Monday Night, I Have Time and Wine.
November 17, 2020
I’ve been a lot of people.
I’ve been a seven year old who wouldn’t turn on the fan in my bedroom because I didn’t want to waste power, wrote love stories about horses, and put a dead rabbit in the drawer in hopes I could bring it back to life when I was older.
I’ve been a teenager who guzzled Colt 45 in an outhouse, loved a boy and didn’t know him, and thought I was invincible- from heartbreak, time, and regret.
I’ve been a twenty something without a clue- about how to help my father die of early onset Alzheimer’s, what to be when I grew up, who to love and how to say goodbye or make it last.
My thirties were a blur. I’m not going into details, tonight, at least. I had fun, I think. I learned to swim on the days after I partied too much. I swam a lot. I spent too much money, and I cherish the people that knew me then who still love me now.
My forties brought parenthood. Against all odds, I had two kids, a son at 39 and a daughter at 43. I was not, and am not, a fan of babies and toddlers, so my favorite moments early on are dropping my child, or children, at a friends’ house for the weekend.
When they were able to have a conversation that didn’t involve a debate over macaroni and cheese or whether or not I’d continue to push them on the swings, they became interesting. They made me laugh, and still do. They are far smarter than I will ever be, kind, patient, funny, and fascinating. They are are also incredibly private about what I share, and since I’m not I’m not on SnapChat, I don’t know if it’s me or their personal brand.
I wish I’d finished college before the age of 56.
I wish I liked more about babies than the way they smell, and found my toddlers as delightful as a great book, or even a semi good thriller.
I wish I’d known I will not go on forever.
But now, it’s a pandemic, my kids are good, I have a house, a dog who thinks she’s a cat and two cats who like to nap on the kitchen table, and a husband who likes me even when I’m mean. I wake up without regrets, except for wishing I’d had a clue. I guess finding one is kind of the point of everything.
Find joy in where you’ve been, and who you are.
I do, and I’m a mess.
Wednesday, the sun came out. (Day Forty-Seven)
May 2, 2020
I walked Sophia, and watched kids skateboard up a plank in the middle of Church Street.
I saw a sign on a sidewalk that offered a virtual hug and all the love in the world in electric pink and blue pastels.
I spoke to a woman for ten minutes, through masks, ten feet apart, about how our dogs both like to bark through the fence.
I saw some friends and ate a veggie burger outside on a deck while we watched a bird feeder.
I cooked dinner, danced, drank water, bought wine.
I don’t think Thoreau would agree that I have pared life down to essentials.
But I am discovering my own essentials.
Before bed, I’ll look at the moon, kiss my kids, and scratch Sophie’s belly until she wheezes.
I’m lucky they are all within about five feet from where I sit, except the moon and the liquor store.
Stay strong.
Julie
Letter to my boy
August 6, 2019
Don’t forget about the dog poop-
(I warned you
If things got bad
And they got bad
There would be repercussions.)
Scoop it, bag it,
Drop it into the
Starbucks dumpster.
And the dog,
Walk the dog-
not around the block-
The pavement burns her paws,
Take her to the park.
It’s not soccer season yet,
Bring a bag
Use it
Even if no one’s watching.
Check the website for your summer work,
Do it.
Email your coach,
Tell him what he wants to hear
and do that too.
Brush your teeth,
Floss,
Don’t only eat food flavored
Buffalo
Or from a bag
Or glowing orange.
Respond to all the girls that sent you Snapchats.
Be kind to everyone that asks to
Follow you.
(I haven’t asked but I know
Better.)
I remind you
to empty dishes,
walk the dog,
sweep a floor.
I don’t ask you
To follow or accept or friend me.
I keep our conversations about
The dishes in the sink.
I update you
About what
The world expects.
I text instead of call.
You talk to friends on FaceTime.
You laugh,
And swear, and listen.
I read books,
Ask for prayers from strangers,
And send you bullet points
so what I need from you
Is clear
And listed by
By priority.
-Call me.
-Do your homework.
-Clean the yard.
I check my phone
For your response
All night.
I’ll leave your bags by the dumpster. Don’t forget to brush.
February 15, 2019
Tonight, I packed my eighteen year old son’s stuff in two trash bags and a shopping bag and left them all in by a dumpster. I walked away and didn’t look back until just before I got in. He was standing in the middle of the driveway, looking around for the bags as if they weren’t right next to him. It was ten degrees, he was wearing a tee shirt, and somebody else’s sneakers. I don’t think he believed I’d actually drop off his clothes and leave. He looked up at me, and I don’t know what his face said. Fuck you, maybe. Why? Did you remember my toothbrush? What is going to happen to me now?
My son’s smile is warmer than the sun after winter. He is funny, and he can dance. He used to play basketball for hours, and if he wasn’t on the court, he always wanted to be connected to some kind of ball. If we went for a walk on the beach, we had to throw a football. If we took the dogs for a walk, he was in charge of the tennis ball. He’d dribble in his room. He’d play basketball in the driveway and eat dinner in between shots. My son stopped smiling about two years ago.
He still lived with me until today. In sophomore year of high school, sports and school were just hobbies. Drugs took over. Doing drugs. Posting pictures of doing drugs, or lip syncing to songs about drugs. Going to the woods, to the quarries, to whoever’s house was unoccupied by parents or belonged to parents that had their own stash and shared.
I’m not going to tell the tale of then to now. I don’t know how we got from early morning cereal before the game, to begging him to wake up to go to class at a community college because a judge made it a condition of his release.
I just know my son is not here tonight because I told him not to be. He is staying at a house with a dumpster in the driveway, that reeks like weed from ten feet away. He is staying there because last night on the phone he refused to come home. His words were slurred, and sloppy, his voice didn’t belong to him. And he’s been doing drugs for a while, so there’s something new on the menu.
He promised last night he’d wake up in the morning, and go to school. I was supposed to pick him up on my way to drop his little sister off at school. “Mom, I’ll be ready.” He’d straightened up a bit by the time our last conversation.
I woke up early, packed his toothbrush, and a change o Read the rest of this entry »
This might be helpful because I’ve been there, and there too.
September 4, 2018
I drove up to Milford, NH, yesterday to get a last taste of summer with my daughter. And her friend, (Because offering to let her bring a friend just makes everything easier. And she’s got really cool friends.)
The balloons were beautiful. The food was great. There were henna tattoos, bouncy houses, beer tents, tethered rides into colorful baskets, lines as long as the dmv at lunchtime, but much friendlier, handmade jewelry, live music, a summertime sunset, and a sense of summertime bliss.
No work in the morning. No bedtime. Fried oreos.
Here’s the thing.
Summertime is going to be over. in late September, I think. Last night is a million hours ago, and Friday at 4, when the weekend began, is a century away.
Kids will attend their first day of school, be sent away to their first sleep away camp, leave for college, if we are lucky.
One day, I realized I hadn’t pushed them on the swing in three years.
One day, you’ll realize their room doesn’t smell like their room.
The seasons don’t matter. The first day, the last day, they are milestones for facebook and family and reminders that time is passing, even if your sixteen year old has only eaten macaroni and cheese since he was three.
Not everyone has children.
There is still the first grey hair, the first ma’am or sir, the serious conversation about final plans. Menopause. Midlife. Mortality.
The weather is just a backdrop.
Don’t only live summer between June and August.
Fresh starts don’t only happen in September. Or a new beginning in spring.
All that matters is the people we choose, the people that choose us, and how we choose to spend the time that we have.
FYI, , if your kid asks for a push on the swing, give them a push. Take your time.
If you have to choose between Game of Thrones, and a conversation with your best friend, have the talk. Most shows are available on demand or can be found at at the local library. Even if you are feeling pressure from your well meaning, obsessed co-workers to watch a show, insist on meaningful dialogue. As a matter a fact, forget the best friend, call those television obsessed colleagues, and share every detail of your day. And your dreams. Then ask for their advice about redecorating your attic. Don’t let them off the phone until it’s dead.
Which brings me back-
The night sky, every day of the year, has something to tell you,
So does the sun first thing in the morning,
or whenever you wake.
I didn’t need to go to Balloon Festival with Chrs to appreciate summertime, or to connect with my daughter.
But I’m glad that l did.
Bedtime story
March 19, 2018
Before bed, there used to be requests for water, stories, searching for tomorrow’s outfit, digging under the bed for dirty clothes, I would collapse in a chair at the end of it all, and just sit long enough to hear a voice from above call out “Mooooommmm”.
Tonight, I climbed the stairs, uninvited. I knocked on doors, and waited. i went in and leaned over for a kiss on the cheek, a kiss on the hair. I looked around their bedrooms, and thought about saying something about the dirty clothes, the half full cups of water, the nail polish smudge on the rug.
I told them both, in the same voice I used ten years ago- “tomorrow’s going to be a big day. Get some sleep.”
I did not tell them how much I loved them, or to clean up their rooms or else.
After all this time, they know dirty clothes go in the wash and that they own my heart always and forever.
But i still feel the need to remind them, and myself, of all of possibilities that will be waiting in the morning.
Deja Vu, February Evening
March 2, 2018
The smack of a basketball against the driveway just before dinner
The back door snapping shut as my son runs inside for a plate of spaghetti,
The sun falling down,
the smell of a dark, wet, sky,
Dishes, cat food, liquid detergent,
The sound of leaving, and staying,
The smack of the basketball just after dinner-
I lean on the sink, close my eyes.
All that has happened
Has not.
It is just before spring.
He is my boy.
I am the mother of two,
With lunches to pack,
Who needs to make plans for camp.
The basketball smacks against
the driveway, against his hand.
There is no noise
When he makes a basket.
Never was.
I don’t know what I’m waiting for,
So I turn the radio up,
While I wash the pot, wipe the plates.
He stays outside.
As long as the music plays,
He’s making
One basket
After another.
Watching them leave the nest sucks for the one left in the nest.
February 28, 2018
At the end of the day, after so many days, it is my job to let them go, and wait for them to fly on their own.
Whether they smash spectacularly into tree, soar into the sun, or crash into the waves of the coldest of oceans on the coldest day of the year, my job is done.
I am the audience. The one who still needs thoughts and prayers, because both of mine are still here. Soaring, crashing, and trying to find their way, even when they have no idea where it is they want to be. Or maybe they do know, but keep smashing into walls because they’re too busy staring at some stranger’s Finsta account.
Be kind. Be loving. Watch out for low flying wires, people that tell you something is too good to be true, and dark alleys that reek of, you know what they reek of.
Try to remember a little bit of what I told you. If you forget every damn thing, know that I’m a phone call or a heart breath away, waiting to hear your voice, asking to hear the sound of mine.
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.
julierichmond 