone who really knows him. I find myself in an interesting place, however. There are the parents who tell me they do not advocate use of medication (and for good reasons) and then there are those who, like me, put up a long battle and finally say to the doctor, "My child needs more than what I can do for him." Medication is a tricky deal. Side effects, risks from long-term usage, a journey that requires time and patience to adjust meds. My theory behind the medication is that it clears up his brain fog just enough so we can work on teaching new behaviors (making good choices, speech therapy, and how to organize). While I hope medication is not a long-term need, I do, however, know quite a few people with other disorders who will be on their meds for life. I see his need for meds but worry about it at the same time.
We did what so many others have done when a child seems recklessly driven by an internal motor like Tiny's: vitamins, changing diet, participation in physical activities such as sports and yoga, running the track before class or in-between classes, meditation and visualization exercises (yes, really), behavior modification, reward and consequences, stimulation gadgets he could fool with to burn off the fidgets and wiggles (he would ultimately break those), and adjusting sleep schedules. While elements of these things have relieved some of Tiny's tendencies to be on a constant search-and-destroy mission, they were no real redirection. One of the things that pushed me to look into medication was the acknowledgment that his behavior, documented in child study meetings, psychological evaluations, and countless emails with teachers, was making him feel like he was a failure, and nothing we were doing to naturally relieve his symptoms would help. One day, I said to my ex-husband as we discussed ways to help Tiny, "Imagine what it must be like to be him." Silence followed as we both digested the fact that our boy had become the stand-out in his school for a history of erratic, destructive, loud, paranoid, angry, and occasionally defiant, behavior. His academic performance was mediocre, but I have always known that within Tiny's body is a sharp, bright mind. How could we help him be who he needed to be?
Tiny is on a low dose of Adderall XR. He takes a multivitamin, which I have begun to give 30 minutes before his ADHD meds instead of at the same time, and two doses of fish oil a day. He sees two specialists who work with children who have ADHD, anxiety, and other emotional disorders. Something interesting is happening. While he is still the busy boy I would expect a boy to be--climbing, running, playing, building forts out of blocks or boxes and knocking them over with a triumphant hurrah--he is communicating far more clearly and causing less and less conflict at school and home. While he has always been Mommy's Tiny, as I call him, he is increasingly pleasurable to do things with. He takes his time to explain in detail why he needs his space/toys not encroached upon instead of yelling and throwing things. He follows directions quickly. His attention span has increased and he spends an hour if not longer on his legos or his elaborate drawings. He is working better toward long-term goals.
The hardship lies in sensitivity, which the addition of fish oil to his routine seems to abate lately. There have been many afternoons where he cries easily or is irritated easily by others. There was a meltdown at school one day last week--but it was only the second one in a month of the new treatment, whereas before, I was being emailed or called nearly daily with reports. Tiny is improving. He is also learning how to listen to his body when he needs to relax or change environments. He charts his own behavior on a calendar beside his activity table at home.
Moments ago, my son came to see me to ask permission to play outside. I told him to change out the t-shirt he was wearing for a long-sleeved shirt and to put socks on. He did as asked and came again to show me he had followed directions. He stood sweetly, his sandy hair framing his precious little face. I pulled him into my lap to tell him what a good boy he was, to say that he was the best boy in the world, and that I believed he was a gift. He tucked his head under my chin and cuddled. Then we talked about how his body was feeling and if he needed help with his occasional headaches (a side-effect). Tiny scooted out the door to play and returned moments later with a calm remark that the neighbor's kids weren't awake to play yet and that he was going upstairs to play legos. And on he went. I can hear him constructing a world and creating a narrative to go along with it--chatting and happy play noises becoming music against the clicking of my keyboard as a write. This scene would have played out in battle only a month or two ago.
I remember crying to my father a few years ago that Tiny was a special needs child and I was so frustrated with his lack of processing and understanding. He was this wild thing that wouldn't learn safety from painful accidents and for whom punishments meant nothing. He always was, though, what I told him this morning: the best boy in the world. And he always will be. We simply see more of the wondrous capacity he has to live happily than we have before. While medication is of great concern, great blessings have abounded because of it. I don't call it a cure-all, nor have I advocated it to other parents yet. Instead, I operate on a wait-and-see basis. Each child's mind and biology are unique. What I have found though is beautiful support from other parents with special children. For this, I thank each of you--keep the support and the ideas coming.
We did what so many others have done when a child seems recklessly driven by an internal motor like Tiny's: vitamins, changing diet, participation in physical activities such as sports and yoga, running the track before class or in-between classes, meditation and visualization exercises (yes, really), behavior modification, reward and consequences, stimulation gadgets he could fool with to burn off the fidgets and wiggles (he would ultimately break those), and adjusting sleep schedules. While elements of these things have relieved some of Tiny's tendencies to be on a constant search-and-destroy mission, they were no real redirection. One of the things that pushed me to look into medication was the acknowledgment that his behavior, documented in child study meetings, psychological evaluations, and countless emails with teachers, was making him feel like he was a failure, and nothing we were doing to naturally relieve his symptoms would help. One day, I said to my ex-husband as we discussed ways to help Tiny, "Imagine what it must be like to be him." Silence followed as we both digested the fact that our boy had become the stand-out in his school for a history of erratic, destructive, loud, paranoid, angry, and occasionally defiant, behavior. His academic performance was mediocre, but I have always known that within Tiny's body is a sharp, bright mind. How could we help him be who he needed to be?
Tiny is on a low dose of Adderall XR. He takes a multivitamin, which I have begun to give 30 minutes before his ADHD meds instead of at the same time, and two doses of fish oil a day. He sees two specialists who work with children who have ADHD, anxiety, and other emotional disorders. Something interesting is happening. While he is still the busy boy I would expect a boy to be--climbing, running, playing, building forts out of blocks or boxes and knocking them over with a triumphant hurrah--he is communicating far more clearly and causing less and less conflict at school and home. While he has always been Mommy's Tiny, as I call him, he is increasingly pleasurable to do things with. He takes his time to explain in detail why he needs his space/toys not encroached upon instead of yelling and throwing things. He follows directions quickly. His attention span has increased and he spends an hour if not longer on his legos or his elaborate drawings. He is working better toward long-term goals.
The hardship lies in sensitivity, which the addition of fish oil to his routine seems to abate lately. There have been many afternoons where he cries easily or is irritated easily by others. There was a meltdown at school one day last week--but it was only the second one in a month of the new treatment, whereas before, I was being emailed or called nearly daily with reports. Tiny is improving. He is also learning how to listen to his body when he needs to relax or change environments. He charts his own behavior on a calendar beside his activity table at home.
Moments ago, my son came to see me to ask permission to play outside. I told him to change out the t-shirt he was wearing for a long-sleeved shirt and to put socks on. He did as asked and came again to show me he had followed directions. He stood sweetly, his sandy hair framing his precious little face. I pulled him into my lap to tell him what a good boy he was, to say that he was the best boy in the world, and that I believed he was a gift. He tucked his head under my chin and cuddled. Then we talked about how his body was feeling and if he needed help with his occasional headaches (a side-effect). Tiny scooted out the door to play and returned moments later with a calm remark that the neighbor's kids weren't awake to play yet and that he was going upstairs to play legos. And on he went. I can hear him constructing a world and creating a narrative to go along with it--chatting and happy play noises becoming music against the clicking of my keyboard as a write. This scene would have played out in battle only a month or two ago.
I remember crying to my father a few years ago that Tiny was a special needs child and I was so frustrated with his lack of processing and understanding. He was this wild thing that wouldn't learn safety from painful accidents and for whom punishments meant nothing. He always was, though, what I told him this morning: the best boy in the world. And he always will be. We simply see more of the wondrous capacity he has to live happily than we have before. While medication is of great concern, great blessings have abounded because of it. I don't call it a cure-all, nor have I advocated it to other parents yet. Instead, I operate on a wait-and-see basis. Each child's mind and biology are unique. What I have found though is beautiful support from other parents with special children. For this, I thank each of you--keep the support and the ideas coming.
Monday, January 9, 2012
New Year's Revolutions and Other Teeny Holiday Glimpses
With the holidays at a close, there is so much I would like to write about, but can just sum up events in a series of snippets. I'll let your imagination fill in the rest. See below:
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may this year be one that is full of goodness. I can say, as hardship has transitioned to simply overwhelming busyness, that I am about as content as I have ever been, and am looking forward to this year-- my husband's hand in mine, our children in our hearts, the idea of home as warm and comforting as ever.
Love to you--
Catiche
- Recently, my eleven-year-old told me she had a New Year's revolution. I corrected her, but frankly I like her version of the word better. Keeping promises can be revolutionary. Let's roll with that.
- It took me five minutes to decode my son's complaint to me this Christmas. It began with "aweeweewish." I asked him, "WHAT?" And he repeated, "Aweeweewish you wouldn't use my airpwane to wite a note to schoow." Translation: I really wish. Got it. Note to self: Ask teacher about speech therapist.
- Christmas letters that capitalize on a family's success and perfection can be annoying. The one I sent out this year was short and sweet, but what I really wanted to say was this: Child A lost her cell phone privileges due to downloading $160 worth of games and Child B lost his bus riding privileges. Here's to another year of towing the line. (There was more I wanted to say there, but my husband said I couldn't post it.) If someone sent me a card like that, I'd frame it.
- I became a reluctant vegetarian this year and then was given a Christmas turkey by my company's president. It was delicious. Oh, and this week I had bacon. Is 6 meat-free days out of 7 ok? It's going to have to be.
- I gave my mom a Kindle for Christmas, which is a little like giving her a crack addiction. We call each other: What did you read this week? It is so wonderfully fun, but I have a hunch nothing else is getting done at her house and her Amazon bill for books might end up looking like what my daughter did to a certain cellphone bill. At least, we are bettering ourselves with our Kindles though, as this week my mom and I read Henry James' Washington Square. I need to reread Wuthering Heights soon. It's like a nineteenth-century Jerry Springer show. Umm, bettering ourselves is a relative concept in light of that last comment.
Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and may this year be one that is full of goodness. I can say, as hardship has transitioned to simply overwhelming busyness, that I am about as content as I have ever been, and am looking forward to this year-- my husband's hand in mine, our children in our hearts, the idea of home as warm and comforting as ever.
Love to you--
Catiche
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Little Reflections of Parenting
Periodically, a mother's words can come back in the funniest ways. One evening over dinner, my son piped up with a complaint about how I had used one of his paper airplanes to write a note. In desperation that morning, I had unfolded his hand-crafted jet, smoothed out the creases, and wrote a note of permission for my daughter to give her teacher. He had objected to my doing this at the time, and hours later, still was a little peeved.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Next time, I will go into my office for paper and use that instead."
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you," he answered.
I'm glad he does. I am also glad that of all the things I tell my children, this was the one thing I clearly heard reflected before my children left for holidays with their father. And they will come back saying or doing all manner of things they have learned from time with their other family. Of course not everything they learn is so charming.
A few weeks ago, my son came home with a note from school. "Had a good morning," it began, "but kicked, hit, punched, and gave Ryan a wedgie at snack time." My ex-husband was appalled and sent a text asking me who Tiny had learned the wedgie from. I texted back an answer, "You."
Heh.
"I'm sorry," I said. "Next time, I will go into my office for paper and use that instead."
"It's okay, Mommy. I still love you," he answered.
I'm glad he does. I am also glad that of all the things I tell my children, this was the one thing I clearly heard reflected before my children left for holidays with their father. And they will come back saying or doing all manner of things they have learned from time with their other family. Of course not everything they learn is so charming.
A few weeks ago, my son came home with a note from school. "Had a good morning," it began, "but kicked, hit, punched, and gave Ryan a wedgie at snack time." My ex-husband was appalled and sent a text asking me who Tiny had learned the wedgie from. I texted back an answer, "You."
Heh.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Behold, the Minivan
For those of you that still follow this blog, my great silence has been due to my official hiring by the firm where I have been temping since July. Working hard and away from home, I have little time to write, but at least I am now the happy copyeditor for a wonderful company whose consistent paychecks have allowed me to replace my ancient SUV.
I had hoped the SUV would last till next summer. My mechanic shook his head and said that only another $1000 would guarantee an attempt at that. "Well," I asked hopefully, "maybe another thousand miles without those repairs?" He grimaced. That week was the last time I drove it to work, the shaking and rattling and whining so severe I thought it would break down on the highway. By the weekend, I had succumbed to the need to finally replace the automobile that I had acquired a few months after my daughter's birth, and that had carried home my newborn son from the hospital. We have been everywhere and everything, that SUV and me: married, single, married again, residents in three states, and journeys across half the country. There were 164,000 hard-earned miles and eleven years in that vehicle, which had been a symbol of consistency, sameness despite change, a familiar comfort in new places.
It had also grown to be awfully inconvenient, however. At a car dealership that weekend, I reluctantly explored what I knew would be the best for a family that travels, a family with a large dog, a family with guests, a family of growing young people. I slinked past a row of shiny BMWs, Saabs, and Lexuses-- pretty little sedans glistening like slices of meringued pie in the cool afternoon. But those things aren't practical, and I came home with the whole wheat loaf of vehicles instead.
Behold, the minivan.
Actually, the minivan has been very nice. It has been like driving my living room, and the best part of the whole thing is that my kids cannot touch each other in the back seat. The mid row is two captain's chairs, where Tiny takes up his seat, and the third row is a bench that my daughter hogs. No one fights anymore about who poked whom. I even had a DVD player installed for those road trips we take. This past weekend on our holiday roadtrip, I smiled as my husband dropped the thermostat on his side of the car to the upper 60s while I kept my side of the car on "toast." As far as minivans go, it isn't as granny panty as I thought it would be. The front end of my mini is rather chic-ly designed, and the remote operated easy-access sliding doors are about as mechanically sexy as a mommy-mobile could be.
Truthfully, I panicked when I sold my old SUV to the dealership that weekend. My daughter stood beside me and told me not to cry about it. I didn't know what was worse--saying good-bye to my old tried-and-true or having to embrace the unglamorous genre of family vehicles. But we're doing ok here, the Catichemobile and me. Practicality won out, and for that my entire family is thankful. Even the dog... and me.
I had hoped the SUV would last till next summer. My mechanic shook his head and said that only another $1000 would guarantee an attempt at that. "Well," I asked hopefully, "maybe another thousand miles without those repairs?" He grimaced. That week was the last time I drove it to work, the shaking and rattling and whining so severe I thought it would break down on the highway. By the weekend, I had succumbed to the need to finally replace the automobile that I had acquired a few months after my daughter's birth, and that had carried home my newborn son from the hospital. We have been everywhere and everything, that SUV and me: married, single, married again, residents in three states, and journeys across half the country. There were 164,000 hard-earned miles and eleven years in that vehicle, which had been a symbol of consistency, sameness despite change, a familiar comfort in new places.
It had also grown to be awfully inconvenient, however. At a car dealership that weekend, I reluctantly explored what I knew would be the best for a family that travels, a family with a large dog, a family with guests, a family of growing young people. I slinked past a row of shiny BMWs, Saabs, and Lexuses-- pretty little sedans glistening like slices of meringued pie in the cool afternoon. But those things aren't practical, and I came home with the whole wheat loaf of vehicles instead.
Behold, the minivan.
Actually, the minivan has been very nice. It has been like driving my living room, and the best part of the whole thing is that my kids cannot touch each other in the back seat. The mid row is two captain's chairs, where Tiny takes up his seat, and the third row is a bench that my daughter hogs. No one fights anymore about who poked whom. I even had a DVD player installed for those road trips we take. This past weekend on our holiday roadtrip, I smiled as my husband dropped the thermostat on his side of the car to the upper 60s while I kept my side of the car on "toast." As far as minivans go, it isn't as granny panty as I thought it would be. The front end of my mini is rather chic-ly designed, and the remote operated easy-access sliding doors are about as mechanically sexy as a mommy-mobile could be.
Truthfully, I panicked when I sold my old SUV to the dealership that weekend. My daughter stood beside me and told me not to cry about it. I didn't know what was worse--saying good-bye to my old tried-and-true or having to embrace the unglamorous genre of family vehicles. But we're doing ok here, the Catichemobile and me. Practicality won out, and for that my entire family is thankful. Even the dog... and me.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
The Heart of the Team
My Chicken Little is having a hard time of late. In addition to temporary hearing loss, which has made aspects of home and school challenging, she is not enjoying her place on the school basketball team. Monday morning, I took her to work with me for a couple of hours before her doctor appointment for ear issues. Exhausted from days upon days of straining to hear, of not feeling well, and a little school stress, she broke into tears on my office floor. What she said wasn't anything uncommon to the woes and worries of a middle schooler in many places, but my heart broke for her.
"The kids yell at me on the court. And I can tell they talk about me behind my back because I am not like them. And it is hard to be the only White kid on the team. I am just not as good as them at basketball. It isn't my route."
"Baby girl," I said gently. I told her how she has twice the courage of the other kids to get out on the court knowing athletic talent is not her gift, knowing she is different. The fact that she tries is what counts here. "You are the heart of the team," I said, "even though it is hard for other kids to understand." I tapped my chest and continued, "You have it all in here."
Last night, my husband and I lounged over coffee and dessert, and discussed the situation. What kind of decision should a parent make here? Earlier that day, I had called Chicken Little's dad, who discussed the value of learning how to live as the minority in a situation (which, really, is one reason I choose to keep my kids in city schools) and how we tend to learn when put in places of discomfort, which for this little doll of a child, would be a sports setting anywhere. My husband wondered if we were setting our girl up to fail--putting her in a situation where she is this little awkward child among gangly, strong ballplayers. I see each man's point of view. The person I really want to hear from now is my daughter's coach.
This morning, I wrote a note to the coach and reminded my daughter that until she takes her feelings to the coach, we cannot help her. This may be a situation where my daughter works her way off the team on her own accord or it may be a situation where the coach has the magic words to provide reassurance, comfort, and motivation to stay.
This isn't a life or death decision, but it is one that counts down the line as it bonds with critical memories of struggle in middle school. Whatever happens, I am sure our little girl will be fine, but I hope that the present time isn't extraordinarily painful for her.
"The kids yell at me on the court. And I can tell they talk about me behind my back because I am not like them. And it is hard to be the only White kid on the team. I am just not as good as them at basketball. It isn't my route."
"Baby girl," I said gently. I told her how she has twice the courage of the other kids to get out on the court knowing athletic talent is not her gift, knowing she is different. The fact that she tries is what counts here. "You are the heart of the team," I said, "even though it is hard for other kids to understand." I tapped my chest and continued, "You have it all in here."
Last night, my husband and I lounged over coffee and dessert, and discussed the situation. What kind of decision should a parent make here? Earlier that day, I had called Chicken Little's dad, who discussed the value of learning how to live as the minority in a situation (which, really, is one reason I choose to keep my kids in city schools) and how we tend to learn when put in places of discomfort, which for this little doll of a child, would be a sports setting anywhere. My husband wondered if we were setting our girl up to fail--putting her in a situation where she is this little awkward child among gangly, strong ballplayers. I see each man's point of view. The person I really want to hear from now is my daughter's coach.
This morning, I wrote a note to the coach and reminded my daughter that until she takes her feelings to the coach, we cannot help her. This may be a situation where my daughter works her way off the team on her own accord or it may be a situation where the coach has the magic words to provide reassurance, comfort, and motivation to stay.
This isn't a life or death decision, but it is one that counts down the line as it bonds with critical memories of struggle in middle school. Whatever happens, I am sure our little girl will be fine, but I hope that the present time isn't extraordinarily painful for her.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
The Help: The Past and Not So Past
The Help, the newest Hollywood release based on Kathryn Stockett's civil rights era novel, has struck a particularly sensitive note with me due to my own experiences as a child of the South--the divided South and not-so divided South, the South that so many of us hope has evolved. Central to The Help's plot is a young socialite's motion to enforce that White households install a separate bathroom for Black help. It would be so easy for me to toss the idea aside as ridiculous, to claim no one would ever have thought such a thing. But I know better--there are enough reminders that we still struggle where race is involved.
I live in a house that I rent from homeowners who so judiciously refer to one of our bathrooms as the gardener's toilet. At first, I was struck with a little confusion as to why this home--one that has two baths up and one more down, would need yet a fourth toilet, especially considering the modestness of this little 1960s faux-colonial that was built among homes a bit more gracious in style. Foolishly, I had once asked my husband why any toilet would have been built in a laundry room--mud room, really--with a make-shift beadboard wall thrown around it (we ended up removing the wall so that we could do our laundry, long story short). This toilet, this porcelain bowl that sits so close to the washer that one would have to spread your knees in order to sit or stand to use it, was for the help.... the help that was not allowed to use the more private toilet in the rear hallway of the home, a bathroom only steps from this one.
My own childhood household, when my mother's back started to trouble her, had the help of Ella Mae, who came at first to clean, but later was kept just for ironing what my grandmother had called "all those big damn shirts". Ella Mae was a luxury for us, but somehow my parents afforded her. She lived in Fauborg Marigny, a New Orleans neighborhood that had been a mix of comfortable middle class and low class in the 19th century. By the 20th, it was far from an okay place to raise children and was riddled with poverty. Not far from her lived Albatine, who helped my great aunt in her home nearby--that formerly gracious Italianate home was sinking into decrepitude and decay by the time I was born, an old way of life sinking into oblivion by the time I reached school age. That home, by the way, had a separate bathroom for the help.
There are many stories to be told here. I certainly don't recall my parents ever teaching me to be anything but kind and fair to the help in our household, and I was well aware that those ladies led a harder, less educated, and more limited existence than my own. There were, despite all the tenderness we exhibited with Ella Mae and Albatine, invisible boundaries. Perhaps, their families noted those boundaries with more clarity than we did. I certainly recall the absolute despair in my father's voice when he had learned that Ella Mae, who had long grown elderly, had passed and had her life celebrated in a funeral; we had not been invited, much less told. Perhaps, it did not dawn on Ella Mae's family that we would want to be there.
At one point in my youth, it dawned on me that I should ask Ella Mae about who she really was, and she took the time to tell me about riding the mule home across the fields on her father's farm when she was a child in rural Mississippi. True to her African roots and generations of repeated dialect, she had a tendency to shove Ns in unlikely places, such as when she said Nyew Nyork. She described having lived on a street that she shared with a host of family as neighbors. She would continue to iron for us, clean for others. I would grow up and go away to school. When I returned, Ella Mae would have long passed.
My father and I recently discussed Ella Mae. He remembered his mother teaching him to be gentle with those that helped keep our homes, mind the children. He remembers giving Ella Mae rides home when possible, paying for her bus fare, and providing her lunch. Ella Mae told us stories about crazy people she worked for--such as the reptile lady, if you can imagine that story--but she never did discuss the nature of her work where her dark skin and class differences were concerned. Apparently, my grandmother treated her as a confidante, sharing family issues and discussions of holiday plans. My grandmother isn't here to divulge the details of their friendship; something else that I consider sad.
Times have changed since the era documented in The Help when the lower class minorities feared for their jobs and lives if they were perceived as anything other than gladly subservient. I see that my neighbor's help across the street is a crew of Latin American ladies whose kids probably attend school with mine. My "gardener's toilet" goes unused for anything other than to hold the super-sized box of laundry detergent my husband buys. In fact, we wedge a garbage can in front of it. The Black yardman we hire on occasion drives a very nice truck and wields a Blackberry to organize his client list. He isn't afraid to price-gouge me (as he has in the past). And my son was the minority race in his classroom last year, the mothers of his African American peers holding jobs ranging from low-paying customer service fields to more-than-comfy-lifestyle-supporting careers as lawyers.
We still have a ways to go, as I have been reminded--I have known Black mothers that still teach their teenage sons to be very careful when they drive as they are easy targets for being pulled over. I see a minority still struggling in schools across the city in the tougher neighborhoods. I listen to the stories that my husband tells after his encounters at his university with young Black women trying to fight their way up and out to a better life. It's one step at a time, steadily forward I hope, and further away from "gardener's toilets", signs marked "colored only", and other reminders of a difficult and ugly past.
I live in a house that I rent from homeowners who so judiciously refer to one of our bathrooms as the gardener's toilet. At first, I was struck with a little confusion as to why this home--one that has two baths up and one more down, would need yet a fourth toilet, especially considering the modestness of this little 1960s faux-colonial that was built among homes a bit more gracious in style. Foolishly, I had once asked my husband why any toilet would have been built in a laundry room--mud room, really--with a make-shift beadboard wall thrown around it (we ended up removing the wall so that we could do our laundry, long story short). This toilet, this porcelain bowl that sits so close to the washer that one would have to spread your knees in order to sit or stand to use it, was for the help.... the help that was not allowed to use the more private toilet in the rear hallway of the home, a bathroom only steps from this one.
My own childhood household, when my mother's back started to trouble her, had the help of Ella Mae, who came at first to clean, but later was kept just for ironing what my grandmother had called "all those big damn shirts". Ella Mae was a luxury for us, but somehow my parents afforded her. She lived in Fauborg Marigny, a New Orleans neighborhood that had been a mix of comfortable middle class and low class in the 19th century. By the 20th, it was far from an okay place to raise children and was riddled with poverty. Not far from her lived Albatine, who helped my great aunt in her home nearby--that formerly gracious Italianate home was sinking into decrepitude and decay by the time I was born, an old way of life sinking into oblivion by the time I reached school age. That home, by the way, had a separate bathroom for the help.
There are many stories to be told here. I certainly don't recall my parents ever teaching me to be anything but kind and fair to the help in our household, and I was well aware that those ladies led a harder, less educated, and more limited existence than my own. There were, despite all the tenderness we exhibited with Ella Mae and Albatine, invisible boundaries. Perhaps, their families noted those boundaries with more clarity than we did. I certainly recall the absolute despair in my father's voice when he had learned that Ella Mae, who had long grown elderly, had passed and had her life celebrated in a funeral; we had not been invited, much less told. Perhaps, it did not dawn on Ella Mae's family that we would want to be there.
At one point in my youth, it dawned on me that I should ask Ella Mae about who she really was, and she took the time to tell me about riding the mule home across the fields on her father's farm when she was a child in rural Mississippi. True to her African roots and generations of repeated dialect, she had a tendency to shove Ns in unlikely places, such as when she said Nyew Nyork. She described having lived on a street that she shared with a host of family as neighbors. She would continue to iron for us, clean for others. I would grow up and go away to school. When I returned, Ella Mae would have long passed.
My father and I recently discussed Ella Mae. He remembered his mother teaching him to be gentle with those that helped keep our homes, mind the children. He remembers giving Ella Mae rides home when possible, paying for her bus fare, and providing her lunch. Ella Mae told us stories about crazy people she worked for--such as the reptile lady, if you can imagine that story--but she never did discuss the nature of her work where her dark skin and class differences were concerned. Apparently, my grandmother treated her as a confidante, sharing family issues and discussions of holiday plans. My grandmother isn't here to divulge the details of their friendship; something else that I consider sad.
Times have changed since the era documented in The Help when the lower class minorities feared for their jobs and lives if they were perceived as anything other than gladly subservient. I see that my neighbor's help across the street is a crew of Latin American ladies whose kids probably attend school with mine. My "gardener's toilet" goes unused for anything other than to hold the super-sized box of laundry detergent my husband buys. In fact, we wedge a garbage can in front of it. The Black yardman we hire on occasion drives a very nice truck and wields a Blackberry to organize his client list. He isn't afraid to price-gouge me (as he has in the past). And my son was the minority race in his classroom last year, the mothers of his African American peers holding jobs ranging from low-paying customer service fields to more-than-comfy-lifestyle-supporting careers as lawyers.
We still have a ways to go, as I have been reminded--I have known Black mothers that still teach their teenage sons to be very careful when they drive as they are easy targets for being pulled over. I see a minority still struggling in schools across the city in the tougher neighborhoods. I listen to the stories that my husband tells after his encounters at his university with young Black women trying to fight their way up and out to a better life. It's one step at a time, steadily forward I hope, and further away from "gardener's toilets", signs marked "colored only", and other reminders of a difficult and ugly past.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
In the Order of Importance
Last night, my four-year-old son called from his vacation with step-family in Puerto Rico and asked immediately to speak to the dog. When he learned that she was unavailable (outside taking care of important dog business), he then asked for his step-father.
"Did you hear that?" I asked Jujubee. "Where am I on that list?"
"Well," she said, "notice he didn't ask for Chester."
Nice to know I share the bottom rung with the family rabbit.
"Did you hear that?" I asked Jujubee. "Where am I on that list?"
"Well," she said, "notice he didn't ask for Chester."
Nice to know I share the bottom rung with the family rabbit.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Ponies in the Ring
Last week during my riding lesson, I paused to watch a young rider attempt to wrangle her pony into a more cooperative state. It seems that Blue didn't want to jump. His rider managed to stay mounted despite his last-minute balks and halts before the stacked and layered obstacles, but she still needed assistance. So in an attempt to reassure the pony, I was asked to sit with my horse in the middle of the ring, where Blue knew we would be watching. Moral support, from pony to pony so to speak. In the world of horses, social relationships are often as complex as our own, and I can truly say from experience that regardless of species, similar souls comfort one another in difficult situations.
This past weekend, my ex-husband and his wife came to our town for the first time. With my daughter finishing fifth grade and beginning middle school in the fall, celebration among family was essential. While I was thrilled that the father of my children would finally come see where and how his children live, I was stressed that he and his wife would find fault with things when they got here. I worked to make sure that they would be comfortable and attended details such as tourism guides, restaurant and hotel recommendations, and arrangements for a family lunch. These are people with whom I share difficult history, but I am tied to them, and if they came and had a wonderful time, they would continue to return and share in the life that my children have here. This is what I want for my children, a growing relationship with their dad, a secure place in the heart of their step-mother, a comfort zone of approachability for times when discussion, advice, or negotiation of some sort is necessary.
Having the company of my family helped me feel better--cognizant, calm, graceful. Their steady presence helped make this visit with my children's dad and step-mother a successful one. Having cleared this hurdle gracefully and landed safely on the other side, I can approach the next visit with more confidence. To my husband and Juju, thank you. Thank you for being my ponies in the ring.
This past weekend, my ex-husband and his wife came to our town for the first time. With my daughter finishing fifth grade and beginning middle school in the fall, celebration among family was essential. While I was thrilled that the father of my children would finally come see where and how his children live, I was stressed that he and his wife would find fault with things when they got here. I worked to make sure that they would be comfortable and attended details such as tourism guides, restaurant and hotel recommendations, and arrangements for a family lunch. These are people with whom I share difficult history, but I am tied to them, and if they came and had a wonderful time, they would continue to return and share in the life that my children have here. This is what I want for my children, a growing relationship with their dad, a secure place in the heart of their step-mother, a comfort zone of approachability for times when discussion, advice, or negotiation of some sort is necessary.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Patience. Perseverance... Because Uhaul Needs an Overhaul and So Do I
I like to make plans. I like things spelled out, booked in advance, arranged, reserved, and promised--at least with big things. This week I have planned quite a bit: a car repair, completing certain work, preparing for travel, moving a step-daughter into her new home. On Wednesday, things did not go as planned, however. This is a long post today, by the way. I am warning you. Break it up. Get coffee.
I brought my vehicle in for repairs--major repairs costing about $1400. I was told I would have my truck back in time to pick up the youngest from school. I brought my laptop and a book to a cafe near the repair shop and settled in to read, write, and conduct online chores. Things started to fall apart around early afternoon when I had problems making reservations with Uhaul. First of all, short notice reservations cannot be made online. So then I attempted to dial the 1-800 number for Uhaul, which is this: 1-800-UHAUL. I have a Blackberry which has a number pad limited to the following letters: W, E,R,S,D,F,Z,X,C. How was I supposed to dial this? I borrowed the cell phone of the guy next to me for a clue as to which numbers spelled out UHAUL and then dialed from my phone. Busy. Busy again. Still busy. In desperation, I tried online to load the pages for Penske and Ryder, both of which had server problems and would not allow reservations pages to be loaded. I resorted back to Uhaul and began calling offices directly. I had to call three offices. Each time, the process went like this:
Dial number.
Listen to phone tree.
Press number to reservations line.
Get put on hold.
Get warm body who cannot answer availability questions directly.
Give name.
Give phone number.
Give email.
Give reservation dates.
Give itinerary.
Request truck size.
Get denied due to no trucks at that location.
So let me repeat that I went through this for three different locations before someone finally gave me a 1-888 number to Uhaul. This number had actual numbers in it. That process went as follows:
Dial number.
Warm body that answers phone on second ring shocks me into silence.
Explain problem of trying to find truck.
In the middle of the clerk trying to find me a truck, husband dials three times to get my attention and says to change it to trailer.
I request trailer.
Clerk, without explaining what he's doing, transfers me to a shop near my home I have already spoken to.
Connection leaps into the new phone tree without my being able to say, "STOP. COME BACK!"
Put on hold.
Warm body answers.
Give name, phone number, email, reservation request.
She confirms my reservation and takes my credit card number, but cannot guarantee what office will have the damn trailer. Someone will call me back before 6 PM.
As I hung up, a new problem arose. My mechanic called with news that my truck would be in the shop till the next day and he needed to get me a rental car. This is not an option, I explained. I needed to be leaving to get my son from school at that very minute. I called a neighbor, but she couldn't promise anything right away. If I called a cab, the cab wouldn't come for a long time. My other neighbors would not be home. I had no one else in this city to call, which is freaking typical, because I have lived here only two years. My aunt and uncle live in the 'burbs too far to assist on short notice. My husband, swamped as he is, agreed to come rescue me and arrived like a knight in shining green Jeep. (By the time the neighbor was free to pick me up, my husband had already left the office.) We went immediately to pick up my son, where the teachers kept him after school for me. The emergency message my daughter's school principal promised to deliver never arrived before she boarded the bus, but my daughter was smart enough to wait at a neighbor's till we got home. My husband carried my sleeping boy inside and tucked him into bed for a later afternoon nap, then returned to work.
As promised, someone did call me back and guaranteed me a trailer at a location in the suburbs. I asked if this could be delivered to the Uhaul closest to me, but she snapped, "No, I cannot close my shop to deliver this for you." Please hold on a moment while I shove my phone where the sun doesn't shine. Worse, as a person who cannot and should not skip meals, I did not get to eat lunch until 4 PM because I was so busy with phone chaos.
So one night this week we will have spent loading the trailer while my kids watch a movie in my truck because I will have had no sitter for that night. The couch I have promised my lovely Mae turns out to be the hideous plaid one because the nice one, which my husband graciously lent to a former employee, was given away without his permission. I cancelled every appointment I had for the next two days because the being car-less screwed up my week entirely.
So while I sit writing, my kids are fighting over who gets to play the piano. My son is playing the spoons while he argues. The dog is at my feet with her head under the coffee table trying to stay out of the marching and chaos. And I am so tired I need coffee, but a third cup will make my heart beat a bit irregularly. The day is almost done--I wonder what tomorrow will bring. A cousin's Facebook post reminds me how I should face the new dawn: Patience. Perseverance. A positive attitude. (So, yeah, as my husband's ex-wife would say so sweetly but sardonically, how nice for you.)
Somehow, after grouching at my children for the frustrations of the day, at their lack of reason and wherewithall to cooperate and function like decent family members, my son leapt half-naked into my arms and exclaimed his great affection for me. I melted--for five minutes--and went back to cracking the whip.
Patience. Perseverance. But I still think I need an attitude adjustment.
I brought my vehicle in for repairs--major repairs costing about $1400. I was told I would have my truck back in time to pick up the youngest from school. I brought my laptop and a book to a cafe near the repair shop and settled in to read, write, and conduct online chores. Things started to fall apart around early afternoon when I had problems making reservations with Uhaul. First of all, short notice reservations cannot be made online. So then I attempted to dial the 1-800 number for Uhaul, which is this: 1-800-UHAUL. I have a Blackberry which has a number pad limited to the following letters: W, E,R,S,D,F,Z,X,C. How was I supposed to dial this? I borrowed the cell phone of the guy next to me for a clue as to which numbers spelled out UHAUL and then dialed from my phone. Busy. Busy again. Still busy. In desperation, I tried online to load the pages for Penske and Ryder, both of which had server problems and would not allow reservations pages to be loaded. I resorted back to Uhaul and began calling offices directly. I had to call three offices. Each time, the process went like this:
Dial number.
Listen to phone tree.
Press number to reservations line.
Get put on hold.
Get warm body who cannot answer availability questions directly.
Give name.
Give phone number.
Give email.
Give reservation dates.
Give itinerary.
Request truck size.
Get denied due to no trucks at that location.
So let me repeat that I went through this for three different locations before someone finally gave me a 1-888 number to Uhaul. This number had actual numbers in it. That process went as follows:
Dial number.
Warm body that answers phone on second ring shocks me into silence.
Explain problem of trying to find truck.
In the middle of the clerk trying to find me a truck, husband dials three times to get my attention and says to change it to trailer.
I request trailer.
Clerk, without explaining what he's doing, transfers me to a shop near my home I have already spoken to.
Connection leaps into the new phone tree without my being able to say, "STOP. COME BACK!"
Put on hold.
Warm body answers.
Give name, phone number, email, reservation request.
She confirms my reservation and takes my credit card number, but cannot guarantee what office will have the damn trailer. Someone will call me back before 6 PM.
As I hung up, a new problem arose. My mechanic called with news that my truck would be in the shop till the next day and he needed to get me a rental car. This is not an option, I explained. I needed to be leaving to get my son from school at that very minute. I called a neighbor, but she couldn't promise anything right away. If I called a cab, the cab wouldn't come for a long time. My other neighbors would not be home. I had no one else in this city to call, which is freaking typical, because I have lived here only two years. My aunt and uncle live in the 'burbs too far to assist on short notice. My husband, swamped as he is, agreed to come rescue me and arrived like a knight in shining green Jeep. (By the time the neighbor was free to pick me up, my husband had already left the office.) We went immediately to pick up my son, where the teachers kept him after school for me. The emergency message my daughter's school principal promised to deliver never arrived before she boarded the bus, but my daughter was smart enough to wait at a neighbor's till we got home. My husband carried my sleeping boy inside and tucked him into bed for a later afternoon nap, then returned to work.
As promised, someone did call me back and guaranteed me a trailer at a location in the suburbs. I asked if this could be delivered to the Uhaul closest to me, but she snapped, "No, I cannot close my shop to deliver this for you." Please hold on a moment while I shove my phone where the sun doesn't shine. Worse, as a person who cannot and should not skip meals, I did not get to eat lunch until 4 PM because I was so busy with phone chaos.
So one night this week we will have spent loading the trailer while my kids watch a movie in my truck because I will have had no sitter for that night. The couch I have promised my lovely Mae turns out to be the hideous plaid one because the nice one, which my husband graciously lent to a former employee, was given away without his permission. I cancelled every appointment I had for the next two days because the being car-less screwed up my week entirely.
So while I sit writing, my kids are fighting over who gets to play the piano. My son is playing the spoons while he argues. The dog is at my feet with her head under the coffee table trying to stay out of the marching and chaos. And I am so tired I need coffee, but a third cup will make my heart beat a bit irregularly. The day is almost done--I wonder what tomorrow will bring. A cousin's Facebook post reminds me how I should face the new dawn: Patience. Perseverance. A positive attitude. (So, yeah, as my husband's ex-wife would say so sweetly but sardonically, how nice for you.)
Somehow, after grouching at my children for the frustrations of the day, at their lack of reason and wherewithall to cooperate and function like decent family members, my son leapt half-naked into my arms and exclaimed his great affection for me. I melted--for five minutes--and went back to cracking the whip.
Patience. Perseverance. But I still think I need an attitude adjustment.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Love, Acceptance, and Joy: Cocoon, Catharsis, and Butterfly
Saturday on Facebook, I posted a sublime little message which read, "Love, acceptance, and joy: I need nothing because I have everything. This weekend marks my best birthday yet. Cocoon, catharsis, butterfly."
There is a lot to be said for recognizing satisfaction. I often complain that I don't have a real social life (Going out with friends? What's that?) and that my current job pays terribly and will not allow for greater professional growth. This weekend, I learned none of that matters as much as the ability to connect with family.
Celebrating my oldest step-daughter's college graduation, 18 of us flanked a set of tables at a seafood restaurant near the water in a town associated with happy memories for many of us. Included in our group were my husband and his two girls, my children, my in-laws, and my husband's former wife, her gentleman companion, and her parents. Watching all of this work together, I was moved to complete gratitude and joy. This is what other families strive to achieve: the occasional blissful merging of family post-divorce for the celebration of life that continues despite those familial break ups. And better yet, we were all genuinely pleased to see each other.
This moment was a mammoth blessing of grace for a second reason, which is that I realized my children really do have what I previously thought they were missing. I grew up surrounded by a clan of cousins on my father's side who were like brothers and sisters. We saw each other most Sundays and every holiday. Good news? We told family members first. Having a birthday? Share it with cousins, aunts, and uncles whose candles sport the same cake as yours. I have worried that my children would be permanently and negatively affected by the last several nomadic years and divorce. As it turns out, family has simply multiplied for them.
While I like to think I am a happy person, I am often very conflicted about work and motherhood and the merging of those two things. Having been forced to confront painful things about myself and the people I love (or once loved), the last few years have been quite a challenge. But here I feel an emergence from the cocoon I built to process all these things, and as part of the renewal process, something else was being created this past weekend: a warm, loving link to the woman that was once married to my husband.
I cannot begin to express how accepted I felt among this clan of people who are still largely new to my life. I am eternally grateful to my step-daughter's mother for the gift of her children. This birthday, my 39th, I celebrate love.
There is a lot to be said for recognizing satisfaction. I often complain that I don't have a real social life (Going out with friends? What's that?) and that my current job pays terribly and will not allow for greater professional growth. This weekend, I learned none of that matters as much as the ability to connect with family.
Celebrating my oldest step-daughter's college graduation, 18 of us flanked a set of tables at a seafood restaurant near the water in a town associated with happy memories for many of us. Included in our group were my husband and his two girls, my children, my in-laws, and my husband's former wife, her gentleman companion, and her parents. Watching all of this work together, I was moved to complete gratitude and joy. This is what other families strive to achieve: the occasional blissful merging of family post-divorce for the celebration of life that continues despite those familial break ups. And better yet, we were all genuinely pleased to see each other.
This moment was a mammoth blessing of grace for a second reason, which is that I realized my children really do have what I previously thought they were missing. I grew up surrounded by a clan of cousins on my father's side who were like brothers and sisters. We saw each other most Sundays and every holiday. Good news? We told family members first. Having a birthday? Share it with cousins, aunts, and uncles whose candles sport the same cake as yours. I have worried that my children would be permanently and negatively affected by the last several nomadic years and divorce. As it turns out, family has simply multiplied for them.
While I like to think I am a happy person, I am often very conflicted about work and motherhood and the merging of those two things. Having been forced to confront painful things about myself and the people I love (or once loved), the last few years have been quite a challenge. But here I feel an emergence from the cocoon I built to process all these things, and as part of the renewal process, something else was being created this past weekend: a warm, loving link to the woman that was once married to my husband.
I cannot begin to express how accepted I felt among this clan of people who are still largely new to my life. I am eternally grateful to my step-daughter's mother for the gift of her children. This birthday, my 39th, I celebrate love.
Monday, March 28, 2011
The Great Saltine Truce of 2011
Recently, my husband was bothered that I did not have Saltines in the pantry. I told him to use the Ritz crackers we had, and when those were gone, I would restock on Monday (I had already made the second trip of the week and had $18 of grocery budget left before pay period, but did not say so). This was not an okay answer. Apparently, in certain circles, Ritz are relegated to cheese and other tasteful canapé-associated items. Saltines are for soups, he insisted, and having soup with the wrong cracker was some kind of taboo. Ultimately, I decided that arguing about crackers would cost us more emotionally than the $2.50 to buy them and the $1 of gas it cost to go round trip from the house.
Later, I found myself musing about crackers. Growing up, Ritz crackers were too expensive for us to buy—having them was an absolute treat. We had Saltines, which as a result, I despised for years, and still only purchase with reluctance. Saltines have fallen on that list of food items that I associate with other pantry-stretchers my mother employed during our leanest years. This food had nutritional value, but having had to resort to it so often, I employ these items as seldom as possible: tuna casserole, cube steak, canned mixed vegetables, canned vegetables in general, and American cheese—those being just some of what I can remember. In college, canned tuna, macaroni and cheese, and ramen noodle soup became food budget fillers in the dorm. After graduation, I could not eat either of the former two items for years. I still won’t eat ramen noodle soup. I have not touched American cheese in years; its plastic consistency and texture is repulsive.
When I told my father about my husband’s rationale for crackers he responded humorously with an email from which I have copied the following:
Crackers. Oyster crackers are for soup; Saltines are utility outfielders; Ritz crackers are basically conveyances for solids and near liquids, and Waverly are upper middle class but with the same function. Kaveli crackers are truly upper class conveyances of delicate solids. Rice crackers are sought by Veggans and health advocates. The most ambitious use of a saltine was one by *Jimmy Faulkner: bacon wrapped cracker run in a microwave. Crackers, glorious crackers.
I suppose we should all be allowed our favorites. I won’t buy Hunt’s ketchup, for example; it’s too acidic. Nor will I purchase Hellman’s sandwich dressing (it ain’t mayo, baby). I prefer applesauce that does not have additional sugar or high fructose corn syrup. I enjoy hot tea produced by Twinings or the other “hot tea specialty” brands, as Lipton’s black tea brews better for cold-consumption. Most readers here know how I feel about coffee, but when out or in the homes of friends, I’ll still drink weak or generic coffee simply for the warmth, the comfort, the ritual, and the social engagement it seems to foster.
I’ll take peace over particulars any day.
*Note on the Jimmy Faulkner comment—Jimmy, the nephew of the famed William Faulkner, once made this bacon concoction for my parents claiming all the while that this was a special treat. My father recalled that the soggy cracker and bacon mess was awful. I told him that it was “redneck dumplings”.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Familiar
A day in New Orleans includes the following routine: lounging over coffee while discussing what to eat for lunch, and at lunch discussing where to dine later. What I haven’t mentioned is that while indulging in those meals or on the way to the next one, I cannot walk ten steps there without running into a friend or relative. New Orleans isn’t a city, it’s a river town--the banks that hug the bend of land and water being much like our snug connection with each other.
Friday morning, my father and I had a coffee date at Still Perkin’. Located uptown at the edge of Lafayette Cemetery and a block from the famed Commander’s Palace, Still Perkin’ attracts mostly locals. Dad and I rolled in chatting, and there standing with a small group of people, not moments after I just wondered aloud who we might bump into, was a woman whose child I used to babysit and who used to teach at my high school. In fact, she is running for some kind of political office and works for the mayor now. After coffee, we headed into the lobby that Still Perkin’ shares with a half dozen independently owned businesses. I entered a store managed by a distant, distant relative who, as it turned out, keeps in solid touch with my uncles. If you are seeking anonymity, New Orleans is not the place to be.
Meanwhile, my husband was introducing a paper at his conference and shaking hands with colleagues. He ran into friends of my parents. These friends live out of state. Seeing as how a joyful reunion was in order, we all paraded to Palace Café on Canal Street for lunch between conference sessions. My sister, who also lives out of state and whose work and travel commitments nearby had been cancelled on short notice, also had managed to grace us with her presence that day. A wonderful waiter doted on the seven of us. Something he said sparked my curiosity and I started gently probing for his background. The waiter once had owned two big restaurants in Denver, where my husband happened to have been a customer in those years there.
At one point, the waiter, telling us his incredible story about his return to New Orleans after years of entrepreneurship and a life-changing heart attack, stepped back and threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “I love life!” This is the New Orleans I love—the social engagement over plates of steaming gourmet, the vigorous exchange of commonality and affection, the joyful celebration of life.
Sitting here this morning, quietly nursing the lingering and frustrating effects of illness, I wish I were back at Still Perkin’--at a table boasting café au lait and brioche, with seats cradling my family. Views from broad windows there include the long alternately blanched and shadowed wall of the cemetery, the elegant decay of aging Mediterranean-inspired French cottages, and a stray tourist or two wandering. I often miss the comfort of being somewhere so elegant and familiar, where I was entirely known from childhood and welcomed, a place where so-and-so “went to schoo’ wit’ ya mama”. Maybe those days will come again.
Friday morning, my father and I had a coffee date at Still Perkin’. Located uptown at the edge of Lafayette Cemetery and a block from the famed Commander’s Palace, Still Perkin’ attracts mostly locals. Dad and I rolled in chatting, and there standing with a small group of people, not moments after I just wondered aloud who we might bump into, was a woman whose child I used to babysit and who used to teach at my high school. In fact, she is running for some kind of political office and works for the mayor now. After coffee, we headed into the lobby that Still Perkin’ shares with a half dozen independently owned businesses. I entered a store managed by a distant, distant relative who, as it turned out, keeps in solid touch with my uncles. If you are seeking anonymity, New Orleans is not the place to be.
Meanwhile, my husband was introducing a paper at his conference and shaking hands with colleagues. He ran into friends of my parents. These friends live out of state. Seeing as how a joyful reunion was in order, we all paraded to Palace Café on Canal Street for lunch between conference sessions. My sister, who also lives out of state and whose work and travel commitments nearby had been cancelled on short notice, also had managed to grace us with her presence that day. A wonderful waiter doted on the seven of us. Something he said sparked my curiosity and I started gently probing for his background. The waiter once had owned two big restaurants in Denver, where my husband happened to have been a customer in those years there.
At one point, the waiter, telling us his incredible story about his return to New Orleans after years of entrepreneurship and a life-changing heart attack, stepped back and threw his hands up in the air and exclaimed, “I love life!” This is the New Orleans I love—the social engagement over plates of steaming gourmet, the vigorous exchange of commonality and affection, the joyful celebration of life.
Sitting here this morning, quietly nursing the lingering and frustrating effects of illness, I wish I were back at Still Perkin’--at a table boasting café au lait and brioche, with seats cradling my family. Views from broad windows there include the long alternately blanched and shadowed wall of the cemetery, the elegant decay of aging Mediterranean-inspired French cottages, and a stray tourist or two wandering. I often miss the comfort of being somewhere so elegant and familiar, where I was entirely known from childhood and welcomed, a place where so-and-so “went to schoo’ wit’ ya mama”. Maybe those days will come again.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
With Love: Memories of a Mother-in-Law
My first mother-in-law was a New York Italian that had relocated to Florida. She died when my then-husband and I were twenty-five. I never got to know her the way I wish I had, but her legend has lived with me long after her death, my divorce from her son, and the increased distance from what used to be so clearly called family. I often wish I could ask her about raising sons or share with her my children.
While managing a successful franchise of hair salons, Linda raised four children, the youngest of whom was my former spouse. In an Italian family, the youngest boy might be highly prized, but his wife is at the bottom of the sausage pile. I don’t think this family was aware that they maintained this hierarchy and I learned to just accept my place. I never felt I had anything to offer them or was worth much; I was young, inexperienced, naïve, and found entry into a loud clan of Italian Americans to be a bit of a shock. Linda, however, humored me. She made me tea and asked me about my New Orleans upbringing--I'd come from a place where we attended formal teas, poetry readings, and spontaneous jazz performances. My presence was some kind of aberration from the norm. But oh, she did love me. She had congratulated her baby for marrying a Catholic (at the time I was the only one, but one in-law converted later) and asked her boy what he had done to marry such a nice girl, as though she herself had ever doubted that possibility.
Linda, always with perfectly sculpted blonde hair, spoke with typical Jersey brogue and sometimes widened her large, pool-blue eyes behind her even larger glasses as a wordless response--one that I could not read and therefore would drive me to mild angst. She entered and exited rooms with great whirls of energy as she carried platters of steaming Italian delicacies for Sunday dinner or bursting shopping bags. She was incredibly savvy, industrious, and absolutely generous. She knew how to overlook the shortcomings of her own children much less those of a still-maturing young woman such as myself. Everyone loved her, and Linda loved back, mixing her love with occasional humorous criticism.
“Why don’t you move to Florida?” she used to ask my spouse and I. “What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with Florida? You don’t love us anymore?” And on a visit to see us in our far away state, she sat in our car behind my former-athlete spouse and poked him in the neck saying, “Oh my Gawd! Your neck is so thick! You're letting it get too thick!” She continued to berate him about it as though survival depended upon immediate diminishment of this body part.
Linda knew when sensitive matters required careful judgment. I will never forget her intervening when another in-law had commissioned me to complete a painting to emulate the style of Bev Doolittle. I was given the assignment, took incredible creative license with it (and produced not at all what they had wanted, silly me), and they hated it. Linda took it upon herself to buy the painting instead. She hung it in the guestroom and now, a niece has it. Looking back, I see clearly my mistake as well as Linda's creative solution and beneficence. What she did was to preserve a relationship and strengthen another one. God bless her.
During my second year of marriage, Linda was diagnosed with lung cancer. She died just three months later. At the end of that year, we opened Christmas gifts that she had bought for us before she had been confined first to a wheelchair and then to a bed. She had shopped knowing she wouldn’t live to see us unwrap her precious parcels. I cannot remember at all what she had purchased, but can still feel clearly the sacred silence in the room as we reflected on that final gesture of love and generosity. My then-husband has never recovered from her death. I can understand and appreciate this. None of us have ever been the same.
Note: Before dying, my mother-in-law had predicted that I was pregnant and would have a child in April. I was not expecting at the time, but a baby did come three years later on one April morning. In a joyful tribute, we blessed this hazel-eyed, wriggling newborn with a lovely middle name, Linda. In Italian, it means pretty. This child, who is almost eleven, certainly lives up to that.
While managing a successful franchise of hair salons, Linda raised four children, the youngest of whom was my former spouse. In an Italian family, the youngest boy might be highly prized, but his wife is at the bottom of the sausage pile. I don’t think this family was aware that they maintained this hierarchy and I learned to just accept my place. I never felt I had anything to offer them or was worth much; I was young, inexperienced, naïve, and found entry into a loud clan of Italian Americans to be a bit of a shock. Linda, however, humored me. She made me tea and asked me about my New Orleans upbringing--I'd come from a place where we attended formal teas, poetry readings, and spontaneous jazz performances. My presence was some kind of aberration from the norm. But oh, she did love me. She had congratulated her baby for marrying a Catholic (at the time I was the only one, but one in-law converted later) and asked her boy what he had done to marry such a nice girl, as though she herself had ever doubted that possibility.
Linda, always with perfectly sculpted blonde hair, spoke with typical Jersey brogue and sometimes widened her large, pool-blue eyes behind her even larger glasses as a wordless response--one that I could not read and therefore would drive me to mild angst. She entered and exited rooms with great whirls of energy as she carried platters of steaming Italian delicacies for Sunday dinner or bursting shopping bags. She was incredibly savvy, industrious, and absolutely generous. She knew how to overlook the shortcomings of her own children much less those of a still-maturing young woman such as myself. Everyone loved her, and Linda loved back, mixing her love with occasional humorous criticism.
“Why don’t you move to Florida?” she used to ask my spouse and I. “What’s wrong with us? What’s wrong with Florida? You don’t love us anymore?” And on a visit to see us in our far away state, she sat in our car behind my former-athlete spouse and poked him in the neck saying, “Oh my Gawd! Your neck is so thick! You're letting it get too thick!” She continued to berate him about it as though survival depended upon immediate diminishment of this body part.
Linda knew when sensitive matters required careful judgment. I will never forget her intervening when another in-law had commissioned me to complete a painting to emulate the style of Bev Doolittle. I was given the assignment, took incredible creative license with it (and produced not at all what they had wanted, silly me), and they hated it. Linda took it upon herself to buy the painting instead. She hung it in the guestroom and now, a niece has it. Looking back, I see clearly my mistake as well as Linda's creative solution and beneficence. What she did was to preserve a relationship and strengthen another one. God bless her.
During my second year of marriage, Linda was diagnosed with lung cancer. She died just three months later. At the end of that year, we opened Christmas gifts that she had bought for us before she had been confined first to a wheelchair and then to a bed. She had shopped knowing she wouldn’t live to see us unwrap her precious parcels. I cannot remember at all what she had purchased, but can still feel clearly the sacred silence in the room as we reflected on that final gesture of love and generosity. My then-husband has never recovered from her death. I can understand and appreciate this. None of us have ever been the same.
Note: Before dying, my mother-in-law had predicted that I was pregnant and would have a child in April. I was not expecting at the time, but a baby did come three years later on one April morning. In a joyful tribute, we blessed this hazel-eyed, wriggling newborn with a lovely middle name, Linda. In Italian, it means pretty. This child, who is almost eleven, certainly lives up to that.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Magic and Light
When my younger step-daughter confided a recent difficulty, my husband and I listened, gave counsel and insight, and offered a series of compliments designed to make her laugh. Finally, when she disclosed that a certain level of self-doubt persisted, I told her that she has a kind of magic and light. There are so few people out there like this young woman. Woe to the creature that fails to recognize her value.
And she is magic and light. She is some kind of combination of Holly Golightly, Tinkerbell, and Amelia Earheart. She describes her future and I am certain that she will do as she dreams. This girl, that recently plummeted fearlessly from an airplane and routinely climbs mountains, puts young men to complete shame and still maintains girlish charm. She has honored me with her love this summer. She could not possibly know how moved I am when I even think remotely about her trust. Perhaps, until she is a mother herself, she could never know. But this daughter claims not to want that role. Magic and light—she will find other ways to share it.
She charms street people into making bracelets for her. She smiles in complete paragraphs. She makes books and odd art charms as gifts. She has completely tamed and socialized our rabbit to the point that he is now a litter-box-trained house bunny. She still stands and walks as the trained ballerina she once was. When she pins her hair and curls into place, she becomes a 1930’s paper doll. She is thrifty and conscious. She is the kind of girl most men find elusive, but she really does not want to be. When young men disappoint her, her faith in love persists. She is admirable. I expect one day she will receive some kind of prize for aiding a third world country. I will be the old woman at the supermarket bragging to strangers that I know this girl.
To be so blessed! I have had a joyful summer with two step-daughters, the elder of whom has returned to college already. Perhaps someday I will illustrate her own unique loveliness in a blog here (and I believe I have touched upon it once or twice already). Truly I am thrilled to have welcomed into my life both young ladies who have somehow unknowingly managed to lift and inspire me. I can no longer imagine my life without them in it and feel as though I have fallen in love with both of them nearly the way I initially had fallen in love with their adoring and noble father, a man who sometimes seem strikingly innocent despite his age and maturity.
Perhaps magic and light is simply love in its purest state. Joyfully, there is plenty of it here.
And she is magic and light. She is some kind of combination of Holly Golightly, Tinkerbell, and Amelia Earheart. She describes her future and I am certain that she will do as she dreams. This girl, that recently plummeted fearlessly from an airplane and routinely climbs mountains, puts young men to complete shame and still maintains girlish charm. She has honored me with her love this summer. She could not possibly know how moved I am when I even think remotely about her trust. Perhaps, until she is a mother herself, she could never know. But this daughter claims not to want that role. Magic and light—she will find other ways to share it.
She charms street people into making bracelets for her. She smiles in complete paragraphs. She makes books and odd art charms as gifts. She has completely tamed and socialized our rabbit to the point that he is now a litter-box-trained house bunny. She still stands and walks as the trained ballerina she once was. When she pins her hair and curls into place, she becomes a 1930’s paper doll. She is thrifty and conscious. She is the kind of girl most men find elusive, but she really does not want to be. When young men disappoint her, her faith in love persists. She is admirable. I expect one day she will receive some kind of prize for aiding a third world country. I will be the old woman at the supermarket bragging to strangers that I know this girl.
To be so blessed! I have had a joyful summer with two step-daughters, the elder of whom has returned to college already. Perhaps someday I will illustrate her own unique loveliness in a blog here (and I believe I have touched upon it once or twice already). Truly I am thrilled to have welcomed into my life both young ladies who have somehow unknowingly managed to lift and inspire me. I can no longer imagine my life without them in it and feel as though I have fallen in love with both of them nearly the way I initially had fallen in love with their adoring and noble father, a man who sometimes seem strikingly innocent despite his age and maturity.
Perhaps magic and light is simply love in its purest state. Joyfully, there is plenty of it here.
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