Vivid Living

My mother-in-law, Brenda, and I were having breakfast in Fairfield, CT last week.  The twins spent the night at my sister-in-law’s apartment so Brenda – or Brendela as I fondly call her – and I had a rare opportunity to talk.

She’s a special lady, my mother-in-law.  Meeting her you’d never know she survived the loss of her son and husband within two years; she is as kind and strong as they come.

We began to talk about empathy.  The subject came up because I was sharing about a remarkable book I recently read called Jantsen’s Gift .  The book tells the real-life story of Pam Cope, a hairdresser from Missouri who lost her teenage son from an undetected heart ailment. Spurred by her grief, Pam has gone on to rescue hundreds of children from slavery, prostitution and other evils in Ghana, Cambodia and Vietnam. Any mother (or any person!) who has ever experienced loss will be moved by Pam’s courage. The story took my breath away.

Back to my mother-in-law, who, naturally, was quite impressed by Pam Cope and wanted to read the book. “You know, Brendela, told me while sipping her coffee, “I love when I love.”  She had a warm smile on her face, and her words pierced me.

“Yes,” I thought. “She’s absolutely right.”  I, too, love when I love.  It makes my whole heart full.  When I’m in this mindset, I look past the piles of clothes that need folding and pay attention to the way the grass looks so lush and how the leaves of the aspen trees swaying outside my bedroom window tickles my skin like a warm feather.

Quickly, I found myself expanding upon my mother-in-law’s kitchen table wisdom.

I love when I live and I live when I love.

Thanks, Brendela, for this inspiration. You’re a good egg.

Love is Full: Brenda and the twins

(From “In My View”, for Colorado View Magazine)

“Mom that tuna fish you gave me for lunch yesterday smelled like a pig’s butt,” my eight-year-old son, Casey, told me, his small hands on his hips and tootsie-roll brown eyes large with delight. It was 7:40 am and I was picking my way around a mushy cucumber and Colby jack cheese in our overstocked refrigerator, looking for lunch inspiration for him and his twin sister, Rebecca.

“Thanks A LOT,” I replied, pretending to be insulted.  “How about you make your own lunch today Mister.”

“Oh Mom,” he rushed toward me throwing his skinny arms around my waist. “Just kidding.”

I squeezed him back, lingering there, letting the refrigerator doors remain open, a halo of fluorescence engulfing us.

“Mmmm, you smell like heaven,” Casey said, milking this delicious moment for everything it was worth.

Which was priceless.

And fleeting.

I am aware that with each inch grown and milestone met my children are growing up.  We’re all huggers but there will come a time when they will pull back. It’s already happening in small bursts. “Mom, don’t do that,” Casey whispers urgently when I try to kiss him goodbye at the door to his class. He practically knocks me down trying to escape this public humiliation.

Yep.

My daughter, too, a real Mama’s girl, wrestles with her growing sense of self. She’s adapting to a new school, new friends, and a new blended family, and she depends upon me, her “constant,” to anchor her. From her earliest days at two-and-a-half pounds – the size of small roasting chicken – Rebecca’s love was fierce.  “That girl’s got a set of lungs on her,” remarked one of the neonatal nurses. “She’s a survivor, don’t you worry.” So, so true. My loving and fiery daughter, who inhales life (have you seen her laugh?), uses those lungs a lot, for me, because I am still her world even as she takes steps toward independence, which I encourage her to do.

“I’m never leaving you,” she tells me after I suggest she spend a week at the JCC Ranch Camp this summer.

I confess, even bribery failed.

“Mom, I’m not even going away to college,” Casey chimes in, “I’m going to Johnson and Wales so I can live at home.”

Hmmmm.  If all goes well, college is a decade away; I decided to forgo the bribes and “expand your options” lecture.

Are you sensing a pattern here? The tic-toc pendulum of motherhood.

One moment we are castigated, the next we come close to godliness. One moment our children devour us, wanting to re-enter the womb, the next hour they slam the door in our faces.

On better days, when the morning routine is calm and the three of us sit together at my grandparents’ white breakfast table, the Eastern sun warming our shoulders, eggs, toast and orange juice in front of us, the warm smell of my coffee, I think, “Yes, you are a fine mother.  All is well. I’m happy; my children are happy.”

Minutes later someone will have an outburst, maybe me. My daughter forgot to complete her reading log, my son forgot to study for his spelling test, I forgot about the school auction meeting, I forgot to buy toothpaste and soap to donate to the children of Bolivia for the class project.

We all mean well, we just get bogged down by life.

Maybe if I read some of those parenting books I’d feel more on top of my game.  Love and Logic makes perfect sense when I read it in print, but in real life I tend to scratch and sniff, mothering by instinct, which I suppose is what most of us do pretty much most of the time.

I wonder when a mother wholly embraces motherhood. When does blind, scared intuition become trust, trust become knowledge, knowledge become confidence, and confidence beget certainty and love of mothering?

Just when I thought I was starting to nail it (sort of), I became a stepmother to two teenagers.  They’re good boys, and with three years of togetherness under our belts (but less than two living together as a family), we aren’t quite so foreign to one another. Dylan, a muscular 17, walks around in boxer shorts and invades my private stash of chocolate chip cookies in the freezer.  Ryan, 18, calls to ask if his college friend, Emily, a vegetarian, can come for dinner.  Yes, yes!

In spite of our burgeoning closeness, I still tread lightly with my stepsons since probing questions about friends, drinking, grades, summer jobs and the mess of soda cans and dirty socks in the basement (“the underworld”) can quickly provoke their ire.  They’re typical teenagers who show their disgruntledness with eye rolling to the tune of “God, you JUST don’t get it.”  Most of this innocent rant is gifted to their father, my husband of 22 months, Steve, but I’m next in line, just as he is when my twins holler and cry “you are the WORST mother.”

Let’s take a poll: have you been there before?

It’s complicated, motherhood.  I’m still trying to make sense of it all – my responsibilities and rights, opinions and expectations, boundaries and freedom. Whether your children are young, pre-adolescent, or (gulp!) teenagers, whether they are yours biologically or not, motherhood, I believe, is a little like appointing yourself to the U.S. Supreme Court.  You represent the highest form of the law while trying to maintain civil order.  Then one day your service ends, and while you are not held in quite the same esteem, your vote still counts for something.

This is the common thread that binds us mothers together.

Naturally, every family has its history.  For me, the path to motherhood was foreshadowed by loss because, as readers know, life and death collided after the birth of my twins.  They were born; their father died. Today, they have no real memories of him, only pictures and dreams.

Its no wonder with all this background drama I’ve been slow to embrace motherhood.

In spite of my many missteps – the way I rush the kids, yell or nag them about leaving the skateboard in front of the refrigerator – I’m coming to realize that the whole of motherhood is indeed made up of many small parts. The essence of what it means to be a mother, I think, lies less in those milestone moments and more in the tender, infinitesimal times in-between.  Like the other day, when Dylan nudged extra close, not quite asking for a hug but willing to receive one.  Words aren’t necessary; feelings are.

As I humbly scratch and sniff my way along this uneven precipice of motherhood, I think I’ve stumbled upon a little wisdom:  Challenges come with the territory. There is but one today.  Make it count.

I’m back! No, I haven’t run off to Tahiti although the notion of a clean getaway from the crush of life does sound appealing.  In fact, I’m sitting at one of my favorite writing haunts, The St. Mark’s Coffeehouse, looking at the following anonymous message scribbled in pink chalk: Let’s runaway together. Just you and me. I haven’t even met you yet but I’m ready. Let’s go.

Hmmmmm.  That’s an enticing thought. Where would you like to go? Fantasize. If only in your mind, or beneath the soft weight of your comforter, dream, it’s healthy.

My spirit needs recharging, that’s for sure. Just the other night I said to Steve, “let’s go away for the night, let’s head to the mountains.” Past experience has taught me that  stepping away every so often is the best boost to my emotional and spiritual health.  It’s like meditation ; when I’m outside of my daily grind, I take time to slow my pacing, breathe deeper, and gain perspective.

Times are tight, and it’s hard to break away, I know.  Still, I’m a big advocate for physically shaking life up every few months, just like applying that fresh coat of paint I blogged about in my first entry. You don’t really need to hop on a plane or train – although the idea of doing so is sometimes enough of a release. Steve and I have a running joke that when the going gets rough we’ll meet one another aboard the flight to Italy.  He’ll text me, “hurry, the plane is leaving in a half hour.” Someday…

How about starting with small ideas? A restorative hike; dinner out with your partner or a special friend; a visit to that museum you can’t ever seem to make time for; or, a movie (my spirit was higher after armchair traveling with Mamma Mia.)

Maybe your ideal retreat is secluding yourself at home?

The point is to make time for yourself amidst the fullness of life. I’m a better wife, mother, daughter, friend, and writer when I do.

I leave you with ripe food for thought by Maya Angelou, whom I came to know through my experiences at UNICEF.

“Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.”

My new job is shaking things up a bit in our household. Working from home has been a godsend to me these past several years for the obvious reason:  flexibility and control over my schedule.   As a single mom until recently, it meant the world to my children (and me) that I was there to pick them up from school and volunteer in their classrooms mid-day.  My twins have wanted to sit alongside me while doing homework and to be able to hear and watch and help me cook dinner.  And I’ve loved these rituals, too.  The safety of their world fell apart after their dad died in 2004 but my steady presence bolstered their security, confidence and sense of belonging.

I still want to do all that I used to, but I can’t since now I have to be elsewhere.  Because I remarried a year ago  and have a willing partner, Steve picks the kids up from school on my work days.  Last week my son, Casey, accidentally tripped over the garbage can and dropped part of his lunch inside (don’t ask) and the teacher called Steve not me.  This is a first.  It’s also a first to have a partner stock up on groceries and make dinner twice weekly. I should clarify that Steve’s current job is getting a job, so that’s why he’s around to make dinner and for school emergencies like spilt lunches.

All this, of course, is good news, particularly the part about my having a steady, long-term assignment.  And yet, it’s been surprisingly hard for me to give up the old ways.  When I see Steve in the kitchen, there’s a part of me that feels he’s “invading my turf.”  No, he’s not pining to replace the marvelous Ina Garten and her Barefoot Contessa empire, and no, I don’t feel displaced. It’s just that letting go of these roles that framed my identity for eight years is taking some getting used to. 

But I’m learning.  I’m learning that I can still be a steady presence for my twins without needing to be physically present all the time.  I’m learning that I really like working offsite even if my daughter, Rebecca, self-combusts because I can’t attend her school picnic.  She’s a survivor and it’s actually essential for her to see her mother meeting other responsibilities. I’m learning to trust that my twins are in a fantastic place: they’re happy and well-adjusted and for the first time in their young lives they actually have a dad to “show off” at school.  Speaking of my new hubby, I’m learning that it’s really okay if he buys tomatoes that aren’t quite ripe.  I’m learning that marriage is a partnership in every way. 

What new waters are you dipping your toes into?

My sister-in-law, Marcy, celebrated her fourth wedding anniversary two days ago. Congratulations Marcy and Jaime!   The event, like any milestone, got me thinking about the passage of  time.

Four years ago: September 3, 2005.  Chief justice of the United States, William Rehnquist, died after a long battle with thyroid cancer and the nation was still reeling from the catastrophic destruction and loss of lives wrought by Hurricane Katrina http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurricane_Katrina.  More personally, I was living in New York City with my four-year-old twins and had been widowed 19 months.  Yep,  I was still in my 30’s (okay, late 30’s).   I remember the day well.  Marcy picked out a long, black “va-va-voom” dress for me to wear.  She wanted me to look and feel good, and I have to admit, I got a lot of  continued mileage out of that babe-alicious dress in the years to come.   The wedding was held at Whitby Castle, a gorgeous outdoor mansion in Westchester County, New York.   Those of us in the bridal party decorated Jaime’s hunter green triumph – a car he built himself as a teenager – with bagels and empty cans of tomato sauce.  

Just Married!

The wedding for me was bittersweet.  Joyous, yes, because finally Marcy and Jaime walked down the aisle. And how wonderful it felt to celebrate a happy occasion after the anguish of the past six years.  Which leads me to the sad part: Brett, Marcy’s only sibling, died before seeing she and Jaime tie the knot.  No doubt, he was right there in spirit, smiling. 

I remember being pretty off-kilter that day.  My identity as a WIDOW felt branded like a black mark across my forehead and I wasn’t yet able to give myself permission to remove it.   No one else could read my insides, but to me, the mask was as visible as my stunning dress.  The loss still felt raw. And yet, enough time had passed for me to have the urge to feel alive again, to feel young and vital and attractive and hopeful.  I wanted to want a future.   Yes, I wanted to dance and flirt with the cute firefighters who were inappropriately young.   Thank goodness for The Black Eyed Peas – My Humps and its funky beat got my juices flowing again. 

Much has changed over these last four years.   Marcy and Jaime have a beautiful son, Brayden, who turns three this month. My twins and I are now living in Denver.  My children are eight years old and real people, no longer babies! I remarried.  I have two teenage stepsons. And far too many family members and family friends have died.  We can never replace lost loved ones; their absence looms large, always.  

I’m reminded of a favorite quote in my office from the Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood:  ”I will always love you, Vivi,” he said.  ”There is nothing you could ever do that would make me stop loving you.”  The words shot through Vivi’s bones and blood and muscle, and her body relaxed, so that when her feet touched the ground they met the earth differently, as though they had found roots that reached deep down and anchored to something tender and undamaged.

We’ve got to honor the passage of time and all that it holds. Whether that means being truthful, stoic, heroic, flippin’ mad, sad, ecstatic or tentative, embracing the markers in our lives allow us to live more completely.  Cheers!