everyday life

Happy birthday

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Happy birthday to Matt, the man who many people who read my blog aren’t sure exists.  He does, I promise.  I just don’t write about him.  I have to draw the line somewhere …

On past birthdays I have extolled Matt’s well-known and lesser-known good qualities, listed things he is to me, and written a plain say of thanks and celebration.

Today, to mark another birthday, the 16th we have shared, I wanted to remember a few particular moments when my husband has distinguished himself.  To be married to me is not easy, I assure you.  It’s also not always fun.  Interesting, always.  And while the list of memories we’ve shared would fill several hundred pages, there are a few that make me chuckle whenever I think of them.  They also demonstrate Matt’s fortitude, patience, gentle humor, and keen intelligence.

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When we had known each other 2 months, we planned a 6 week trip to Africa.  In retrospect this seems like an act of wild faith, a reckless demonstration of certainty that we had no business having.  After climbing Kilimanjaro (among the least traditionally romantic, but most powerful experiences we have ever shared) we spent a week on safari in various parts of Kenya.

On day one, we piled into the beaten up Land Rover that came out of Safari Central Casting.  Off we headed into the Masai Mara.  Within 30 minutes I was green with nausea.  “Matt,” I whispered, “I need him to stop the car.”  He looked at me, alarmed, but he made our driver stop.  I ran to the back of the Land Rover and threw up.  This was repeated multiple times a day for a week.  And Matt, my brand-new boyfriend, who does not himself get carsick, never once complained.  Not once.

When you consider a safari – which you should, because our week was spectacular – I urge you to just think about whether you get carsick.  Maybe Dramamine is a good idea.

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As I’ve mentioned, Grace’s labor was a long one.  39 hours of labor, she was posterior, over 2 hours of pushing.  I will always be thankful for how fully onboard Matt got with my commitment to a medication-free delivery.  While his nature probably did not lean in the Ina May Gaskin direction, he saw how important it was to me, and he fully supported me for the weeks leading up to the delivery and for the endless, brutal, howlingly-painful hours.

There was some humor laced in among the screaming, though.

At about 36 hours, I was sitting on a birthing ball, bouncing, delirious with pain and exhaustion. Suddenly I looked up, locked my eyes onto Matt’s.  I saw fear in his face.  I’m sure he was wondering: what now.  Through gritted teeth, I said, panic-stricken, “Matt.  We cannot do this.  We can’t afford a baby.  We aren’t ready.”

For the rest of my life I’ll never forget the bewildered expression on his face when he answered me.  Lifting an arm and gesturing, as if to indicate the delivery room, the hospital gown, the enormous beach ball stomach.  “What exactly is your plan?”

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Every single year, Matt has a favorite birthday present.  A month or so before his birthday every year he starts talking about it, eagerly awaiting its arrival.  This favorite gift is from my sister and brother-in-law, who give him both an Amazon gift certificate but, far more importantly, a thoughtful list of book suggestions.  Matt says this list has over the years provided his favorite books, and I personally think this fact says a lot about both my husband and my sister and hers.

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I have mentioned that I am a casual cook.  When we were first married, we lived in a small apartment with a commensurately tiny galley kitchen.  I was occasionally overcome with fits of culinary ambition, and there were more than a few grand flame-outs.

In particular, there was the chicken and caper dish for which I purchased, by mistake, green peppercorns.  Matt gamely crunched through several bites before throwing in the towel.  Then there was the time I made something that called for 2 canned chipotle peppers, but I instead included 2 full cans of chipotle peppers.  In this case Matt made it through two bites.  After two, his eyes streaming, having downed three full glasses of water, he apologized and choked out, “Linds, I’m sorry, I just can’t.”

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Happy birthday, MTR.  I love you.  Please join me in wishing a happy day to this second twin, this Gemini, and this MIT graduate (my father is also all three of those) with whom I share my life.

 

Huge hands

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I grew up in the embrace of several extended families.  One of these was my godfamily.  And one of these godsisters, who lives nearby, had a baby this winter.  One February afternoon after school Grace, Whit and I stopped by.  I parked too far away so we walked several blocks in the cold, our shadows already growing long in the golden, quick-to-fall February light.  Impatient, Grace and Whit galloped away in front of me.

We tiptoed into the living room and took off our shoes.  My godmother handed the baby to me and I instinctively cradled her and looked down at her closed eyes, wrinkly skin, rosy, pouty lips.  She wore a pink knit cap, and my mind immediately pinwheeled to the cream cotton cap with curls of ribbon tied around the top that a nurse at the hospital had given Grace to wear home .

“May I hold her, Mummy?”  Out of the corner of my eye I could see Grace bouncing up and down on her toes next to me.  I remembered a Saturday walk a year ago during which I carried my friend’s two year old most of the way.  That night Grace had fallen apart, weeping inconsolably that “she wanted to be my little girl.”  Grace explained that she was sad about a time in her life that she couldn’t get back, as well as a little jealous.  I worried, as I do so often, about the sensitivity my children have inherited from me.  Whit has this tendency too.  It is perilous having a mother who is more shadow than sun.

“Sure.  Sit down here on the couch.” my godmother sat next to Grace, helped position her arms, and I slowly lowered baby C into Grace’s lap.  I stood back and looked at them, Grace and the two-day-old baby of a woman I met when she was two days old.  I took pictures of both Grace and Whit holding the newest addition to our godfamily, and then, anxious not to overstay during what I know first-hand is a raw, precious time, we left.

That night, I uploaded the three pictures I’d taken of the afternoon.  I couldn’t stop staring at the picture above.  Look at Grace’s hands: they are enormous.  They engulf the baby; she is closer to the size of an adult now than to the baby I still sometimes think of her as.  I remember our pediatrician’s words that adolescence’s growth spurts often start with feet getting rapidly bigger.  Is this true of hands, too?  Has Grace stepped into the tunnel that will spirit her, faster than I can blink, to young womanhood?

When I look at her holding the brand-new member of our godfamily, I can’t deny that the answer must be yes.

Things you do when you are an adult

I am turning 39 this summer.  I have a 10 year old and an 8 year old.  I drive an SUV, own a house, have been married almost 13 years, and have a graduate degree.  It’s pretty hard to deny that I’m an adult.  I’m constantly surprised, however, by what it takes to make me feel like a grown up.

Some of the realization comes in the Big Moments.

This past summer I sat at the funeral of my last grandparent, and felt the ferris wheel hitch forward and the car I’m sitting in lurch closer to the top.  I have watched friends lose both parents and pregnancies.  I’ve seen the way illness and misfortune –  mostly in the shape of cancer, in my life – can strike suddenly, shockingly, and leave everyone who witnesses it reeling.

But, truthfully, a lot of the a-has happen in the Small Moments.

It is the night I went out to dinner with a friend and learned that her husband had forgotten the stickers with which her son was supposed to make Valentine’s for his class in Vermont.  It was February 13th.  We drove by my house on the way home and I ran upstairs to gather up all of our leftover stickers, and brought them down to her.

It is the ease with which I cook for my children now, and way I feel my own mother’s hands guiding my own as I move casually around the kitchen.

It is the quiet hum inside the car when Matt, Grace, Whit and I are driving, after dinner, to New Hampshire to ski with friends and I realize that everything I care about most in the world – everything I truly need – is in this darkened car.

It is reading the alumni magazines of my high school, college, and business school classes, and noticing what my peers are doing: CEOs and Congressmen and heads of departments at hospitals.  It is taking my daughter, with a broken collarbone, to see an orthopedist who is the younger brother of a friend from high school.

It is driving through Harvard Square on move-in day and wondering aloud to my husband that the college freshman are closer to our childrens’ age.  It is his baffled response: “That has been true for a while now, Linds.”

I suspect I’m not alone in this disbelief about my age.  Is it too scary, to accurately locate myself on life’s ferris wheel?  I write about that wheel all the time, about nearing the top, about how gorgeous the view is from here, about how I can see ahead and how quickly we’ll descend.  And I do believe that, and feel it – fervently, truthfully, often.  But at the same time I struggle to accept that I am actually almost 40.  I still think of my parents as 40; it was only five minutes ago that I ran around the back yard in a sundress while my handsome father, smiling under his brown mustache, gazed at his birthday windsurfer leaning against the wall of our house.  How can that be almost thirty years ago?

What is this about?  Is it stubborn denial?  Do we all still think of ourselves as 18?  The aches in my back, weakness in my knee, and wrinkles on my face all speak to my actual age.  As do the, you know, children.  And yet.  And still.  In my head I’m always eighteen, dancing in the late-day sun amid a swirl of magnolias with the women who knew me then and still know me best.

Do you feel like a grown-up?  Why or why not?

 

 

What’s On Your …

I am always looking for ways to capture right now.  After all these, right now is my life, after all.  I found this meme on Ali Edwards’ beautiful blog, and loved it.  I’m so curious about what’s on … in your world right now too!

Vanity – I don’t have a vanity. I’m not totally sure what a vanity is?

Perennial to-do list – Laundry.  There is always laundry to do.  And Whole Foods.  I cannot walk out of that place without forgetting something.

Refrigerator Shelves – 1% milk, rice milk, Greek yogurt, hard-boiled eggs, pineapple, sliced up red pepper, a bottle of homemade green juice.

Itinerary – Our annual trip to Legoland this summer, and our traditional family trip to Vermont for a week in August.

Fantasy Itinerary – At a dinner recently a friend asked everyone to go around the table and say the one place they most want to visit.  That was easy for me: the Galapagos.  I want to go there, and soon, because I know my animal-obsessed daughter will love it.

Playlist – I don’t listen to music other than in the car (Mumford & Sons, James Taylor, One Day by Matisyahu, songs from Brave, The Story by Brandi Carlile, Home by Phillip Phillips) and when running (top 40 all the way: Katy Perry, Taylor Swift, Pink).

Nightstand – A stack of magazines.  A framed picture of Matt and me at a friend’s wedding a month after we were married.  A heart-shaped glass dish that Grace gave me with chapsticks and ear plugs in it.  A copy of Mark Nepo’s The Book of Awakening.  An alarm clock.  A notepad and pen.

Workout Plan – 5:30am runs 4(ish) days a week.  Yoga or Pilates when I can figure out how to jam that in.  

iPhone – Instagram, Twitter, Words with Friends, Ruzzle.  I am lame and mostly use email and text.  So 2006!

Top 5 List – Poetry, the sky, baggy Lululemon studio pants, notes from Grace, Whit’s laughter.

Bucket List – Write a book, fly in a helicopter, go to Alaska, St Petersburg, the Grand Canyon, be able to do a handstand in the middle of the room.

Mind – The bewildering state of the world, lines from poems by Stanley Kunitz and Adrienne Rich, whether my children will grow up into nuclear winter with a trashed environment and violence all around them, will I ever get my inbox under control, my grandfather as Princeton reunions near.

Blogroll –  Katrina Kenison, Amanda Magee, Le Catch, A First Sip (and so, so many others!)

Walls of your Favorite Room in Your House – A large memo board with photographs of Grace, Whit, my godchildren, my nieces and nephews, my bridesmaids, and my best friends as well as a couple of quotations (The Work by Wendell Berry), notes from three special people, and a string of small prayer beads.  A large framed print that says “LOVE” and three small prints that say, respectively, “we are all made of stars,” “peace, be still,” and “you are so loved.”

Liquor Shelf – Sauvignon blanc, French red wine, vodka, gin, tonic, Mount Gay rum, and ginger beer.  

Last Credit Card Statement – Lots of things.  Airline tickets, Whole Foods, crewcuts, Amazon.  I could go on.

Screensaver – Scrolling photographs from the last year in iPhoto.  I often sit and watch it when I return to my desk.

TV Every Night –The TV isn’t turned on every night.  When Matt’s home, he sometimes watches sports.  I’m waiting for Homeland to come back!

What’s on your …?

I’m going to be so proud to say I’m from Boston

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Several years ago, I admitted that it had taken me a long time to understand what people meant when they said their children were “their teachers.”  I finally understood.  And this past week I have learned anew what that means.  Over and over again, the things my children say and see startle me with their truth.  I have an endless appetite for their perspective, filtered through a lens so free of assumption and bias as to contain revelations.

Watching Grace and Whit take in the Marathon bombings and then the wild, intense events of Friday was both deeply touching to me and occasionally laugh-out-loud funny.  For the Huffington Post, I wrote about what Friday morning was like.  It was surreal.  We woke up to a world that felt jaggedly separate from real life, to photographs of familiar streets deserted except for humvees and hundreds of police officers with long guns and heavy body armor, to an eerie silence punctuated by sirens and gunshots (we were able to hear the shots in Watertown from my open office window).

Friday night, exhausted from waiting and uncertainty, we sat down to dinner as a family.  As she often does, Grace said grace.  And her words moved me to tears.  It seemed like an adult was speaking.  She offered thanks to and asked for protection for all the policemen and doctors and first responders.  She asked for grace for those hurt and for the families of those who had died.  And then she said, “I feel really sad that it takes a tragedy like this to see all the good people and beautiful things in our life.”  My head jerked up, tears spilled down my cheeks, and I squeezed her hand.

The kids went to bed in one room, as they have several nights this week.  I tucked them into Whit’s bottom bunk together to read, and then returned to my desk.  A few minutes later, through the open door, I heard Grace say to Whit, “You know, you have to remember, that for every one evil person, there are ten good ones.  At least.”

On Saturday morning, the first thing we did was get in the car to go to our favorite breakfast spot, a diner in Watertown which had been at the center of the action on Friday.  The team from CNN was standing in front of it at one point.  I was happy to see that there was a line, that others, like us, had the impulse to go be in the world that we had feared just yesterday, to return with our business, our energy, our money to places that had suffered during the lockdown.

Whit, mumbling through a mouthful of chocolate chip pancake, threw his two most awful words at the attackers.  “They’re donkeyholes,” he said.  “Tionaries.”  (A few weeks ago he pronounced someone a “dictionary without the tionary,” and that second word has become his favorite sort-of-bad word.)

“Russia must be ashamed of them,” Grace added from across the table.  I nodded at her.  And later she offered, “When we go to Storyland or anywhere that’s not here, and people ask where we’re from, I’m going to be so proud to say Boston.  I know people will think: oh, that’s a strong city.”

After breakfast we came home and made brownies to bring to our local police station.  Grace made a thank-you card as the brownies baked.  Other than asking which color stripe came first in the flag (which I had to look up; the answer is red), she wrote it all without any prompting.  When the brownies had cooled off, we went to the police station.  We drove past Norfolk Street, and I felt the chill of something run up my spine, a reminder that even the most intensely familiar things, places, and people can contain unknowable, possibly terrifying terrain.

And then we went home for lunch with Matt and Whit, a haircut, a stop at the drycleaner, some family reading curled up on the couch.  All afternoon the air was heavy with my sense of the gossamer veil between this life and what we most fear, with my awareness of how much we take for granted.  As I have done so many times in my life, I squeezed my eyes shut and swore never to forget what a privilege it is, this normal, unexceptional life.  I whispered fiercely to myself: i thank you god for this most amazing day. 

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