There is a piece of me that is enjoying every moment at home with my daughter.
We watch tv together. Eat breakfast together. Workout together. She shows me a game she’s playing on her phone that is just like FarmVille, and gave me a tour of her “campsite.” (I pretended to be impressed, but wasn’t really impressed until I read AOC plays the same game. Now I’m a little impressed and kind of confused.)
I asked her to look at my LinkedIn profile, and listened to her feedback about potential career paths.
She talks to me about her relationship, takes great delight in hiding condiments when I don’t put them away, plays her flute at midnight, and bakes at one am.
I know this is abnormal behavior, but who, anywhere in the world is behaving normally right now?
How do I know if something is wrong?
I wake her up each morning, because schedule is important. We exercise, because movement combats depression. I’ve been lenient about time on her phone so she can stay connected with friends.
I do not have a clue what I’m doing, or what all of this is going to do to her.
I’ll be fine. I have some leads on new opportunities. Sophie keeps my feet warm, and Sheldon is building me a garden in the back yard.
But what kind of scars will this leave on my daughter, and will I ever stop missing my son?
This is the season of not knowing anything. I’m a mom, and the stuff that I know isn’t that helpful right now.
Should I give her more space, or insist she does her homework in the living room?
Do I check on her grades, or let her know I trust her to that chemistry homework takes precedence over carrot cake?
Do I say something about the fact she has macaroni every day for lunch, or do I stock up on Annie’s?
I’ll try not to give into buying a $300 Nintendo to make things better, but it’s tempting as hell.
Arrrghhhh.
Julie
On Day Fifty Four, this helped
May 10, 2020
On Day Fifty Four, This Helped.
Today, I had to get off a zoom call because I needed to drive my daughter somewhere. I was worried about a friend of mine diagnosed with the virus, overwhelmed by LinkedIn, and exhausted by trying to come up with something to say- here, on the phone, or to my husband during dinner.
I’ve always used music to lift me up. I dance with Katy to the Latin music of Zumba, drag Sophie for endless walks, earbuds tucked, volume up, and play classical guitar on Google home to fall asleep.
Today, I needed more than the radio.
So I got in my car, plugged my phone to the auxiliary jack, pulled up Spotify, and searched for Bruce Springsteen.
I put on his playlist, and turned it all the way up.
I sang so loud my vocal cords ached. I wailed to the sound of Clarence’s sax, whispered about Billy down by the railroad tracks, and believed, for about three to four minutes, in a promised land, and that I, or we, will find our way there.
It’s nice to get swallowed up by headphones, jump around the living room with Katy, and lean into sweet melodies as I drift off.
But sometimes, I need to sing along, as loud as I can, to the music I’ve loved forever. I need to know the notes and lyrics, remember what it was like to be sixteen years old, and sing like no-one is listening.
Find your music, and make some noise.
Forty-one days- Not the best of them. (My daughter’s flute recital, which should have been mentioned, was not. It was amazing.)
April 24, 2020
Today, I was part of a conversation with some amazing women who do amazing things. My mom even said, when I told her about them, “you’re lucky they have chosen you to be part of their lives.”
I am blessed to know so many amazing people, and that these amazing people return my calls, laugh at my jokes, include me to their zoom meetings, and will invite me into their homes, for holidays, dinners, games, and just because. They have good wine, better snacks, and we get each other, in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
But, sometimes, it’s hard to know where I fit in.
I’m currently not working at Quincy College, currently unsure what my next steps are going to be, or where I want them to take me.
I bring to the table funny stories about life with Colin, and heartwarming anecdotes about Katy still letting me into her room, even flop on her bed, and sometimes, talk to me, (this morning, she told me I needed a shower. I’d just hiked the Blue Hills.) I bring to the table good table manners, excellent taste in music, a sometimes irritating and occasionally helpful cheerful demeanor, muted first thing in the morning for most of my friends, and I’m willing to be the one who decides which restaurant and what time- Not critical skills at the moment.
I know it’s not good to compare yourself to others, the doors that have closed will open to amazing opportunities, I have a house, a husband, beautiful kids and the very best dog.
I know all of us have been pretty close to where I am now, at one point or another.
I know this, in my head.
But in my heart, I feel like I”m running the Boston Marathon and, somehow, find myself alone, lost in Cleveland. Everyone’s talking about Boston, and I’m wandering around Cleveland hoping to get home for the
byForty-One Days- and not the best of them.
(The flute recital, not mentioned, which should have been mentioned, was amazing.)
Today, I was part of a conversation with some amazing women who do amazing things. My mom even said, when I told her about them, “you’re lucky they have chosen you to be part of their lives.”
I am blessed to know so many amazing people, and that these amazing people return my calls, laugh at my jokes, include me to their zoom meetings, and will invite me into their homes, for holidays, dinners, games, and just because. They have good wine, better snacks, and we get each other, in a way I haven’t felt in a long time.
But, sometimes, it’s hard to know where I fit in.
I’m currently not working at Quincy College, currently unsure what my next steps are going to be, or where I want them to take me.
I bring to the table funny stories about life with Colin, and heartwarming anecdotes about Katy still letting me into her room, even flop on her bed, and sometimes, talk to me, (this morning, she told me I needed a shower. I’d just hiked the Blue Hills.) I bring to the table good table manners, excellent taste in music, a sometimes irritating and occasionally helpful cheerful demeanor, muted first thing in the morning for most of my friends, and I’m willing to be the one who decides which restaurant and what time- Not critical skills at the moment.
I know it’s not good to compare yourself to others, the doors that have closed will open to amazing opportunities, I have a house, a husband, beautiful kids and the very best dog.
I know all of us have been pretty close to where I am now, at one point or another.
I know this, in my head.
But in my heart, I feel like I”m running the Boston Marathon and, somehow, find myself alone, lost in Cleveland. Everyone’s talking about Boston, and I’m wandering around Cleveland hoping to get home for the afterparty.
I have the sense of direction of a ninety year old drunk from Medford, waking up alone in Los Angeles, who lost his glasses on the flight.
But I am determined as hell, so I’ll get there.
And if I don’t, I’ll jump on Katy’s bed until she makes me laugh or figures out how to throw me off.
Love,
Jules
One of those.
September 6, 2019
Long. Damn. Day.
I’m grateful for
Um
Dogs. I guess.
And cats are kind of okay.
Of course, I love my kids, and for about a minute a month, I like them.
Friends and family are funny sometimes, and they give me nice cards and rides because they don’t like the way I drive.
Work doesn’t suck.
The woods are nice, and the ocean feels good on my skin.
Chocolate helps.
And bed is bliss.
In Sophie’s Opinion
April 5, 2018
It’s my last semester of school, and one of the assignments is to write two to three times a week in a Communication Technology journal. The idea is for us to recognize the day to day impact technology has on our lives, and the way we relate to each other.
For the record, I’m pretty aware of technology, and the impact it’s had on human interactions. I own two teenagers, and work at a college, where I am surrounded by many, many teenagers, all looking for chargers, lost headphones, or the wifi password. I work at a place where colleagues and I will email each other information when sitting less than three feet from each other. I work at a place that has about twenty times more screens than books, and understand, that is the way things are now, so I don’t need to be reminded that technology is the almost the norm in most day to day conversations.
I sound grumpy about this, and I’m not. Technology has allowed me to share my essays and poems with an audience that doesn’t consist of Mom and my friend that just lost his job and will to listen to anything. It’s an easy way to remind someone to clean their room, without having to listen to the response or the lack of one. I enjoy crafting a well written email, I appreciate always having a camera, (I never had a camera, or if I did, I could never find it. Now, if I can’t find my camera, I can call it.)
My own issue with technology is once I’ve started, it’s hard to stop. Right now, I’m wrapping up this assignment so I can go downstairs and spend some time with my dog, Sophie, the Most Significant Child, because she will remain one. But I just noticed a text from a student on my phone, my laptop is already open. If I answer the text, I’m going to end up on the website. If I look on the website, I’ll spot an incorrect date, or remember I was supposed to email the woman from Madison Park about a tour. Once I email her, I’ll remember I haven’t called my mother yet today, because the woman from Madison Park is named Cindy, and Mom is Sheila, and I really do like talking to my mom. She’ll ask me how Sophie is, because she’s afraid to ask about the kids this late at night, she’s a worrier, and I’ll feel guilty because Sophie will be downstairs, waiting, and has been since I started this entry.
So, I’ll prove myself wrong, and just stop. It is hard to walk away from technology, but at the end of the day, I’d rather spend some time with Sophie, the Silent. She’s aware I’m spending too little time at the park, and too much time chattering, one way or another, on screens. Sophie is not a fan.
From the Beginning Till Now
March 17, 2017
There were rides in the Cadillac, top down
Beatles loud on the radio.
After intense arguments
With my brother over
Who got to sit behind
Our father.
There were meandering walks on tree lined streets at the age of 15,
Giddy, stupid, and hungry
For bagels or cookies
but afraid
To go home.
I should have been home.
I should have worn shoes.
I should have followed everyone
else to college.
There was saying goodbye to my dad
For ten years.
There was speaking to my dad In the dark,
ten years after he died.
There were parties, so many parties.
There was takeout for dinner
On nights we weren’t picking at meals in restaurants
With cloth napkins served by waiters
We’d see later on
at the club.
I didn’t make choices,
I was along for the ride. In between,
I slept like the dead in a
Bedroom cloaked by
Tightly closed, thick velvet
Curtains.
Then, came my son.
I didn’t choose him
any more
Than I chose anything else
In those days.
It took time
For me to make the transition.
For a long time, I was a daughter
Who mourned and drank
And wished she’d said goodbye
And I love you
While my father still knew who I was.
It took too long for me to
Step. The. Fuck. Up.
My dad has been gone
Forever.
I’m losing my son.
It seems like it was five minutes ago
I recognized I was his mother.
He’s known all along and
While he was waiting
For me,
he grew tired
And found
Ways to pass the time
On his way to becoming
A man.
I’m here now.
His shoes are in the hall.
His world is private,
On instagram
Riding shotgun or crouched in the backseat of an uber,
Or inside his dreams.
When I wake him up,
He always sounds surprised by my voice.
He used to cry
As easily
As some boys
Laughed at spongebob squarepants.
He doesn’t cry anymore.
I hear pop songs
About love
And I think of my son.
I want to tell him
Everything
But he’s
Already gone.
I wasted a long time
Waiting for a dead man
To speak.
The rest of my life
Belongs to the living.
When he comes home
I stay as close as I can,
Noting his tone,
Holding my cheek for a kiss,
Watching him as he moves
thru the kitchen and
Smears peanut butter on
bread.
Sometimes,
I don’t know him at all-
His voice belongs to a stranger.
When did he decide
he liked Pad Thai?
Extra spice, light on shrimp.
Once in a while, I see the smile or the way he holds his fork,
And I know to bring him milk
Or suggest he get some sleep.
It was easier,
In the days of
Gimlets versus Cosmos,
South End versus Brookline,
Backgammon or silly conversation.
But upstairs, right above my head,
There is a boy.
He is angry, sweet, and funny.
He calls me mom
even though
He believes with all his heart
I am an idiot
Who doesn’t understand a thing,
And tortures him by insisting
He put away his clothes.
He puts away his clothes.
I hope I am here
To witness
The best of him-
Which is going to be amazing.
My son, by age sixteen,
Has taught me more
Than everything I knew
Before him.
There is alcohol. Wine, fancy cocktails with basil floating in them like pine needles, and beer.
There are long, dark wood walks with a dog that follows, lingers, then sprints to a pile of damp leaves. There is the observation of joy, as she thrashes in gold and rusty brown and dirt. When she jumps into the van, my sweet girl smells like she was out all night, and it’s Thursday afternoon.
There is work, swallowing handfuls of chocolate chips from the fridge meant for Sunday pancakes, dinners out at restaurants I can’t afford, where we share appetizers and order just one more.
There is splitting the check even though I ordered just one more, and knowing it’s understood. I needed that.
There is time with friends.
There are phone calls to mom, and not calling mom, because I don’t want her to know details. There is knowing she is there to listen to the details if it comes to that.
There is music from when I was his age, and his own music, the inappropriate language, the grinding bass, the beat. There is time at the gym, lifting metal, finding downward dog in a room full of women who look they don’t have a clue even though probably half of them have been where I am now.
There are impassioned conversations about Trump, the Supreme Court, moving to Canada, the latest from Trump.
There the memes of Obama and Biden.
There is tv and slippers and sleeping pills and falling asleep with the tv on so I don’t have to think about anything but the carefully written dialogue written by writers on another coast that belong to a union and are probably talking about Trump right now.
There is knowing, somewhere, in my head, this is not cancer. It is not Alzheimer’s, or living without heat, or living alone, or being old, and wishing for what will never come again.
When I find myself dealing with another variety of grief, I may or may not turn to the same these things I have found along this journey.
Inside this life of mine, right now, I still find bliss and laughter, even though this heart of mine weighs more than my whole house, weights more than anything I have ever carried.
I have found a way to lift this heart and love this child and move forward into the tomorrow and next month.
Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes my knees buckle and I lean knowing I have lost it all. I find myself on the sofa, wishing I had softer socks, or a magazine, or a softer pillow, or it was ten years ago.
Then my daughter asks me to sign her permission slip. A student calls with a question. Sophie sighs in her sleep and I know she is dreaming of bunnies.
So I pull myself up and I take myself down to my bedroom. I find sleep, I do not dream of bunnies, that I know of anyway.
But I wake up next to Sophie and that helps.
My family is home with me tonight. I’m a little bit angry and totally blessed.
Well, mostly blessed.
I hope I dream of bunnies.
Letter To My Father (It’s About Time.)
August 21, 2016
I read a poem
written by someone else’s daughter
About her mother, who has Alzheimer’s.
Judy spoke of her mother’s journey,
Of her need
To be let go.
She spoke of clocks, conversations, lunch round noon,
snow bout mid December,
and all the parts of life
that are defined
by knowing what is going on,
what has happened,
and what will likely happen next.
A million pieces of knowledge tether
Most of us,
To know the date most days.
Class is Wednesday night,
Colin plays on Saturday at nine fifteen,
I need to be at work by nine,
Katy’s birthday is coming in two weeks.
I am never sure what time it is, and sometimes
I think Wednesday’s Thursday, or I lose an hour or a week.
I’m not sick like her, or like you were.
When it took over,
your eyes were clouds,
your lips made shapes,
your tongue made sounds.
Your muddy eyes would take me in,
or the wall behind me,
or a angry nurse marchcing down the hall.
Your lips would purse, then open, close,
more like a fish
Than like a man.
You’d smile when I’d offer up
A cigarette
And smoke it
Unlit and upside down.
Your eyes were clouds,
They belonged inside a winter sky, not on a face,
but I never let them go.
I would
Bring you taboo cigarettes,
I would fix your shirt, wipe your chin
and when his mouth moved
I’d lean close.
I’d smell the spit, the sour breath, last week’s
applesauce, the sweat
And I would listen
Because I knew you
Would never leave without saying your goodbye.
You were a gentleman.
I never let my you go,
Not when you’d already left,
Not when you still looked at me
and knew my name,
Not in all those spaces
in between\
And afterwards
And now.
Still Lives and Desperate Measures
August 12, 2016
I am a forty five year old woman flat on the floor on my belly on top of a blanket used by someone I don’t know.
It’s hot.
I sought out the air conditioner in Colin’s room about 4 am.
I look up at him, I watch the sheets for rise and fall, I listen for his breath.
I wait to see him jump and glare
At the discovery of me, his mom, on the floor, settled in the middle of his floor. I didn’t knock.
The floor is sticky, it smells like beer, new leather, sweaty socks, cheap perfume and axe cologne.
Along his walls are the pictures from his teams last year, taped up on paint, edges curling at the corners. There is a Celtics pennant, a phone number in blue marker on the door.
I don’t think he’s taken a breath. Maybe he knows I’m here, and is only breathing while I peer inside his bookshelf.
I wonder why he has his Latin Book from 7th grade, the bird books my mother gave him three years in a row for Christmas and a picture of his sister, stashed inside a stack of Pokemon. He did a mass cleanup months ago, and I thought everything was gone except for twelve busted chargers, a game remote and some condoms.
I wonder where this pillows been, who this blanket held. The cotton doesn’t smell.
I think I washed them. Maybe he left them out in hopes I’d wander up to cool my skin.
No. He left them there because I told him not too.
Still hasn’t breathed.
Are those crayons?
The air conditioner is louder than thunder, rap music, Sophie in yard, all together, raised up thousand times.
He’s breathing. I just can’t hear it under the sound of my own breath, the a/c, and my tired, noisy, achy heart.
Should I check on him?
My neck is cool,
finally.
The hair inside my neck falls down across the pillow case,
my toes are cold and reach to tuck inside the blanket. I turn the pillow over. I roll to face his closet.
The door is closed. Thank God. The door is closed. He sighs, my back is turned and he sighs and, I think, shifts his body.
His body is all legs, elbows, knees, scabs, sneers, sweat, prickly hair on his head, he uses product, I see product right there, by the closet door. That’s expensive stuff. That’s mine.
We wear the same hair product. I think of this while I lay on the floor of my son’s bedroom.
I am cool. I am spent.
I am afraid he’ll trip over me when he wakes.
I’m afraid he’ll trip on me when he wakes and do it on purpose.
My son and I are in a room together. He sleeps. I gaze at artifacts, yawn, stretch, wonder if I should leave now before he wakes.
We are both still. He sleeps, I hope his dreams remind him I wasn’t always the woman that woke every day determined to ruin his life.
I wait for sleep, pull my knees close to my chest, let my eyelids fall, tears fall down, it’s been so long
Since we were still.
julierichmond 