everyday life

Driving a Truck

Big Little Wolf has an interesting and thoughtful post up today: Good driver, bad passenger? She prompts introspection about the need for control and the willingness to take charge, which I think are two related but separate impulses.

My father has always said that dancing with me is like driving a truck. I am a graceless dancer who struggles to let myself be led. Not a big problem, given the paucity of partner dancing in my life. But, still, a metaphor that stays with me. I have a powerful need for control, and it’s one of the things I most dislike about myself. My need for control gets in my way on a regular basis: I choose no over ambiguity, prematurely shutting off options or experiences, I am quickly frustrated when things do not go my way, and I avoid activities that would require me to release the reins and surrender to them (eating “scary” foods like oysters, riding roller coasters).

This struggle for control often mirrors the experience of driving a truck. Just as a truck driver meticulously manages their vehicle and maintains a strong connection to their rig, I grapple with the urge to steer every aspect of my life. The truck’s seat, cushioned and adorned with personalized Seat Covers, symbolizes the comfort and control that drivers cling to as they navigate long journeys. The metaphor of the truck seat and its covers reflects the challenge of finding balance between control and surrender, highlighting the ongoing internal struggle to navigate the complexities of letting go and embracing the unpredictable journey of life.

Just as a truck driver relies on their rig to traverse the open road, the journey of buying a used car requires careful consideration and a sense of trust. Each vehicle on the lot tells its own story, much like the miles etched into the body of a well-traveled truck. In the search for the perfect used car, potential buyers must navigate an array of options, weighing factors such as reliability, price, and comfort.

It’s not just about finding a vehicle; it’s about selecting a companion for future adventures, one that can weather the twists and turns of life’s unpredictable journey. This process mirrors the truck driver’s meticulous attention to their rig, emphasizing the need for thorough research and understanding to ensure that the choice aligns with one’s personal journey.

In this pursuit, platforms like RaceAutoGroup.com emerge as essential allies, offering a vast selection of quality pre-owned vehicles and expert guidance. They understand that buying a used car can evoke a whirlwind of emotions, from excitement to anxiety, much like the anticipation and trepidation a driver feels before embarking on a long haul. The seamless integration of modern technology with personalized service transforms the daunting task of car buying into a rewarding experience.

As buyers delve into their options, they are encouraged to embrace the uncertainty of the road ahead, trusting that each decision brings them closer to the vehicle that best fits their lifestyle and aspirations. Ultimately, this journey is about more than just purchasing a car; it’s about cultivating the freedom to explore and the courage to embrace the unknown, paralleling the truck driver’s reliance on their trusted seat and the adventures that lie ahead.

None of these are pretty qualities, I know that. But I thought further about what BLW was saying, and realized that while I crave control over my life, when it comes to actively taking control in a group setting I’m much more wary. I remembered something specific from my time at business school (a time of my life I so rarely think about!) It was the first semester of my first year, and we were assigned a small group project. I have no idea what the project was, but I remember that my group of about 6 people from my section was clustered into one of the round tables in the window alcoves of Aldrich late into the afternoon. As the sun set, people grew cantankerous and wanted to be finished. Again, I have no memory of the content but I know that I, infuriated with what felt like a waste of time and a lack of clear direction, started taking charge of the conversation and setting forth specific plans for the group.

I don’t remember what happened from there, though I vividly recall myself stepping into a leadership role on that dark afternoon. The next week, project behind us, one of the men in my group, a much older guy with years of impressive military service pulled me aside after class.

“Can I give you some feedback?” he asked. What was I supposed to say?

“Sure,” I said, nervous and feeling like something bad was coming.

He went on to deliver some criticism in the guise of feedback about the way I had assumed control of the group’s workplan and efforts. I blinked back tears as I listened to him, and then fled to my apartment over an Italian food store and cried for hours. I’m sure he had many good points, though of course I can’t remember them. That day comes back to me a lot, though.

When I think about the ways in which I am loath to be visibly in charge, I often wonder why. Is it some kind of gender conditioning that makes me believe that women should sit back and be quiet? I don’t think so, at least not consciously. Is it fear of putting myself out there, into a position where I might attract more criticism like the early HBS experience? Maybe. That feels closer to why. Is it a deep feeling that someone else would do a better job at leading? Maybe. That feels like it could be why as well.

It strikes me that this could be the worst possible combination: to be as rigid and in need of control as I am, yet to be unwilling to expose myself by taking an active leadership role … isn’t this the worst of both worlds? I don’t like this mix of traits in myself at all, but changing both feels daunting. To let go of my need for control would require that I learn to feel safe in the world. The moments when I do feel safe enough to relax my white-knuckle grip on my life are rare and special, but I don’t know how to make that into a more normal reality. To be brave enough to more often visibly lead also seems intimidating to me: authentic vulnerability is hard for me and doing this creates it.

Don’t know the path out of this particular knot of fabulous personality traits, but perhaps being aware of it is the first step. Thank you, BLW, for making me think yet again.

Good night, Whit

Last night, as I tucked Whit in, the room was heavy with nostalgia. It was dim, his favorite lullabye was playing, and I curled into his bottom bunk, breathing him in as he lay with his back to me. One week from today he turns five, and this awareness is stitched through every moment of every day lately. I can barely bear it. I kept my eyes closed as I felt him turn his head to look at me, and I heard his low giggle, presumably at the unusual delight of seeing me “sleeping” in his bed. The nearness of him, the just-bathed little boy smell, the familiar lullabye music, the nearness of his birthday all swelled into a huge wave of nostalgia and sadness and, predictably, I found myself blinking back tears.

I thought about how recently I wrote about how his “babyhood clings to him” and how that is just not true anymore. I thought about the moment he was born, a moment as clear and crystalline as any I have ever experienced, I thought of the million times he has driven me to yell at him and the million and one times he has made me cry with sweetness. I turned to sit up and felt his hand reach back and grab for me. “Don’t go, Mummy,” he murmured, so I stayed put for another song. Peculiarly, I remembered those last days of pregnancy, when the baby feels so tight in your drum-hard belly that you feel it every movement with an exquisite, painful awareness. My emotion felt that big inside me, almost as though I could not contain it with my physical body.

Finally I forced myself to open my eyes and sit up, and I leaned over Whit, studying his face. My gaze moved slowly down his face, his features unfurling again to me as if brand new: his eyes, so blue even in the darkness, his long eyelashes, his pale skin, and his defined cleft chin, one of the very few tangible things he has inherited from me. He reached up a hand and clasped me behind the neck, smiling, with what struck me as a curious, surprising awareness of the moment. I smiled back at him, “I love you, my little man.” Tears ran down my face and I saw puzzlement wash into his eyes. I smiled again, trying to reassure him that nothing is wrong, and felt relieved when his face softened. “I love you too, Mummy.” He pulled my face down so it was right next to his. I felt his soft cheek against my wet one, and turned to give him a kiss. He clasped his hands behind my neck, holding me to him. “I love you as much as the sky,” I heard him whisper.

Oh, my baby boy. Five years old. There is so much tenderness I am not sure I can stand it.

Sometimes I feel like I’m losing my mind

I hit a new low yesterday. I have been wondering for several days why I have received so few RSVPs for Whit’s birthday party. For the record: not RSVPing is one of my major peeves. But still, this was an even lower turnout than usual. I bumped into a mother I know at school today and I mentioned it to her, trying to be off-hand to make up for what I felt was a rude inquiry (part of why I hate non RSVPers is I hate pestering people for what their answer is, because I feel like a jerk).

The mom mentioned off-hand that she had not recognized the email address I’d given on the invitation. Hmm. I went home and checked the invitation. An invitation that I had proofed not once but twice. And then mailed out. And never blinked about. And, right there: my email address misspelled. Great.

People think of me as very anal and type A. And in many ways I am. My closet has several shelves of shoeboxes, each with a photograph of the shoes inside stuck on the outside. My spices are alphabetized. My Christmas cards go out the first week of December. Etc, etc, etc. Loosey goosey I am not. It’s something I dearly wish I was, but, let’s face it: no.

But today’s flub is one in a short but noteworthy list of times I have been well and truly full-blown flaky. And those times make me wonder if I am slowly losing my mind. If somehow, parenthood or middle age or too much splenda or too much white wine has contributed to punch small holes in my brain, almost imperceptible but porous enough to allow my meager mind to leak out slowly. Drip, drip, drip.

The others on the list? Well, I paid the wrong mortgage company for three months. Three months. Automated billing will do that for you. But it still amazes me that the old mortgage company didn’t let me know they were getting an extra $XK every month from us that they didn’t deserve for three solid months. I also left the oven on for a whole weekend. That was pregnancy brain. But, not super responsible.

The best ever, though, was when we had our preschool interview for Grace. We parked the car, walked to the nursery school, toured and interviewed. I think we were probably at the school for 90 minutes. As we walked out, I felt in my pockets (I had been driving) and wondered aloud where the car keys were. I rummaged through my bag (side note: in said bag, today, I found a pair of Grace’s socks and an epi-pen. I did not, however, have the chapstick that I needed) as we walked to the car. No keys. Starting to panic, I looked up when Matt exclaimed, “Oh, my God” under his breath. The car. Parked on a side street. Running. I guess that explains where the keys were.

Losing. My. Mind.

The godfamily. And red wine.

This picture is, I’m guessing, the summer of 1977 or 1978. It is two of my godsisters, Acey and Alexandra, and me. Don’t ask me why I am naked. Or why a bowl was used to cut my hair. Or why we are apparently playing with a can of kerosene. Ah, the 70s!

Two of my mother’s oldest and dearest friends are my godmothers. The three of them shared the unique and formative years of weddings and babies, and their friendship endures today. All three women had a daughter first, and all born within about 18 months of each other. My mother is godmother to each of them, their mothers are my godmothers. Etc. This is The Godfamily (I cannot say this without smiling, and thinking of Francis Ford Coppola films, Marlon Brando, heavy-handed music, and stretch Lincoln town cars).

Much of the godfamily gathered today to christen Acey’s sister’s daughter, Sally. Acey, Alexandra, and I all had our own children in the church: Alexandra had all three of hers, I had both of mine, and Acey had her older child, a daughter who is exactly a year older than Gracie (8). It is very rare for us all to be together – I actually can’t remember the last time it happened. Our visit was too brief, of course, and we managed to miss taking a picture of the three babies above all grown up. Oops.

Still, it was magic. There was a moment when I knelt at the altar rail for communion, with Grace on my right and Acey on my left. I looked over to the left and saw Acey and Alexandra, and saw all of our children clustered around us. I was overwhelmed with awareness of history and of the ways that families echo like Jacob’s Ladders through time, folding over on themselves, creating, with an awkward, slow rhythm, a long and connected line. I felt keenly the bonds that endure through the years even with too little time and energy paid to them. I saw in my mind’s eye the pictures of the three of us as toddlers, playing on the beach on Captiva with our beautiful, bikini-ed mothers, in the faded 1970s snapshots I have seen so many times.

I don’t talk to these women every day, but they will always be a fundamental part of me and of my terroir. They and their mothers played an essential role in my childhood and they are woven into the very infrastructure of who I am. I am so fortunate that they are still a part of my life, though I do feel sad that our children won’t grow up knowing each other well because we live so far apart.

And on to the comedy portion of this post.

I was actually very proud of Grace and Whit during church. With a couple of coloring books and a couple of ziploc baggies of Booty (veggie for G, pirate for W), they entertained themselves. They even watched some of the activity at the altar. Grace and Isabelle (her second-generation godsister) squeezed their way to the font for the actual baptism, watching closely. Whit chose instead to stay with me in the pew and murmur, over and over, “baby go dunk in the water!” He went to a christening with me when he was just beginning to speak, and on the way home he proclaimed that “baby go dunk in the water” This has become an oft-repeated sentence in our house, and he grinned slyly at me as he repeated it, reminding me that for all of his blithe casualness he is utterly aware of how he is being perceived, and of how much he loves to be a clown.

After the baptism and a rowdy Cantabridgian peace, we returned to the classic BCP communion service. The minister stood at the altar, holding the bread in one hand and the silver chalice in the other. He paused in saying the words that I know by heart, and the entire church stood still, silent. My son chose this moment to say, at full volume, “Gracie! Are you going to drink the red wine?”

There was audible laughter. I guess my children are incapable of communion without hilarity.

An ordinary Saturday

Today dawned bright and cold. Matt is in Asia, so it is just Grace, Whit, and me this weekend. Grace woke me up and then returned to her room to read (okay, fine, play with her new dsi) so I could wake up slowly. Whit slept until 8:30 (possibly a record). Already: delightful. After waffles and bacon for breakfast the children watched cartoons while I began wildly throwing things away. I’m almost finished with The Happiness Project and so far the idea that has the most traction with me is the empty shelf. I woke up desperate for my empty shelf.

After an hour of work, six Goodwill bags, and three trash bags, I have two empty shelves! Hooray.

Late morning, the three of us headed to Grace’s gymnastics lesson. Whit watched his favorite cartoon, Avatar, on my old iphone while I watched Grace (she looked over to make sure I was watching her with a frequency I found both touching and disconcerting). It’s amazing to me that after only three classes she can already do a competent cartwheel. Amazing, mostly, I think, because it reminds me of how old and competent my child is. When did this happen? As I’ve said before, I often find myself wondering when the real mother is coming home.

A huge treat: Burger King chicken nuggets for lunch. Wow does that make these children of mine happy! They are still playing with the plastic toys they received with their meals.

After a short rest we went to the Museum of Fine Arts to meet one of my dearest friends and her two boys. We sang along to Kiss 108 songs on the way there (top 40) and Grace awed me with her every-single-word knowledge of every single song. When does she learn this stuff? I don’t spend enough time with her in the car for it to be from that. She clapped and exclaimed when the Kings of Leon song “Use Somebody” came on and my first thought was: my daughter is cooler than I will ever be. I watched her in the rearview mirror, gazing out of her window and mouthing the words, and I swear I could see her 15 year old self in her 7 year old face. My heart tugged.

Then the true genius of Fake Mommy me made itself apparent. I parked in a parking lot right across from the MFA entrance I have always used, and urged the children to leave their coats in the car so “we” (read: I) didn’t have to carry them around inside. But then I took us out the stairway right by the car and exited onto a totally foreign street. “Let’s go back inside!” cried Whit, already shivering in his tee shirt in the 31 degree day. I tried the handle. Locked. Awesome.

We finally figured out, after a couple of tries, where we were. We had to walk around a long block to get to the museum. I swear I was winning Mothering Gold Stars from every car that passed, as I wandered aimlessly with two coat-less children on a frigid day (so cold that the friend I was going to meet had deemed it too cold to go skiing – where they would have presumably worn coats). Relieved, I steered the kids to the entrance by the parking lot (now that we had reached it through 10 minutes of walking). Oops. I guess that entrance is now closed.

Another long city block later, we finally stumbled into the museum lobby. Both kids were absolutely breathless with laughter about what a silly mother they had. I laughed with them, grateful that such small things bring such joy, amazed by their pink cheeks and good cheer. We explored the museum for a solid hour and a half, which is about the limit of both a four year old’s attention span and, incidentally (and not impressively), my own.

The highlight of the museum visit for the children was no doubt the sweet snack they enjoyed in the basement cafeteria. We braced ourselves for the cold and jogged back to the parking lot, one child holding each of my hands. They giggled so hard we had to keep stopping. Who knew that a coat-less run on a winter day had the potential for such hilarity? I’m glad I found out.

Driving home, Whit noticed that the Charles River was frozen solid. He stared out his window at it in and his visible amazement made me smile. Then Joni Mitchell’s Circle Game came on, which both kids know because it’s on the (short) list of songs I play (all the time). I listened as they both sang along, quietly, and felt a huge swell of gratitude and sadness. A quote rose to my mind, popsicle-stick-like:  Everyday life is laced with miracles.  My eyes filled with tears and I thought: this is it. This is what I keep writing about. I am here now.

And I was.