family

Throwing away the art

This piece on saving/throwing away childrens’ art makes me laugh out loud. I am a ruthless thrower-awayer of art. And, like the writer, I’ve been busted more times than I can count. I wedge the kindergarten worksheets in between cereal boxes in the recycling bin, I bury the “boat” made out of toilet paper rolls in the trash can, etc.

The avalanche of art is overwhelming. I’ve taken to sending copious numbers of drawings and paintings to the grandparents and even the godparents (who also have small children of their own and thus as somewhat less charmed by the additional construction paper offerings).

Anyway, funny.

Two islands

Picture from France, my guess is that Hilary is 4 or 5 and I am 6 or 7.

One of my very favorite stories about Mum is from my grade school years at BB&N. It so perfectly sums up the creative, loving, generous, no-nonsense mother she was – and absolutely encapsulates the kind of parent I aspire to be.

One day right after spring break I came home from school dismayed. Mum asked me what was wrong.

“I feel sad. Lots of the other kids went to the islands for vacation. Why didn’t I get to go to the islands?”

“Lindsey, aren’t you the luckiest girl – you got to go to two islands for vacation!”

“I did?” my surprise was evident.

“Yes, you did. Rhode Island and Long Island.” I had gone to visit my maternal grandparents in Rhode Island and my paternal grandparents on Long Island. And I was absolutely chuffed at her answer, I remember feeling proud and satisfied.

What is luckier than a girl who gets to spend her vacation with her four living, loving grandparents?

And Grace’s vacation looms. She is going to Delaware with Nana to visit Hilary, Hannah, Terence, and Margaret, and then she is going to Florida with Grandma and Grandpa. Pretty lucky girl, I think!

An ancient grief

Read a marvelous editorial in, of all places, Parenting magazine. The quote that has me nodding:

Instead, she reminded me of what I’d never recover, opening an ancient grief. In the intervening years, I’d tried to spin that trauma into a necessary trial, one that made me more compassionate. But the unadorned truth, freshly confronted in Gillian’s house, is that motherhood’s first months gouged a terrible pit in my heart.