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Friday, November 21, 2008
In the eye of the beholder
A few weeks ago, one of Shawn Joaquin's younger friends gave him this picture of a tree. Shawn Joaquin has taken an almost fetish-like obsession with this tree. The paper has become worn from the constant folding and unfolding as he carries it around his pocket and takes it out to view it a few times every hour. When he goes to school it is placed on the fridge just above Madelena's reach, and when he comes home it is folded into thirds and then half and placed in his pocket. Yesterday it was a prop in some imaginary scene in Shawn Joaquin's head; he was throwing himself on the floor and whispering "no, the villains are coming. We'll have to run for help!" while reading the picture as if it were a map to his safe haven.
So many hours have been enjoyed with this simple picture — both by myself and by Shawn Joaquin. I love that this picture is somehow so precious to him, and that he likes to show it to people and tell him it's from his friend. All of that changed, however, when Gregg picked it up and showed it to me.
"Why is Shawn Joaquin carrying around this....um...picture? Do you really think that's appropriate?" And with that, a simple childhood memory became the focal point of future therapy sessions.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Getting it right NOW
A couple of months ago I went to Carmel, Indiana to celebrate the life of a friend who passed away just a few short weeks before. She left behind two young teenage sons and a husband, all of whom she helped guide into manhood even while being pummeled by multiple myeloma. The service was a testament to her hard work — her sons were as well-spoken as grieving, hormone-stricken young teens can be, telling stories of their mom chasing them with a wooden spoon to stop them from killing each other and other heartwarming tales. Her husband was able, even in the midst of his overwhelming grief, to paint a picture of a vibrant, bossy, loving and incredible woman with whom he shared — by his own admission — a less than perfect but always passionate marriage.
As I experienced this service and later walked through my friend's home, seeing the photos of her life and sitting on the sofa that she herself had spent hours resting on over the last four years, I thought of what my own children and husband might say if it were me who had been so ruthlessly stripped from their lives. The thought was scary. Not just that I might miss out on weddings and proms and life-altering moments that my children have in front of them. But that I might not give them the right fodder for a slammin' celebration of life...that somehow I will fail to show them how much I love them, the good crazy vs. the bad crazy inside of me, how to "man up", as my friend Pat told her own sons, and how to live life out loud.
After that I tried to provide some legacy, each and every day, no matter how slight. I wanted my family to have something to remember me for other than that I was simply there. This added a lot of pressure, especially in the beginning. I started by putting little notes in Shawn Joaquin's lunch box every day - handmade cards with photos and stickers, trying to make each lunch a memorable meal rather than something he pawed through while spitting milk out of his nose. I took him to anything I thought he might enjoy and someday remember — So You Think You Can Dance at the Oracle Arena, a Cal game, a solo camping trip with me to Tuolumne, Disney on Ice, movies and more. I was going to be the FUN mom, damnit. And I started actually showering and shining everyday before work, hoping that if it were to be the last time he ever saw me, my husband would remember my shining hair and bright eyes rather than that I had once again stolen his boxers as work attire or had pulled my hair up in a pink flowered toddler hair band. I made a home-cooked, interesting and nutritious meal every night and made sure that Madelena was able to help me stir things, set the table and still have time to sit on the floor and read her the same book 27 times. We enrolled in mommy and me classes and started family game night and new lengthy bedtime traditions. I was super mom, and I would not go quietly into the night.
After about a month of this, I realized it was...how you say...bullshit. And that Madelena loved running errands in Rockridge and seeing the crabs at the market every bit as much as any planned activity. Shawn Joaquin thought a trip to Trader Joe's in which we discussed all the odd imported food was just as entertaining as a trip to the Oracle Arena and more likely to end with some yummy treat from a cafe, accompanied by steamed milk. And that Gregg really didn't care what I was wearing as long as I had some intention, at some point in the day or night, of taking it off in front of him. And maybe that my legacy is just that I love my family and somehow they do see that every day in the truly little things like bedtime stories, breakfast for dinner on Friday nights and taking the kids to ride the elevators in an air-conditioned Target on hot, hot days.
The kids might remember that I would sit in the blue plastic baby pool with them, that I howled in our favorite tunnel as loudly as they did, and that no matter how many times I may have used my mad voice, my loving voice was always used exponentially more. That I could not keep my hands off their arms and cheeks and heads, always wanting to touch their warm, brown skin and kiss them whenever they would allow me. And maybe Gregg will remember that I laughed obnoxiously and loudly and often and at inappropriate YouTube videos. That I had to read every night and every morning, even if it meant just reading the cereal box or a twice-read magazine, just to keep my brain active. And that behind the scenes I kind of kept things running - bills paid, service providers coordinated, doctors appointments and school meetings completed, food in the fridge and the house usually bright and with semi-living flowers, and all gift giving for all relatives and seasons handled and hassle-free. And that I would wear his boxers or shirts not just from laziness or super-sizeness but because I love the smell of him.
So now my legacy is just to be: be happy, be loving, be angry, be crazy, be emotional, be me. And that will, in some way, be enough.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Once in a lifetime
When I was a child, I knew there were three things I wanted in my life: to own a home, to be a writer, and to be a mother. As an eight-year old I often sent away for Kohler catalogs; after receipt, I would hole up in my room with the catalogs and some graph paper and layout my ideal spa bathroom and chef's kitchen. I drew many home built around courtyards with large wooden doors as the sole point of entry into my sanctuary - so much is now evident to me as I reflect on that design.
I have no memory of ever considering a life as anything other than a writer; when my great-grandmother gave me a tattered pink cheongsam from one of her world trips, I considered it a valuable addition to my writer's look. I would often don that faded silk and go into my office — my closet, complete with a cardboard box desk and a light clipped to a clothes hanger. An appropriate lair for a nine-year old writer of Erma Bombeck-inspired satire and, ironically, morbid poetry. Throughout the coming years, many people (outside of my immediate family, for whom my writing was and is not a serious pursuit but more of a reason to question my veracity, claiming "writer's embellishment") encouraged my writing. There was Ms. Moore in eighth grade, Mr. Castro in eleventh, and various college professors who attempted to overcome my family's desire that I get a "real job" and leave these musings behind. Thanks to a summer spent trying to live on author's copies of obscure literary magazines, my family got their wish. I sold out to advertising and my turn-of-phrase often includes the words "new", "enhanced" and "for a limited time." But in my soul and in the wee hours of the morning, I am still that child-writer in a stained pink silk dress and white socks, writing from her heart.
And so it goes. In my twenties I could officially call myself a writer who had been paid authors' copies and paltry sums of money for my words. In my mid-thirties, I became a home owner. And then, just months before my 40th birthday, a mother.
So here I sit nearly five years later, with all that I had wished for plus more - a handsome husband who can be persuaded to participate in Spa Night while watching Entourage; friends from various countries and generations and life experiences that inspire me and give me a reason to check in on Facebook or pick up the phone or at least email on a regular basis; a dog who thinks the I am the sun and the moon; a cat who has lived well-beyond her expected lifespan, only to gaze adoringly at my face from only two inches away, replete with fishy cat breath. With so many riches, I must be exceptionally happy and rise to song and technicolor every morning, right?
No. Like everyone else in the world I see the piles of laundry, the unmade bed, the bills waiting to be paid, the child with stick-up hair waiting to be dressed and the husband in an early-morning catatonic state and think "WTF? How did I get here?" It's very hard to focus on the riches in your life when you have a child screaming "Daddy be mad to me" while flinging dirty socks off the balcony, another yelling "I need to go poopoo - out of my way" and find that the only pants you can bear to wear — thanks to their loose-fitting waist-band — are your husband's Quicksilver boxers. So here I sit, just a three short weeks before Thanksgiving, thinking that perhaps I should focus on all that I do have and not all that I lack or have not accomplished: the anti-bucket list...no goals, just an assessment of those things that I should be thankful for.
Personal appearance/health: I still have hair in only appropriate places and will soon lack the clear eyesight to see any outliers who spring up in unwanted places. You can bounce a quarter on my bottom, though you might not get it back since I am often short on change. My weight is still within a healthy BMI range and my presbyopic husband often mistakes me me for a much younger woman.
Work/money: I have a job that I like and believe I will actually keep it through this economic crisis. And now I must rush madly about the house and knock on all wooden objects. Gregg's future is less certain, but for now we can still afford to eat meat on a regular basis though we have eschewed restaurants that have anything more than a single "$" symbol when noting prices.
Family/love: My mother calls less often and with less insanity in her voice than in prior years though the election drove her into name calling for a short period of time. Shawn Joaquin is loving, smart and crazy about me, even if he is unable to tell you what color my shirt is, recognize his own printed name or learn how to apply the brakes on his bike. Madelena is insanely independent and precocious and rarely hits me anymore and still prefers me to all other human beings. Gregg has learned to shrug off his early-morning catatonia much earlier, making him a fully-functioning adult by 8am on most weekdays and 9am on most weekends. He occasionally tells me he loves me and appears to still think there is a good reason to come home at night and that I just might be part of it. And I am often happy to wake up and see that it is his body next to mine rather than someone else or just the lovestruck cat.
Friends: I have spent my lifetime collecting people a few at a time that I love and remain loyal to, even if we don't speak as often as we used to or travel to each other's now distant homes. My friends' ages range from 30-70, and I have learned something from each of them that has helped me through some day, some situation or some fleeting moment when I thought I knew nothing and could not go on. My holiday card list has gotten shorter but more meaningful to me, and thanks to my advancing age I no longer feel compelled to spend time or effort on those people who will not be on my holiday card list 10 years from now.
So as I look to Thanksgiving at the end of this month, I say thank you to all who have given me a reason to be thankful after all...overlooking the laundry, the bills, the occasionally screaming child and daily challenges of being alive: I raise my cup of Peet's to you on this foggy morning and simply say again...thank you.
I have no memory of ever considering a life as anything other than a writer; when my great-grandmother gave me a tattered pink cheongsam from one of her world trips, I considered it a valuable addition to my writer's look. I would often don that faded silk and go into my office — my closet, complete with a cardboard box desk and a light clipped to a clothes hanger. An appropriate lair for a nine-year old writer of Erma Bombeck-inspired satire and, ironically, morbid poetry. Throughout the coming years, many people (outside of my immediate family, for whom my writing was and is not a serious pursuit but more of a reason to question my veracity, claiming "writer's embellishment") encouraged my writing. There was Ms. Moore in eighth grade, Mr. Castro in eleventh, and various college professors who attempted to overcome my family's desire that I get a "real job" and leave these musings behind. Thanks to a summer spent trying to live on author's copies of obscure literary magazines, my family got their wish. I sold out to advertising and my turn-of-phrase often includes the words "new", "enhanced" and "for a limited time." But in my soul and in the wee hours of the morning, I am still that child-writer in a stained pink silk dress and white socks, writing from her heart.
And so it goes. In my twenties I could officially call myself a writer who had been paid authors' copies and paltry sums of money for my words. In my mid-thirties, I became a home owner. And then, just months before my 40th birthday, a mother.
So here I sit nearly five years later, with all that I had wished for plus more - a handsome husband who can be persuaded to participate in Spa Night while watching Entourage; friends from various countries and generations and life experiences that inspire me and give me a reason to check in on Facebook or pick up the phone or at least email on a regular basis; a dog who thinks the I am the sun and the moon; a cat who has lived well-beyond her expected lifespan, only to gaze adoringly at my face from only two inches away, replete with fishy cat breath. With so many riches, I must be exceptionally happy and rise to song and technicolor every morning, right?
No. Like everyone else in the world I see the piles of laundry, the unmade bed, the bills waiting to be paid, the child with stick-up hair waiting to be dressed and the husband in an early-morning catatonic state and think "WTF? How did I get here?" It's very hard to focus on the riches in your life when you have a child screaming "Daddy be mad to me" while flinging dirty socks off the balcony, another yelling "I need to go poopoo - out of my way" and find that the only pants you can bear to wear — thanks to their loose-fitting waist-band — are your husband's Quicksilver boxers. So here I sit, just a three short weeks before Thanksgiving, thinking that perhaps I should focus on all that I do have and not all that I lack or have not accomplished: the anti-bucket list...no goals, just an assessment of those things that I should be thankful for.
Personal appearance/health: I still have hair in only appropriate places and will soon lack the clear eyesight to see any outliers who spring up in unwanted places. You can bounce a quarter on my bottom, though you might not get it back since I am often short on change. My weight is still within a healthy BMI range and my presbyopic husband often mistakes me me for a much younger woman.
Work/money: I have a job that I like and believe I will actually keep it through this economic crisis. And now I must rush madly about the house and knock on all wooden objects. Gregg's future is less certain, but for now we can still afford to eat meat on a regular basis though we have eschewed restaurants that have anything more than a single "$" symbol when noting prices.
Family/love: My mother calls less often and with less insanity in her voice than in prior years though the election drove her into name calling for a short period of time. Shawn Joaquin is loving, smart and crazy about me, even if he is unable to tell you what color my shirt is, recognize his own printed name or learn how to apply the brakes on his bike. Madelena is insanely independent and precocious and rarely hits me anymore and still prefers me to all other human beings. Gregg has learned to shrug off his early-morning catatonia much earlier, making him a fully-functioning adult by 8am on most weekdays and 9am on most weekends. He occasionally tells me he loves me and appears to still think there is a good reason to come home at night and that I just might be part of it. And I am often happy to wake up and see that it is his body next to mine rather than someone else or just the lovestruck cat.
Friends: I have spent my lifetime collecting people a few at a time that I love and remain loyal to, even if we don't speak as often as we used to or travel to each other's now distant homes. My friends' ages range from 30-70, and I have learned something from each of them that has helped me through some day, some situation or some fleeting moment when I thought I knew nothing and could not go on. My holiday card list has gotten shorter but more meaningful to me, and thanks to my advancing age I no longer feel compelled to spend time or effort on those people who will not be on my holiday card list 10 years from now.
So as I look to Thanksgiving at the end of this month, I say thank you to all who have given me a reason to be thankful after all...overlooking the laundry, the bills, the occasionally screaming child and daily challenges of being alive: I raise my cup of Peet's to you on this foggy morning and simply say again...thank you.
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