everyday life

A week in moments

I’ve been trying to live in the moments this week (okay, this and every week). And so I wanted to capture a few of them. In words, this time.

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Driving Grace and Whit to school in the morning, stopping at Starbucks for my venti nonfat latte, then heading to school while both children belt out “Funny how falling feels like flying, for a little while” at the top of their lungs. Peeking in the rearview mirror to catch them smiling each other with that conspirational, we-are-sharing-something-fun smile.

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Monday night, 10:45, Whit wandering into my room and saying, “my throat hurts, mummy.” I picked him up to take him back to bed and he sprayed vomit over my shoulder (miraculously, only onto the hardwood floor). I stripped off his pajamas and rushed him into the bathroom. I watched him, wearing only a pull-up, retching over the toilet. He turned to me, shivering on the cold tile, his hair messy with sleep and his eyes watering with the violence of throwing up, and said, “I’m sorry I made a mess on your floor.” Oh, little man. No matter.

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Taking Grace to a one-hour yoga class on Wednesday afternoon (genius: kids’ yoga simultaneous to adult vinyasa class). As we walked to the car, her cheeks were pink and she was quiet. I asked her what was wrong and she said she was tired and did not feel well. “Could it be my spleen, Mum?” she asked with concern. I assured her that if it was I was sure she would have sharp localized pain, but the whole way home I could tell she was trying to control and brush off her anxiety about it. I feel terrible that the requirement to avoid contact sports after mono (for risk of a spleen rupture) has engendered such paralyzing fear.

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Sitting down at a work meeting and pulling a few pages I had printed out from my bag. As I smoothed them on the table and looked through them, I found Whit’s five year appointment health form interleaved amid the work stuff. The form I hadn’t been able to find that morning. Excellent. Also excellent: the curious looks from across the table.

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Snow flurries every single day. Running in the snow on Thursday, coming in to see myself in the front hall mirror, the blue baseball cap from my college roommate’s wedding in Florida totally white with snow.

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My father coming over for an impromptu visit. The children barreling into him with joyful surprise at his appearance. The clink of ice cubes in his scotch glass. His insightful commentary, as always, shot through with humor and wisdom.

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Walking home from hearing Dani Shapiro read last night in the dark and rain by myself. Her words, the themes of Devotion and its probing questions, falling over themselves in my head. Feeling both clear and confused, solitary and not at all alone as I walked with the rain misting in my face.

A glimpse of home

Inspired by Chatting at the Sky today, a glimpse of my home.  My desk, where I spend most of my time. Photographs of old friends and family.  A few quotations.  Printed lines of emails from my mother and father.  Art by Gracie.  Two prints whose messages speak to me.  And of course, my trusty laptop.  What does your home look like today?

A sibling weekend

Saturday morning. For some reason, despite 12 solid hours of sleep, these guys were wiped out. They eased into their day on the living room couch.

Finally they worked up enough energy to sit up. Whit watched Grace playing on her DSI. He was enraptured. She was sufficiently softened up by his avid worship that she even let him play a few games. Trust me, this is definitely not the norm. Methinks Whit is figuring out how to manipulate his sister just like he plays the rest of us. It’s only taken him this long with her because she’s just a little sharper than the rest of the family.

Later in the day, Grace and Whit were playing in her room and I did not know what they were doing. I heard Whit exclaim, “let’s do the shoulder opener, Grace!” and I had to see. I opened the door to see them in a partner yoga pose of surprising complexity. Scattered all over the floor was a deck of cards for kids with hand-drawn yoga poses on one side and an activity to save the earth on the other (Grace’s “big sister” gift on Whit’s birthday). I was blown away at how long they had been entertaining themselves doing this. Then Grace held up a card that showed one person in a handstand, leaning against the other person, standing in tadasana. “Let’s do this one, Whitty! You do the handstand,” she suggested, surprising me not at all with her selection of who would play which part in the pose. I decided this was a good point to stop and pointed out that hand stands were best attempted with parental supervision.

On Sunday morning, Grace and Whit accompanied me to church (after we took Matt to the airport). What’s more holy than taking pictures with my iPhone before the service starts? They colored and ate their booty (pirate for him, veggie for her) and then they actually sat and listened for a bit. Whit looked carefully through the hymnal and the book of common prayer and was disappointed by the lack of illustrations. They enthusiastically participated in the peace, shaking hands and repeating loudly, “Peace be with you!” to our neighbors. Later on as the rector said the prayers over the bread and the wine, Grace, who was reading the BCP with me, said “The Lord be with you,” in unison with the rest of the congregation. Whit said (not in a whisper), “No, Grace, peace be with you.” This child, hilarious as he is, is becoming a liability in my short-lived church career.

They both joined me for communion, and Grace for some reason reversed her firm stance on No (red) Wine to take a sip from the chalice. She spluttered dramatically as we walked back to our pew, eliciting several giggles from other people in the church.

Grace went to a birthday party in the afternoon and Whit curled up with Star Wars and I curled up with bills to pay and thank you notes to write. Relaxation and fun all around! The party Grace went to was hip-hop themed, so she came home with this hat and a bunch of new moves which she promptly taught Whit.

They even went to sleep in good moods with each other. This has to be a record, and just as I think “my baby slept through the night!” is just asking for five nights of screaming child, I am likely jinxing it now. But it was lovely.

Watching Grace and Whit in a patch of sunshine, behaving benevolently towards each other made me think about my decision to have a second child. It’s no secret that my introduction to motherhood was difficult. The honest truth is I felt no impulse whatsoever to have another baby. Zero. In fact, truthfully, I felt dread and fear. But I also knew, intensely, that I wanted Grace to have a sibling. I feel guilty about this memory, because I worry it might make Whit doubt how fervently he is loved. Despite all of my anxiety, from the moment he arrived he brought laughter and joy in his wake, and he gave me the blissful newborn experience I so desperately wanted to have. And I haven’t for a single moment, ever, wished he was not here. I really do believe that a sibling is a gift. I have one, my older-and-wiser younger sister, and I can’t imagine my life – or myself! – without her. Seeing Grace and Whit this weekend made me think of the interwoven lifetimes that lie ahead for each them, the particular terroir they are growing in, and the tremendously good friend I hope they will always be to each other.

And I tried to pause over the weekend, to watch them, thinking: we won’t come back here.

A conversation with my 35 1/2 year old body

Tuesday was my half birthday. Nobody remembered. Why should they? They shouldn’t. I realize my attachment to my half birthday is irrational, and I trace it to the fact that my actual, mid-August birthday was often a bit … well, lacking in celebration. This is not my parents’ fault – they were always wonderful in marking my birthdays. But, say, a party? Not really, on August 16th. This has resulted in some specific tendencies in my adult self:

  • I am totally obsessed with my kids’ birthdays, and their parties
  • I remember people’s birthdays, often send cards, and usually remind others of these key dates (this reached a pinnacle a few years ago when one friend actually got annoyed at me for forgetting to remind her of another friend’s birthday … this was now my official responsibility?)
  • My half birthday is more important to me than it should be

So I decided to mark the occasion of my 35 1/2 birthday with a letter to my middle-aged body. I’m inspired in this by two of my favorite writers out here in the blog wilderness. The Kitchen Witch‘s letter to her her 40 year old self and Momalom‘s letter to herself in her 31st year both made me writhe on the floor in laughter. I also like how I am midway between these two wonderful, funny (not to mention, as far as I can tell from their photographs, beautiful, which is relevant only because we are talking about their physical selves) women. Despite the fact that I seem to have birthed a five year old stand-up comedian, I am not myself funny. But these letters were so wise and poignant in their humor, too, that I wanted to give it a go.

Dear Body, as you turn 35 1/2,

First of all, I’ve finally come around to agreeing with my wise-ass middle school self about the fact that I am actually midway through my 36th year. I don’t much like it, but I can’t see a way around it. Yikes. Crap.

There’s a lot I’m really grateful for, Body. And I think – I hope! – I’m a little better at appreciating what you are able to do now than I used to be. Of course, this is pretty bittersweet, seeing as I’m finally appreciating you just as you seem to be falling apart. But maybe that’s by your design, to show me how ungrateful and horrible I was to you for so many years? I’m sorry.

I’m definitely pretty unhappy about certain things you are doing to me, now, as I glide (saunter? skip? am dragged, kicking and screaming, heels dug in until kingdom come?) into middle age. But I’m also aware of some bad behavior on my part, and I want to conclude by apologizing for some of the abuse I’ve forced you to take.

First, things I really am thankful for, dear Body:

  • I still have 20/20 vision. I don’t wear glasses or lenses. As the daughter of a woman who is practically blind, I really appreciate that.
  • I hope that I share the hair fate of the aforementioned almost-blind woman (hi Mum!), because at 62 she doesn’t have a single gray hair. Please, please, please, genetics, show me your power!
  • Thank you for still letting me run. It is vital to my staying sane, so I’m really glad you haven’t taken it away from me yet. Thanks for letting me finish that half marathon in under 2 hours. I still wonder about a marathon, but I don’t know if you would let me get away with that. I’m sure we’ll talk it over.
  • I am immensely grateful for the fact that you were able to conceive, carry, and deliver two healthy children. I am aware of what a blessing this is and I am sorry if it ever seems that I take it for granted. In fact, it is more than a blessing: it is an outright miracle. Thank you, thank you, thank you. (PS: the no stretch marks and easy return to pre-baby weight were a double bonus, don’t think I didn’t notice those. Thanks.)

There are, however, some things I am pretty pissed off at you about:

  • The chest. My God. I did not know what I had. When I saw one of my college roommates lately, and she saw me shirtless, she did a double take and remarked on the sad state of affairs in my bosom region. Remember, this is from a woman who was seeing said bosom daily during its (arguable) heyday. Alas. I think the best way to describe the situation is that I never really realized you could be both tiny and saggy. That’s just plain cruel. I’d lift – ahem – things up, but I’m told you have to have something to lift first. And while I’m cool with plastic surgery, something about artificial sacks of fluid inside my body scares me. I think Michael Scott, that sage, that cornerstone of today’s women’s studies, described the situation best: shrunken chesticles.
  • The skin.  I hate my skim-milk skin. I hate its pallor, its translucency, its propensity for cold sores, its wrinkles. I’ve been called Casper more than once. Is it a surprise that I chose to run in the Nude Olympics flanked by two dear friends, both of whom have similar coloring to me? I figured we might as well all glow in the dark together. Most days I can see my veins through my skin, not just faintly but in glorious detail: I am aware of my blood throbbing through my arms a little more vividly than I want to be (ironically, it has always been really hard for phlebotomists [great word] to find my veins). And the cold sores? Oh, the horror. So ugly. So painful. Such a physical manifestation of my anxious, nervous personality. Yuck, yuck, yuck. My cold sores have caused me so much embarassment, Body … really, are you not done shaming me with them yet? But maybe most of all, I dislike my skin’s thinness. Everything gets to me. I had hoped that living more years would result in thicker skin but, no, sadly it seems to be going in the opposite direction.
  • The hair. Why do I have so damned much of it?  It takes forever to dry. Blow-dry? Only when my life depends on it. Also, that ever since I had pregnancies, it curls in the back in weird, strange ways (which makes the aversion to blow-drying ever more tragic). I pull my own hair out, specifically feeling around for the really curly pieces. I’m told by people who aced Psych 101 in college that this, trichotillomannia, is the gateway behavior to more awful compulsions. Actually, I think I’m just subconsciously trying to thin my own hair.
  • The joints. You seem to granted me this odd, free-floating joint pain. Some days it is my ankle, others my wrist, for a while last summer, most painfully, my knee. This week my elbow is bothering me. What is this about? Are you asking me to take some kind of vitamin? Speak English! I don’t think I make major demands of my joints: fine, yes, I run, but come on. 4 miles 3 times a week? Seriously?
  • The back. Holy hell does this make me feel old. A long airplane or car ride makes my lower back, on the left hand side, hurt. I understood the back pain in pregnancy. I did, I really did, and I tried not to complain too much. Both of the children were carried basically against my back and I don’t blame you, Body, for finding that hideously painful (it is the downside of the perk of not getting super big when pregnant, I know, I know). But now? Hello, there are no small bodies curled up against my spine anymore. What are you doing to me? You’ve driven me back to yoga lately with this pain. I hope that’s what you were getting at. If not I’m kind of at a loss for what to do next.
  • My teeth. First of all, how could you let me not get any cavities for 28 years, let me develop such an enormous superiority complex about that, and then crush me with four cavities six months after having Grace? That was just plain mean. And in four different corners of my mouth? Thanks. That was an awesome appointment at the dentist, that one (and yes, don’t remind me that I insisted on doing them all at once against the dentist’s advice [ADA?] – you have to agree it was more efficient that way). And the receding gums? I realize that this is my fault for the grinding and clicking as I count off by 8. But come on. I’m just trying to deal with my crazy brain. When I had to have a gum graft, and I had to pick between using skin from the top of my mouth or from a cadaver, that was a nadir. Please just let me have my teeth and gums as they are. Please?

I will, Body, take responsibility for some bad stuff I did to you. Some of the things I am sorry about:

  • The Diet Coke. I know. It’s a really bad habit. But damn I like the stuff. I’ve really cut down; I don’t know if you have noticed, but I used to drink 3 or 4 20 ounce bottles a day and now I’m down to one most days. I hope this is making a difference. When you get annoyed and nauseous on me, please remember I never smoked or did a single illegal drug of any kind! Do I get any credit for that?
  • The conspicuous lack of calcium consumption. I have read in more than one SELF magazine article that this is especially awful i combination with the Diet Coke. I am hoping that my daily venti lattes help with this a little bit, because I really don’t want to start shrinking. I’m not tall enough as it is.
  • My diet. Dear God, Body, I am sorry! I know better. I really do. I eat mostly bread, cheese (see! calcium!), and gummy candy. Occasionally a hamburger or some pizza. I am so sorry. It is truly a wonder that I don’t have scurvy. I keep swearing to do better, and I will recommit to that effort.
  • The sunshine. I cringe when I think of all of the summers that I sunbathed. Wow. That seems amazing now, doesn’t it? I accept that my penance for that is bi-annual dermatologist appointments and a whole lot of small moles being dug out of my skin with scalpels. That’s my fault and I am really sorry. Did you have to retaliate so aggressively with the wrinkles, though?
  • The high heels. I know. I’m not supposed to wear high heels all the time. But I don’t! I really don’t. Just a few days a week. And the rest of the time? Flip flops or sneakers. Haven’t you noticed? I am trying to make up for it, I really am.
  • The broken bones. Maybe more than my share. An ankle, an arm (both bones, both compound fractures through the skin – that one really rocked), some ribs, and a toe. And I guess you thought I was kind of a brat for saying that having broken fingers and toes didn’t count … when I broke my toe sweet Jesus did I realize it counted. Yes, that hurt. Lesson learned. Thanks for healing all of those breaks, as good as new.

All in all, Body, I’m really thankful for all the ways you keep me in one piece (where on earth would this crazy mind of mine be if not contained in you? Now that is a scary thought). Now, I know I’m just plain not psyched about aging, and I’m sure I’m taking some of this discomfort out on you. I’m sorry about that. There are some ways you could cooperate more, though, and I hope my descriptions above inspire you to maybe do that.

Here’s to many more years together, as a team, and by the way thanks for putting up with all the ways I’m a total pain in the ass. I know, you’re as stuck with me as I am with you.

Love,

Lindsey

Preemptive regret clouds the riches of the moment

I’ve been thinking about my post yesterday, and dwelling more in my memories of the dark period after Grace was born. It strikes me that in many ways that episode of PPD was a microcosm of the problem that’s plagued my whole life. It was about the past and the future occluding my ability to see the beauty heaped at my feet in my present. This is the task of my life, that is becoming clear. And not just my life: I think this is a universal struggle.

As I panicked about my future as a mother, about the fact that I would never sleep again and my colicky baby would never stop crying, preemptive regret clouded the riches of the moment. I am so quick to assume that the difficulty of a moment will endure forever and ever. I did that, in the dark nights of Grace’s infancy, and to this day when I think about it I am overcome with despair that I can’t remember her first bath, when her cord stump fell off, of the seductive newborn smell of her hair.

It is as though I cannot allow myself to feel the glory of right now. What am I afraid of? Of staring into the sun? I seem to believe that by anticipating fear, regret, sadness, I feel I innoculate myself against it. Of course I see rationally that this is absolutely wrong. These sad emotions are knit into my experience inextricably, but by assuming that they are coming I allow them to permeate even the moments that they do not own.

My postpartum depression was an exaggerated version of a struggle that has shaped my whole life. It was, I hope, the universe throwing cold water in my face and asking me to stop. To look around, see the truth and gorgeousness available in my ordinary life, and to live it.

And there is so much glory in this life! So much grandeur. Just this morning as I drove my children to school I pulled over to photograph the sunlight glinting off of the snowy trees. It was breathtaking. I must allow that more. I know that sadness is coming to me, as surely as a tide returning to shore. I must learn not to fear this, but to enjoy the times when that tide is out. I am certain my life contains as many moments of pure joy as anyone’s. My problem is not recognizing them, but allowing myself to relax into them. To feel a moment’s beauty, even with the certainty that clouds will return.

The push and pull of light and shadow inside my spirit will continue for the rest of my life, I know that. I don’t want to keep missing the light for anxious anticipation of the shadow. The grace of Grace’s arrival was my first big lesson in that, and there have been others, and there will be more. My brain must get out of my heart’s way.

The Weepies’ All This Beauty is playing in my mind today – I think it gets at this point.