Month: September 2010

Summer 2010

I’m late with this year’s end-of-summer post, but I’ve been sifting through the richness of the last few months, feeling the happy and the heavy memories drift through my fingers, parsing what it is that rises to the top.

I re-read my reflections on the summer of 2009 and was struck, predictably, I guess, by the feeling that they were written ages ago and also yesterday.

This summer was many things … most of all, different from the rest of my life, an interlude between two more standard realities, a carved-out three months where I spent more time than I ever have with Grace and Whit.

I read almost nothing this summer. I didn’t feel like reading books, on the whole, which is unusual for me. What I felt like reading, intensely, and over and over, was Mary Oliver’s poetry. And so I did. I even listened to her reading (thank you, Katrina, for the suggestion) her own poems as I drove down to see Dani Shapiro at Aidan‘s Happier Hour event in July.

Mary’s words, spoken and read, called to me all summer long. I’m not exactly sure why, but I’m listening.

I spent a lot of time this summer driving with Grace and Whit, often singing along at the top of our lungs to Top 40 songs. One Saturday morning as we drove up to see Hadley and her family, the kids and I were listening to a top 20 countdown. We had a debate going on about what song would be number one. We dashed into a rest stop bathroom during the commercial break before #1 and ran back out just in time to catch the first notes of California Gurls. I’ll never forget the sheer joy on the kids’ faces as they collapsed into their carseats, giggling, the fact that something so small could make them so happy.

Many, many times this summer, enough that I’m paying attention, I turned on the car radio to hear Let It Be. Okay. I’m trying.

I am homesick for my trip to LEGOland with the kids. Those four magical days only grow more burnished as I move away from them. Grace and Whit were absolutely enchanted with the idea of a mom who did such spontaneous and downright fun things. This translated into their being absolutely delightful to be around: cheerful, agreeable, and charmingly wide-eyed at everything they saw. I am so grateful that I planned and took that trip, and the fact that it was a last-minute idea makes me even gladder. How uncharacteristic. I wonder if I can carry some of that enthusiasm, flexibility, and sheer joy into this new phase of my life. I hope so.

Running through my head the past few days has been this quote, which I think perfectly captures the photograph above:

One must wait until the evening to see how splendid the day has been.
– Sophocles

The first day of kindergarten, 2.0

Dear Whit,

Today you start kindergarten. I’m astonished, in a way both cliched and powerful, that we are here.

For three years you didn’t say much of anything. Your first preschool teacher, in fact, urged us to have you evaluated by a speech therapist. She even gently suggested that you might have cognitive delays. Within months your speech therapist (an adorable blonde woman that you thought was fabulous) had you talking a blue streak, and within weeks she had ascertained that there was definitely nothing cognitive going on. You do speak with a distinctive accent, which we like to joke is from Pawtucket. You may not have spoken for three years, but you haven’t stopped since.

You say the funniest, most observant things, often causing me to pull over to jot them down for posterity (or use on this blog). You, Whit, are just downright hilarious. I’m not sure where that came from, since neither your Dad nor I is particularly funny. But you make me laugh out loud every single day, which is an enormous gift.

This was the summer you really became comfortable in the water. You can reliably – though inelegantly – swim laps and stay afloat for a long time (which is kind of amazing because you have no body fat and generally sink like a stone). In June you decided you wanted to learn how to dive and you have. The way you hurtle yourself off a diving board is a good metaphor for the unbridled enthusiasm and fearlessness you bring to life. You shout, “I’m going!” to make sure all around you are watching and then you take off at a run, not even hesitating before plunging into the water. I’ve yet to meet a diving board high enough to give you pause.

You love Legos and robots and trucks. You are always looking to understand how things work. As a three year old you crept under the toilet, put your hand on the pipe after flushing, and said to me, awestruck, “There’s water running here, Mummy!” And just last week at Basin Harbor I couldn’t find you for a minute on the beach. I finally noticed you crouching near one of the paddleboats, looking underneath it, trying to understand how it moved and steered. I am eager to watch where this curiosity takes you, and hope I will always nourish it, even when being asked “why …” every three minutes all day long gets old.

Whit, you are the definition of marching to your own drummer. One evening this summer I went in to kiss you goodnight to see that you had stripped down and were sleeping naked on the floor, lying flat on your back on top of the sleeping bag that you’d found in the closet, with your small fan blowing right on your face. Decked out in mardi gras beads this summer after Magic Night with Hadley and family, you announced from the back seat of the car, “I could be an international pop star with all of this jewelry!” Where you learned that I have no idea.

Your presence in my life pushes and challenges me every single day. We see the world so differently, Whit, you and I. You approach every day as a wide open canvas, never assume that there are limits until you physically meet them, and need to have the reason for rules proven to you before you follow them. You inspire me, in this way, because the automatic way I stoop before authority has held me back so much in my life. Where I see a closed door, you see a hurdle to find your way around. You are wily and bright and as a baby we called you Houdini for the infinite ways you found to wriggle out of your pajamas and then your crib. I tried everything, eventually winding up with too-small footie pjs on backward with the feet cut off and a crib tent with the zipper carabinered to the side of the crib.

Two years ago I wrote a letter to Grace on her first day of kindergarten. Reading it always makes me cry. Now here I am, even more sentimental, even more raw, surprised once again at the speed with which the days pass by. You, the baby who healed so much for me, whose arrival showed me I could fall in love with a newborn, who made me believe that maybe, just maybe, I was cut out to be a mother after all. You, who gave back to me all that I missed the first time around. You aren’t easy, Whit, with your stubborn outbursts and steadfast refusal to accept “because I said so” as a reason.  But it is so worth it.  I learn so much from you. You make me question so many of the things I’ve always taken for granted, and watching you operate in the world both bewilders and dazzles me. You are so immensely sweet at your core, and so, so funny: this morning I woke up to a soft kiss on my cheek and turned to see you standing there in your pajamas and sunglasses, cocking your finger at me and smiling, as though to say “Hi there, lady!”

Happy first day, Whit. I am so excited for you about all of the adventures that lie ahead, and I know I’ll never, ever stop laughing as I travel them alongside you. I’m so grateful to be your mother.

I love you.

Six years of school, seven tomorrow …

First day in the Red Room, September 2004

First day in the Yellow Room, September 2005

First day in the Blue Room, September 2006

First day of Beginners, September 2007

First day of Kindergarten, September 2008

First day of First Grade, September 2009

The time is whistling past my ears, it’s flying so fast.

Tomorrow, 2nd grade for Grace and kindergarten for Whit. I’m proud and sad all at the same time.

A little meme

I thoroughly enjoyed reading more about Devon‘s life, history, and preferences big and small when she answered the questions in this meme. I was flattered to see myself named as someone she’d be interested in seeing answer them, and so I do so now. Please go check out Devon’s blog – the name alone charmed me: You had me at neurotic. Devon writes brilliantly, and her heartfelt posts delve into where she came from, where she wants to go, and what her experience is like along the way. She loves to read and we love the same books, which is a quick way to my heart.

So, here you go, Devon … as you can see I have a hard time picking one of anything! 🙂

What experience has most shaped you, and why?

My unexpected pregnancy, delivery, and postpartum depression with Grace. The sum of all of my moves back and forth across the Atlantic as a child. Watching my mother’s best friend (and closest thing I had to another mother) die at 49.

If you had a whole day with no commitments, what would you do?

Read, run, write, and putter around my house. Maybe have a glass of wine with one of those friends I love dearly and never have enough time to see.

What food or drink could you never give up?

Diet Coke. White wine. Cheddar cheese. French fries. Swedish fish.

If you could travel anywhere, where would that be and why?

Weirdly, I don’t have a long list here. Maybe Thailand? New Zealand? Egypt? Am hoping my sister and her family help me out by going somewhere exotic on sabbatical soon.

Give me one easy savoury recipe that doesn’t include cheese.

Pigs in a blanket from Costco. Heat in toaster oven. Serve with ketchup and mustard.

What did you think you were going to be when you grew up?

A doctor. Always.

Which woman writer – living or dead – do you most admire and why?

Impossible to name one!

I admire deeply many female poets – Anne Sexton, Maxine Kumin, Adrienne Rich (the three of whom I wrote my thesis on), Sharon Olds, Mary Oliver, Jane Kenyon.

A group of memoirists moved me deeply this spring, when I dove into the genre: Dani Shapiro, Karen Maezen Miller, Katrina Kenison, Glenda Burgess.

And, of course, my idol, icon, personal spiritual advisor (and yes, I realize I am one of millions who feels this way) and all-around sage, Anne Lamott. Anne’s ability to marry humor with wisdom makes hers the single most meaningful voice I’ve read. I adore all of her non-fiction books and have read each of their heavily-underlined and annotated pages more than once.

What character trait inspires you the most?

A sense of humor, the ability to walk lightly through life, to see the sunshine without being too bogged down by the shadow. That, and patience.

What is your favorite kind of music?

Singer-songwriter music, often acoustic. Am often teased for being stuck in boarding school with my music tastes. That’s OK by me. I also have a completely opposed affection for cheezy Top 40, including American Idol winners (and runners up) – even though I don’t watch the show.

Which book or books have inspired or touched you the most?

The Norton Anthology (volumes 1 and 2) which woke me up to the brilliance and life-altering power of literature when I was in college.

Dani Shapiro’s Devotion, Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies, Plan B, and Grace Eventually, Elizabeth Strout’s novels.

What is the ideal wake-up time?

Between 7 and 8.

Name a cd that would have to be, hands down, your desert island cd. (Let’s ignore the lack of electricity on desert islands.)

Hard. Possibly Ray Lamontagne’s Gossip in the Grain.

What are three things you hope to accomplish within the next decade?

Publish a book

Learn to let go – of everything

Make a dent in the list of books I want to read before I die

If you could change one thing about yourself what would it be?

Oh, this is a long list. First and foremost, I think, is that I’d deal with my sometimes-toxic insecurity. I’d like to care less about what others think, rely less on the world’s affirmation, be more confident about my own inner voice and inherent worth. This would also manifest in more generosity towards others, I think, if I was gentler to myself. Other than that? Stop getting cold sores, sleep better, have less muscular legs, have a sense of pitch, be a better athlete.

How has blogging changed who you are or how you see yourself?

It has begun to make me see myself, rarely and for only a fleeting second, but still, sometimes, as a writer.

Do you have a good luck charm, something you carry with you or a mantra you say or necklace or outfit you wear when you need that little something extra?

A locket of my grandmother’s that I inherited that contains baby pictures of my sister and me. Five notebooks, filled in my own handwriting, with poetry and quotes. I started in 1985 and I adore those books. A silver key ring that my father gave to my mother on my first birthday, with her monogram on one side and mine on the other.

Happy birthday, Q

Dear Q,

How is it possible that this picture, at the best 21st birthday party ever (sunflowers + live music + beer + magic light = heaven) was taken sixteen years ago? No, no, no. Impossible. Also impossible: that bleached jeans and huge nubby sweaters ever seemed like good sartorial choices to me!

I wrote to and about you last year and I’m not sure I can say it better than I did there:

Birthday girl, fellow proud redhead, a godmother to my first child, short-short wearer, Doctor Pepper drinker, occasional roommate at the Regency Hotel when traveling for our first jobs, tour-guide in Assissi, fellow secret country music fan, counselor, entertainer, reminder of what it’s all about: thank you.

Yes … there are so many memories from the past that rise up like clouds when I pat our college years even gently – the fact that your thesis ended with Kate Chopin’s The Awakening and mine began with it … driving through the night singing “good friends we’ve had, good friends we’ve lost along the way” … artichokes and mermaids … In anticipation … walking in the P-Rade, tear-streaked and tipsy, arms flung around the necks of each other and a long line of friends, traversing the line both virtual and literal between students to alumni, between children and adults. To call this the tip of the iceberg is a massive understatement.

I look forward to celebrating soon, with white wine (I’ve joined your ranks of white-only) and children crawling all over us. It seems like a lifetime ago and also yesterday that we met, and it still stuns me that we both have children, husbands, houses, MBAs. The data suggests we are adults – and yet somehow with you I am perpetually eighteen, in the best possible way.

This photograph hangs at eye level (right next to one of my wedding day where you are laughing with me in the momentary break from downpour) on the board in front of my desk. I look at you many times every single day. I think of what a lifetime friend is, and of the deep comfort it is to trust that even in times of less contact our bond endures. There are so many years behind us, filled to bursting with memories, and I look forward to all the ones that lie ahead.

I love you, Q. Thank you, thank you, thank you.