Yes, my heart is aching. The radiance and the sorrow of everyday life collided on a sunny, hot morning this week. The past and the present and the future, which I’m learning are always animate in every single minute, asserted themselves in an overwhelming way. I cried. And then I cried some more.
Onward.
Beginners, June 2008
Kindergarten, June 2009
First Grade, June 2010
Second Grace, June 2011
This is, as I’ve said before (ad nauseum, you might say), a time of year tinged with sadness for me. The endings and goodbyes come one after another, waves lapping onto the shore of my life, eroding anything I have written in the sand. An extra farewell this year is the fact that Matt’s parents have sold their house in Vermont, the house that Matt grew up in, the house where the family has gathered for years, the house that is one of Grace and Whit’s very favorite places to visit. The picture above was taken on their very last morning there, looking out over the field that unfurls gorgeously, its colors undulating with the seasons, in front of the house.
On Sunday night Whit was beside himself, unable to go to sleep because he was crying so hard. He sat on my lap and wept, face wet with tears, wailing over and over again that he didn’t want Grandma and Grandpa to sell the house in Vermont. It reminded me of the night a year ago when he dissolved into genuine, heartbroken sobs about the fact that he was no longer a baby. His humor and little boy bluster sometimes camouflage his intensely sensitive core. He was not comforted by my reassurances that there were many more fun visits ahead, just in different places. He just sobbed and sobbed, burrowing into my neck like he did when he was much littler, and cried his heart out. I know the feeling.
Today I picked the kids up from school because it is the last day of regular pick up. Grace ran up to me, a friend in tow, frantically asking for a playdate with this girl and one more. The girl standing next to her is moving out of state at the end of this week, and this was literally the last chance. I said, as gently as I could, that we could not do it, because Grace had a doctor’s appointment. Long minutes of negotiation ensued, complete with arms crossing, feet stamping, and voices being raised. When we walked to the car, Grace was in angry tears and Whit was uncharacteristically quiet, not quite sure what was going on. In the car I told her that this was the last pick up of the year, that I was disappointed that she was acting this way. She crumpled even further, cried harder. Almost immediately I apologized, and told her that was unfair of me to have said; there have been hundreds of wonderful pick ups, I said, and there will be more. One day is not a big deal, and I ought not freight it too much with being the last. She said she felt worse, even worse, about having marred the last pick up of second grade. She wept. I know the feeling.
We got home and curled up on her bed to talk it out, and she turned her bad mood around surprisingly quickly. But her rapid disintegration at school, the urgency of the request, and the emotion in the outburst all speak to how sensitive she is, too, to this season of endings. While transitions are hard for everyone, I suppose it’s shameful that it’s taken me this long to realize that my children may struggle especially with them, as I do. When Grace and Whit evince these qualities, straight from the heart of who I am, I am overcome with both compassion and guilt. I relate intensely to how they feel, but I also feel enormously responsible for the fact that they have these feelings at all. I wish I could lift this from their shoulders, this inchoate anxiety about change whose darkness can cloud even the most radiant days. But I can’t. I think all I can do is try to remain gentle with them about the complicated, non-rational emotions that swirl in times like these. To allow their sadness room to breathe while also reminding them of all that is bright. After all, I know the feeling.
I was very excited about my stay-in-the-dorms plan for Princeton reunions. And it turned out to be great, in many ways. Very convenient, we had our own bathroom (super bonus), and the kids thought it was a huge adventure. The downside? We were literally right over the dance floor, which was rocking until well after 2:00 am. And the light streamed in early (see: aforementioned lack of biblical flooding) so they were up at 6:00. For children who usually get 12 hours of sleep, 4 was a big difference. This is all a long way of saying we drove home on Saturday night after the post-P Rade celebrations rather than spending the night. Whit fell asleep before we hit route 1 and slept until 10am on Sunday.
And then Matt went to the office for most of the day on Sunday and Monday. What to do with a holiday weekend and no plans? I like these unscheduled days, but had not thought ahead to, perhaps, sign us up for trapeze. It was very hot – enough that Whit exclaimed, “I feel like we are still in New Jersey!” when we went outside. So, after some errands, we went to see Pirates of the Caribbean. This was my first installment of the series, I confess, and my primary reaction is who knew mermaids were so terrifying? Yikes.
We got home and the kids had punched the 3D lenses out of their glasses. Grace has not taken them off since. The big entertainment before dinner? Washing the car. And you would think these two went back to Disney for the utter joy that they felt. I cooked dinner, occasionally drifting to the front windows to watch them, and they sprayed each other and the car, scrubbed with kitchen sponges, and giggled. They were soaked and happy when I finally asked them to come in, 45 minutes later.
One of my clear priorities as a parent is that my children are easily delighted. I am proudest of myself as a parent – and of them – in the surprising, unexpected moments of wonder. And this was one.
One of my friends from business school lost a brother in 9/11. My friend, his wife, and the rest of his large family started a foundation in their brother’s name. On Sunday I wore a tee-shirt from one of their fundraisers to go running. I didn’t have time to shower when I got back, and so, hours later, when I bathed the kids, I was still wearing it.
“Who is the man whose name is on your tee-shirt, Mummy?” asked Grace idly, tracing her fingers through the bubbles in the bath. I swallowed. Both she and Whit know in general terms about “when the planes flew into the buildings” but they don’t know more than that. Were they ready?
“Well,” I began, “Remember how we talked about the day when the planes flew into the buildings? A friend of mine’s brother was in one of the buildings, and he died that day.” I paused. Both Grace and Whit were quiet.
“The pilots flew the plane into the building?” Grace looked at me.
“Well, no. The bad guys on the plane took over the cockpit.”
“How? And what did they do to the pilots, Mummy?”
“I think they used force to get into the cockpit. And the pilots,” I looked straight at her, hesitating. “Well, they died.”
Grace’s mouth formed a silent “o” and she looked down at the bathwater.
“Why didn’t your friend’s brother get out of the building, Mummy?” If Whit were any child I’d have sworn he wasn’t listening, so busy did he seem with the bathtub dinosaur toys. But clearly he wasn’t missing a word.
“Well, Whit, they couldn’t get out.”
“Do you think they felt it when the plane hit the building? Did they feel it when the building fell down?’
I was at a loss for words. How to convey this day, so enormous, so terrifying, in a gentle, age-appropriate way?
“I don’t know what they felt, Whit.” I spoke slowly, trying for gentleness. “I wasn’t there.”
The conversation went on to talk about security at airports, and how things are much different now than they were before 9/11. Grace and Whit wanted to know a lot about the bad guys, who they were, how it is that they killed themselves for their countries. I had to be very clear that these people were not heroes, despite this act. Based on their very specific questions, and the way that they wouldn’t let the topic go, I decided that they deserved real answers. By the time we were finished talking, both kids were dry and in their pjs. This was a long, detailed conversation, and left us – as most conversations in my life do – with more questions than answers. What is it to really hate a people, when you don’t know them? How do you life with intense fear, as the people on the planes must have felt? Who was Osama Bin Laden and why was he so angry? What does it feel like to feel the ground beneath you fall out, and to tumble to the ground?
Grace wanted to pray for the people who died in 9/11 when she was going to sleep, and so we did. And I woke up to the news that he had been killed. In my Monday morning oblivion I didn’t even realize the coincidence (or not) until Kathryn emailed me to point it out. And since that moment goosebumps have buzzed up and down my arms and neck. A reminder of the great river of humanity, both seen and unseen, that we all travel in. Everything is connected.
All day long I’ve been reading messages, tweets, blog posts, and articles about Bin Laden’s death. This morning, driving from school to the grocery store, I listened to NPR reporting on the massive celebratory throngs that has sprung up all over America last night. They played a recording of BU students belting out America the Beautiful. They compared the mood of the crowds to the emotional, triumphant reaction to the Red Sox winning the World. Series. What?
And all day, I’ve felt ambivalent about this. I’m not unhappy that Bin Laden is gone, though I am wary about celebrating an active murder no matter what the reasons behind it. But I think my ambivalence is more general: why are we celebrating anything about an event, and an ongoing situation, so full of pain, misunderstanding, and sorrow? While I can definitely see the justice in this outcome, I feel sad, not joyful, not proud, about this reminder that our world is most certainly not in a place of compassion and empathy.
Last night, as I tucked Grace into bed, she asked me again about the planes and the buildings. It was clear from her tone that she had been thinking about it all day. “What happened to the bad guy?” she asked me, and the hairs on my arms stood up. I looked straight at her, deciding in that moment she deserved, again, a real answer.
“Well, Gracie, he actually died yesterday.” Her eyes widened, the whites glowing in the dark of her room. “The US military found him and killed him.”
“They did?” She asked faintly, curling her beloved brown bear more tightly into her chest.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Well, they wanted to keep America safe and make sure he couldn’t plan anymore attacks. And I guess they wanted to punish him for having caused so much pain.”
“Oh.” She was quiet. “Are we supposed to be glad about that, Mummy?” Her voice wavered.
“I don’t know, Grace.” I hugged her, smelling the shampoo I was her hair with every night, hearing the achingly familiar lullabyes from her CD player. “I don’t know.”
Yesterday afternoon Grace asked me to play American Girl dolls with her. I told her I couldn’t right that minute, but that we could before bed if she wanted to, though she’d have to forgo TV. No problem, she enthused. Later, as we were playing, she mentioned that most of her friends at school don’t play American Girl anymore, and I felt a surge of emotion – some combination of panic and sadness, the steamroller of this life roaring in my ears as it flies past.
“Hold back! Stop! I panic, unprepared for change, but it’s too late … I cannot gather back one moment, only marvel at what comes next.” -Louise Erdrich, The Blue Jay’s Dance
Blinking back tears, I helped Julie the American Girl brush her teeth, and then I brushed out her long blonde hair, watching Grace chatter to the toy dogs as she lined them up, kissing each goodnight. God, I thought fiercely, I do not want this to be over. Not now, not ever. I am not ready.
Then Grace tucked her two dolls in and told them a bedtime story. I sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against her bed, listening to her tale. A lion named Aslan (guess what she’s reading) was presiding over a brand-new land in which a girl and her parents were lost. The parents were scared of the lion but the girl could understand him, so he spoke to the adults through the child. “Your daughter is special,” the lion said. Grace looked up and caught my eye, and I smiled at her. “She can understand when animals speak. There is no reason to be afraid.”
Grace trailed off, leaning to pull the orange blanket up over the two girls. “Grace,” I spoke to the back of her head, her brown hair already drying from her bath, “If you could have any super power, would you choose being able to speak to animals?” She sat back down right across from me, shaking her head firmly. “No. I would choose invisibility.”
“Really? Why?” I was surprised.
“Well,” she hesitated, glancing away from me. “Well,” she looked at me again and took a breath, “Sometimes at school, when someone says something that makes me feel silly, or hurts my feelings, I wish I could be invisible. Just disappear.”
My chest clenched up. I wanted to hug her against me, to kiss away all of those hurt moments, and to say to her, as her fictional all-powerful lion had, there is no reason to be afraid. As soon as that thought passed, I realized I wanted someone to tell me that, too.