Not quite yet
April 7, 2014
It’s so hard
to love a teenager.
They don’t smell good,
either they stink of cheap deodorant
Or sweat
Or the urgent desire to fit in.
They snap at any little thing-
“how are you?”
“Where are you going?”
Don’t ask unless you know
They will not answer.
Or if they do,
It will cost a large slurpee.or ten dollars or
Both.
His voice will not
Belong to the one you love.
It will be lower
Or delivered in a funny accent
Or it will reek with disdain, or impatience,
Or misinformation
Designed to distract you
From whatever it is they don’t want you
To know.
It is hard, and humbling, and
Impossible to love this
Big Footed, Deep Voiced, Mysterious, and Weird
Soul that lives with you..
It is Amazing when you see signs
They still love you.
They smile.
You swoon.
They laugh.
You swoon.
They listen.
You stop and try to remember what it was you said.
You stop everything,
You turn off the phone, you step outside, you close your eyes.
You try to remember what you said.
While they discover the rest of the world outside of you.
I think that’s how it goes.
I think that’s how it goes,
I’m not there yet.
Tonight, sitting in Ayeesha’s kitchen for the first time, it occurred to me. I’d made a new friend. She and her husband had books, good books, familiar books. They had board games and a cat. Her cat is not allowed on the kitchen counter, and her cat doesn’t go on the kitchen counter. They have big conversations about the world and not about car pools or the finale of How I Met Your Mother. Though she did make me want to watch The Walking Dead.
She got me cookies, made me coffee, and gave me the sweet spot on the sofa. It was a magical moment, when I glanced at her face and realized, I hope I see more of that face. And it wasn’t because of the cookies, though I am a sucker for cookies.
As I get older, the moments are fewer and farther between when I look at a face that isn’t related to me, and want to see it on a regular basis. There is so much stuff to do. Recitals, basketball games, work, more work, working out so I don’t look like an idiot at work. (I work at a gym.) I’m glad I met her, and I’m glad I was smart enough to get to know her. Oh, gosh, I hope she likes me too. When she comes to my house, I will bake her a pie and try to talk about something political, or at least current, or at least not about my kids.
When I got home, probably inspired by Ayeesha’s kitchen, I went on a bit of a bender. A cleaning bender. Did you know dirt gets under the knobs on the stove? When I lifted up the stove top, there were drips of indeterminate animal fat, and candle wax, (I think,) and matches, and hair elastics. I swept under the stove and found 4 milk caps, one broken glass that someone didn’t feel like picking up, 97 broken crayons, primarily in pastel shades, and an earring. It’s like mining, deep cleaning my house. There are layers and layers of stuff, and they all tell a story. We really like milk, eat too much meat, sometimes are a little lazy, do most our sketches in primary shades and are constantly looking for hair elastics.
We are a messy family, and I am a work in progress. Tomorrow I will tackle the dining room and next week, I will invite my new friend and her man over for dinner. After I teach my cats not to spend most of their time napping on the kitchen counter.
Maybe I will wait until it’s a little warmer and they spend most of their time outside.
TMI
March 31, 2014
I remember as a teenager living with the constant-well not constant, more like when I took a break from fussing about my hair, or my boyfriend, or how to get a ride to the ticket scalper- concern that my mom would embarrass me. I knew she would, she was my mom. She had an accent. She knew things about me, which is not surprising, she’d given birth to me. She had seen me in diapers and been the one that walked me thru tampons.
My mother’s nature did not make her the Gary Cooper of moms. But nor did she over share, actually in my teenage years we had as little to do with each other as possible. And even now, we have a mutually agreed upon pact of silence. I wasn’t easy, she wasn’t easy. As a matter of fact, we were both mean as hell. I will leave it at that.
Now, things are a lot more complicated. My kids and I have a pretty healthy relationship, right now anyway. But the potential for me to cross the line, stick the foot in, piss them off- any minute I’m going to reveal something horrible. There is facebook, wordpress, instagram, text messages, emails, and actual conversations.
And they are alert and waiting to catch me. While I scan the history for porn, or any evidence that Katy really does like One Direction, they are checking up on me. “Mom, I didn’t say you could post that.” “Mom, why did you pick that picture”” “Mom, don’t tell Gramma I’m sick.” “Mom, don’t tell Jen I feel better. I don’t feel better.” “You can tell Maggie I feel better, but that it might be temporary.”
It’s a matter of seconds before I’m thrown in kid jail and they stop leaning in to kiss me good night. Actually that’s history. I have to find them, then I do the leaning. I brush my teeth first, I rehearse topics of conversation, I bite my tongue when I notice the pile of dirty clothes under the bed, or, more often the pile of clean clothes under the pile of dirty clothes. I brush and bite my tongue and land my kiss on a cheek that might still have a spot of egg from breakfast just above the lip. I bite my tongue. I say good night. And most nights, I head right to my own bed
To avoid just this, the overwhelming temptation to reveal that-
yes, I am a mom. I’m proud and I’m ecstatic and sometimes I’m disgusted and I truly don’t know how on earth I’m going to get thru the next twenty years.
Wanna dance?
In the beginning…
My life before- I’d gorge on Nutterbutter Sandwich cookies
across the street from the market. I’d stagger the terrifying path on sheet ice to the high school from behind Briarcliff. At my first dance, I listened to the girls in the next stall over brag about how many bowls they’d consumed. and thought they were talking about gobbling down too much brownie dough…
Everything changed the day my father walked out of the Mtn. Lakes Club after a business meeting with his bosses. He’d just gotten home from rehab (what did they call it then?) so we are all excited about life going back to normal. He came out of the Club, found me in the parking lot. I’m sure I was on my way in to charge cigarettes or make a call, and he shook his head. For the first time, in a long time, I approached my dad without an agenda. I wasn’t thinking about hitting him up for a new record, or some guilt cash, or a ride. I think it was the first time I’d ever seen him look defeated. I walked toward him even though I really wished I had somewhere else to go, or was anywhere else in the world. He said to me “Julie, it’s over, I didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.” I just stared at him. I think I was waiting for him to spin it, or change it, blame it on them, or tell me how over meant he had a new beginning lined up. “I don’t know, Julie, it’s done.”
I guided my dad to his car, a rented Cordova, black with red stripes, eight track, fully loaded, before he wept. I couldn’t see if there were actual tears, his head was bent over the steering wheel, his shoulders rose and and fell, and he didn’t make a sound. I don’t remember how we got home or told Mom or Jim or spent the rest of the summer.
I remember my own body pitching forward with pain, like I’d been punched in the gut. I grabbed for his arm and tried to say something right. And I remember, even though I had nothing to say, that somehow I spoke words outloud. I said- ” they are wrong, it takes time, it’s too soon”, he lifted his head He wiped his pale, pale blue eyes on the back of his hand. And while he listened to me ramble, my body still bent with the new weight of the world, he straightened up. He believed me. My words seemed to give him strength, and courage, and by the time he got to the car, he looked like the man I knew. And I wanted to believe that someone was back. “Fuck em all,” he said, “It was too soon!” he announced.
But I knew as I watched his eyes scan the parking lot, as I watched him try to figure out how to get home, it was done. Tennis matches. Fireworks. Egg catches. Trips to the market and slippery walks to the high school. Cocktail hour. And that magical sense that whatever came up, Daddy could fix it. That afternoon, I’d fixed Daddy. And I knew within an hour he’d forget where he worked, or lose his keys, or wonder why the rug was beige.
So when I remember Mtn. Lakes, it is mythical. Soon after he made his declaration, we had to move to Mt. Tabor. We were lucky someone in his office caught on early; his final days with early onset Alzheimers were covered with insurance.
There is a thread that runs through my memories, not all of them, and maybe I wouldn’t even be aware of it, except…
Our first cocktails, we mixed in large cups over the kitchen sink in my kitchen, decorated in swirls of yellow and brown, of all of the hard liquor in the cabinet. We didn’t actually have a liquor cabinet, though my parents were pretty devoted, we should have had a liquor locker. We would pour random amounts of vodka, gin, tequila,… I don’t remember (what a surprise) and have a contest to see who could drink their cocktail down the fastest. I remember being strangely proud that I always won, but I’d always beaten everyone in the milk chugging copetitions at lunch.
Next stop, quarts of Colt 45 in the bathroom at the Tourne, also guzzled, inside dank stalls because it was illegal to drink in public parks. Afterwards, my eyes would sting, lurching out into sunlight, brave and dazzled by the way the world looked so different from when we snuck in, bags in hand, looking over our shoulders for grownups, and/or grownups with badges.
I can’t forget my first party, I was a freshman. I made the discovery that, in spite of it’s reputation, Schlitz Beer tasted really good. I announced it again and again, while I tried to play ping pong with a senior who was fascinated with my review of the low rent malt beverage, and my thoughts on the upcoming election. Then a junior stepped in, took my paddle away, poured me into his car, and drove me home. I remember hearing the next day that my ping pong partner was not happy about the interruption. I wondered a day or two to wonder about the great romance that might have been, then wrote a poem about our tragic affair and moved on.
Soon after, a month, a year, I found myself behind the high school, I’d snuck out of some dance because it’s impossible to boogie to Stairway to Heaven, nope, I always managed, must of been I needed a cigarette. I came upon a group of three or four that introduced me to beer shots, no, that’s not right, the joys of shooting a beer. You puncture a hole in the bottom of the can and immediately press your mouth to that hole and guzzle the contents. That way, no air gets mixed in, maximum buzz for your buck. I remember now, I was a freshman, I’d come outside because while I was peeing I’d heard all these girls talking about how many bowls they’d consumed, I thought they were bragging about the amount of wine they’d had to drink, didn’t know why they couldn’t use glasses. So I was feeling left out. When these juniors and seniors shared the mysteries of shooting a beer, like I said in the beginning of this diatribe, I could guzzle. (Have you noticed how I am delicately trying to avoid the word swallow?) And my abilities in that arena had started in third grade in a competition to see who could finish their beverage first.
These are dramatic memories I have collected from when I was really young, way too young, my mom had just gone back to work, my dad was absent, literally, not the later version.
So let me go on and say… there were nights at Stanfields, and Eves, and Fireside, and assorted establishments whose names I don’t remember where I had beers, or schnapps, or wine. Nights where me and my friends drank, got silly, played or listened to music, threw up, held up the hair of someone who threw up, laughed, giggled, talked about how we were going to make a difference, talked about the size of our thighs, talked about the fact that nobody really had meaningful conversations at “these things”, made out, had sex, really wanted to have sex, and made connections. Dear, shining connections that exist on this page today that could not have lasted had they been borne simply out of booze, pot, or teenage stupidity.
I wasn’t and am not a Lifetime movie, but I was an idiot.* I don’t know why I share these memories today except to crow I survived… the drinking, and all the bad choices I made afterwards. It feels good to remember. I’m counting war wounds and I’m preparing myself for 2 years from now when my son turns 13.(He’s 13. We are having a lot of embarrassing conversations.)
*If you work for Lifetime or an affiliate, and find me interesting at all, I was an Xtreme idiot, emphasis on the word so demographically popular, I might have forgotten a lot. And I would be happy to remember, and describe in detail, a fuzzy recollection I have of a night in paradise with ET, all grownup, and/or the relationship I had in my twenties with the brother of the sister of the woman that made Angelina Jolie so damn weird.
I’m tired of filter and crow.
March 30, 2014
So much of Facebook is filter and crow. Tonight I’ve had a few beers and I’m feeling a little dangerous so this was my most recent entry.You will notice there is some crowing but I left the filter off.
My Day.
Mango, Banana Carrot smoothie.
Church. A conversation about the devil and some amazing words from Parisa Parsa.
Friends at church and hugs and promises and amazing coffee. The faces there are family, chosen family. I know why I chose them and I am constantly in awe of the fact that chose me.
Home.
Yoga. With Nathalie Bellemare Elfer. Our downward dogs were so true to the canine spirit of the pose they are going to put us on a poster for the amazing benefits of yoga for middle aged women. Or on the cover of Love Your Pet, Be Your Pet, not sure which.
Home. Pork roast in going to be in the oven a looooonnnnng time.
It smells good, it’s making me hungry.
Time to visit the inlaws, drink beer and watch basketball.
The kids are sick, so I really should leave the house, drink beer and watch basketball. That way they’ll rest.
Basketball. Two beers. Phone call from Colin. Nice job, leaving us home alone while you party.
Made me careful way to the store, long conversation with the clerk about Keebler versus Pepperidge Farm.
Cab.
Home with cookies.
Roast for dinner tomorrow.
Tonight it’s cheese toast and chocolate chips and water. Lots and lots of water.
I could have just told you I went to the gym.
Here I am.
March 2, 2014
I have finally came to the conclusion that my body is a pretty nice place to live. This after a troubling bout with a never ending chest cold, the onset of my fifties, and a life long wish that I was just a little taller.
All my life I’ve been plagued, not only by height envy, (and look at all of the woman lurching around in high heels, I’m not the only one,) but by the vague idea that I would look so much better if my lips were just a little plumper, my belly a little less so, my hair straighter, my feet daintier… The list goes on and on and on.
And then, while I was on the phone with my mom, listening to her tell me about the latest cruise she’s booked, a thousand pounds of envy crashed down on me. Not only did I want to be taller, with a voluptuous smile, a taut tummy, a sleek mane, held up by a delicate instep, I wanted to be all of that and lounging on a deck chair in the sun. On a boat. With a cocktail, a cabana boy, a slew of really good books and a crowd of fascinating people waiting to hear my latest bon mots.
I pulled in my driveway and looked out the window at the dirty snow, the basketball hoop, slightly crooked, perched at the end of the driveway, and the dog poop in the front yard.
My short legs carried me out of the car and into the house. My face was greeted by the most wonderful of dogs, the smiling Sophie. My daughter gave me a hug. My son smiled and asked if I’d remembered to pick up milk.
I didn’t know what we were going to do about dinner. Pizza three nights a week is a little much. And if I was ever going to do anything about this waistline, it probably wasn’t the best option.
It turns out Katy had made macaroni and cheese, and she explained to me she didn’t even use butter, just low fat milk. And Colin offered that we could round the meal off with the grapes in the fridge I’d bought them to bring to school for snacks, (since they never, ever brought them to school for snacks- “see mom, sometimes it works out we don’t listen to you).
And I decided right then, right there, that this body of mine wasn’t such a bad place to live. With a little help from my husband, it had delivered me these two amazing, surly, sweet, funny people. It has carried me thru a life of heartbreak and bliss.
I have not always been kind to this body of mine. Mostly I’ve actually been pretty cruel. Too much sleep, or sulking on sofas. A long love affair with cigarettes, and some serious time indulging in too much wine or dangerous trips to the ladies room. Bacon. Macaroons. Not enough fiber. Not enough water, too much water.
These days, I’m all about Greek yogurt, time at the YMCA and long walks in the woods with the dogs. I love spinach, I don’t eat red meat much. But that’s only been for a little while.
So all things considered, this body of mine has been pretty generous and forgiving. So I think the nicest thing I can do is stop fretting about the lounge chair that doesn’t have my name on it, and the fact that there isn’t a lip stick that is going to make me look like Ms Jolie.
I can still wear high heels, and dream a little. But at the end of the day, this day any way, this body of mine is right where I want to be.
Five Minute Warning
February 23, 2014
I’m not sure when it started. Maybe last week. Maybe just before Christmas. That’s the way it is. One day I wake up and realize that we have entered a new phase. And it hurts, the surprise of knowing the last phase is done. I didn’t mark it with a cake or a photograph or even a moment where I looked around and made a point of remembering what it felt like.
I’m talking about the movements of my families life. The segueways are less than graceful as I passed thru being a mom to babies, to the stressful role as guardian to toddlers to suddenly waking up and finding my role is that of driver, provider of dinner and cash. Tonight I became aware that I am no longer the central figure in my kids lives.
Katy, my 10 year old daughter, is off with a friends family skiing. She has always been a “mini me.” I never asked her to be. She stumbled into swim team, and playing the flute, and long afternoons hidden inside a book, all by herself.
I have never been much of a skier, I have problems walking down our back steps after it snows three inches. And trying to slide down a hill, on boards, wield poles; well I have problems juggling my purse and a bag of groceries. So I was a little worried about how successful she’d be on her winter weekend in New Hampshire.
This morning, she called me on the phone and told me she had gone down the intermediate slope and ridden a chair lift and asked when I could take her shopping for ski socks. Then she said “I love you mom.” I love you, mom,” is Katy code for “let me off the phone now, breakfast is waiting, and then I am going back out to hit the slopes.” i think. I’m not quite as sure of her as I was yesterday.
Colin, my thirteen year old, is over at a friend’s house. I got to drive them over there, and tonight there were no awkward pauses in their conversation. They spoke easily about basketball and video games and homework. I drove, quiet, and listened to every word. I like to hear my son talk to his friends. He is casual and confident and funny. We were supposed to watch a movie tonight, but I’m fine with his defection. I wouldn’t have liked the movies he suggested. Last night I forced him into an evening of sitcoms so it would have been his turn to pick. The last time he picked we watched “The Purge”. I got off easy.
So here I am, home alone. The kids are with their friends and I am the last thing on their minds. I will wake up early tomorrow and go the gym with a friend while they sleep in, exhausted from whatever the hell they are up to tonight.
And that is the way it should be.
When they were little, and we had to go somewhere, or leave somewhere, or even have dinner, I’d call out at least ten minutes in advance, “five minute warning, guys.” And five minutes later I’d do it again. And everyone would get to the table or to the car or into their swimsuits at just the right time.
This time, I really would have appreciated a five minute warning.
Valentines Day
February 14, 2014
It’s Valentines Day.
Our day started out with my husband in full scale hysteria. He couldn’t find my car keys, he was afraid I’d forget about dentist’s appointment. Our son had left his cell phone at home. Our daughter hadn’t done a good job brushing her hair. All of these, and more, (the price of gas, if the pellet stove needed another cleaning, if he was to start getting tickets because we couldn’t afford to donate much to the policemen’s benevolent association…) were dancing around my beloved’s head this morning until his demeanor resembled a poodle on crack. No, I have never seen a poodle on crack, and after witnessing my husband in one of these moods, I can say with no hesitation at all, I don’t want to see a poodle on crack.
I don’t write much about my relationship with this man. In the tough times, I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to indulge in a one sided kvetch to the cyberworld and I wouldn’t be brave enough to post his side of the story. In the good times, we are in the middle of the good times, and I wouldn’t want to take time away from whatever moments of marital bliss to take notes for my readers.
And I’m not sure if we are in the middle of good times or bad times right now. Right now, I know that when he fusses and fumes about keys and appointments it is his very creative and irritating way of showing me he cares. He doesn’t want my teeth to fall out of my head, or leave me at home waiting for Triple A to come unlock my car for me, again. So when I tell him to “Shut Up!!!’ I try to say those words as lovingly as I can.
It briefly flitted thru my head that my gift to him this morning was not throwing a dirty sponge at his head.
I found my car keys. I made it to my appointment. And then, he picked me up from the dentist and took me to breakfast. A little egg slipped out of my mouth, novocaine was my appetizer. He reached over, and wiped it off my chin without saying a word.
A lot of the time I truly don’t know if he’s my one true love, the father of my children, or a really good friend that I fell into spending my life with. But I know I am a very, very lucky woman.
Because no matter how many times I tell him to shut up, he still has something to say to me at the end of the day. And I am happy to listen, especially if he’s not talking about what I’ve just lost or what I’m likely to forget.
Without him, I’d probably be wearing dentures and riding a bike.
Happy Valentines Day.
Basketball Boy
February 8, 2014
My son is in 8th grade. Somehow, there was some crazy genetic mix up and I gave birth to an athlete. He can throw a football as easily as I spill coffee on my shirt. He beat us all at mini golf when he was eight. He can run faster than a greyhound, and oh my, my kid can play basketball.
I haven’t seen him play that much this year. I’ve been out sick with a chest cold that left me stranded on the sofa for weeks. Before that I was busy working three jobs, and since then, trying to keep those three jobs after being sick for weeks.
In other words, I’ve been walking around slightly hunched over, weighed heavy with the guilt of being the mom to the one kid without anyone in the bleachers to cheer him on. (Though if you know anything about 13 year old boys and organized sports, cheering from moms is not acceptable behavior. An occasional shout of either “Defense!” or “Nice play” is allowed as long as not specifically directed at offspring. Though I should probably check in because the rules are always changing.)
The season is coming to an end next week, so I made some adjustments. I raced thru work, enlisted another parent to drive my daughter to swim team, had a long conversation with my dog to explain that I really would take her for a doubly long walk tomorrow, and would try to do something about the temperature, and drove over to the Middle School. My gas tank was on E, but if I was going to rearrange my life to go to the game, I wanted to see the whole damn game.
I fall in love a little every time I watch Colin play ball. He races across the court so fast my heart quickens . He throws a pass to the guy that’s open without hesitation. He guards with a fierce scowl on his face, he steals the ball like it was meant for him all along. At one point he caught a pass, someone tripped him and he fell to the ground, ball clutched to his chest like it was the valuable thing in the world. On the court, my son is someone I don’t see at the breakfast table in the morning. Today I was so happy to sit on the sidelines watching this young man do something he loves so well.
At half time, his team filed out of the court for a meeting in the locker room. I stood outside the door so I could say hello as they left. As he opened the door, he saw me. His eyes turned to steel, he mouthed the words “not now-” he walked by me. He took a drink and followed the rest of the team without looking back.
This son of mine I had been swooning over, swooning over! had cut me to the quick. I thought of leaving the game, going out for coffee, heading home to hug my daughter. I just didn’t want to be there anymore.
The next half, I buried my head in my smart phone. I checked Facebook updates.I sent silly texts to a friend, who probably wondered why I was sending her silly texts because I am not a texting kind of woman. I downloaded 10 wonderful recipes for the slow cooker, then deleted them because I don’t want to make cake in a slow cooker, and my spaghetti sauce is pretty damn amazing. I didn’t watch the game. I didn’t try to catch his eye. I didn’t see him make the three point shot while being guarded by some 6 foot 2 behemoth who should have been in college.
The game finally ended. I waited for him in the car, which I did not pull around to meet him, even though he was wearing shorts and we are in the middle of the coldest winter in the history of the world. He walked to car, all swagger and sweat, and hopped in, smiling. He looked at me. He stopped smiling.
“What’s the matter?”
I’m not going to repeat what I said. A lot was the matter, or at that moment, a lot felt like the matter. And me being me, I had to share with him each and everything; words spilled out my mouth quicker and hotter than all of the tears that I’d held back while reading Facebook posts about kittens and restaurants and slow cooker cakes.
And he listened. And he sighed. And he promised it wouldn’t ever happen again. And Colin said “Mom, I’m sorry… Did you see the time that last basket?” And he smiled.
I told him I had.
We negotiated a deal for future games- he is required to say “Hi, Mom” when he is within six feet of me. And I am allowed to respond “Nice job, Col.”
I can live with that.
If he decides at anytime that he can’t, he’s going to have find another way home.
julierichmond 