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The hackles.. oye, the hackles. Just when I think I’m beyond this, it happens all over again.. and it’s never pleasant. However, tonight, the justification for my pointed and intense conversation with a teen aged son was too much to put aside. It had to be done–and it was.
A friend of his shared, with what I felt was great insensitivity, some of my son’s shortcomings. I know this because I was present. The ‘friend’ held nothing back in what I felt was a rude presentation involving his own opinion and what he called the opinions of others. I listened, incredulous, while my son, a young man dealing with delayed social issues, soaked it all in. I could tell he was a bit embarrassed, disappointed, and yet anxious to learn social mores from his friend. Finally, I could no longer stay silent.
My first inclination was to turn around and slap the boy who was dispensing this vitriol with a sickening ‘I’m just trying to help,’ sweetness. Like hell, he was. I sensed his own bias and my blood boiled to a fever pitch. But, my son is a teenager, and mommy to the rescue is not the approach that will work in the long run. Instead I pointed out a few (not all) fallacies in the friend’s delivery. He backed off a bit, perhaps feeling he had overstepped a few bounds. Well, duh.
We dropped off the friend and my son was quiet, but not despondent. However, the damage had been done. A friend, someone he considers a good friend, didn’t shut up when he should have.
I felt hot tears behind my eyes.. and while my son seemed OK, I wasn’t. He heard things about himself, spoken under the guise of friendship, that should have never been said. I took a few moments alone and resolved to address this with him, even though he was on to something else.
I made him turn off the TV and look at me while I spoke. I wanted him to hear what I had to say and see me say it. I told him his friend had been rude and insensitive.. and that while there was a grain of truth to one aspect of his diatribe, most of it was bunk. I told him that if he never heard anything else I said to him as a teenager.. to hear this: there is nothing wrong with you. Don’t believe for a second you have to be like anyone else. Yes, you are quirky and individualistic. If people don’t get this about you and think you are weird, you don’t want to know them anyway. You will find your people and they’ll get you. Don’t think you have to be someone else–ever.
Somewhere in my venting, I used the wording of “not giving a rat’s ass about what someone else thinks.. but being true to yourself.” This made him smile. I rarely, if ever, use the word “ass”.. I made him look me in the eye and hear my tone. I wanted him to know I was deadly serious. I think he got it.
He will hear things.. I can’t stop that. But I can teach him how to process them.. and provide him with tools to deal with criticism– warranted or not.
To me, tonight’s episode felt like an attack on my child. I can only imagine how it felt to him. Although, boys handle these situations with more detached indifference than girls. But I saw in his eyes what I saw.. and my heart would not allow it to just sit there and become worse, without some sort of parental intervention. He is, after all.. only 14.. hardly equipped to sluff off such things without at least some degree of consideration.
Someone attacking your young is so much worse than an assault on oneself. I hated this.. but after setting the record straight with my boy, it feels cleaner, better.. and more hopeful than just letting him sit in the sludge doled out earlier this evening.
He will see and associate with this friend.. but an adult he trusts has given him the truth about what was said. Maybe it will help. My heart can hope.
Age 4: Adored by my older siblings, drama queen, Daddy’s girl, hate having my hair washed.
Age 14: Massive crush on Omar Sharif, have seen Dr. Zhivago in the theater 11 times, hate that my mom makes me cut my long hair, get braces, take a trip to California, Nevada and Utah with my blonde, nubile older sister. She appears on Let’s Make A Deal and wins a boat, while I sit in the audience and watch her do it.
Age 24: Mother of one, married to a nice man, worrying that I’m not doing it right, canning fruit, cleaning house and baking cookies. I’m loving it all–even the worrying.
Age 34: Mother of four, still married to the nice man but it’s shaky, addicted to tanning, compulsive shopping, loving mothering, still baking cookies and worrying.
Age 44: Mother of five, grandmother of one, hanging onto sliding marriage, children leaving home, wanting to write and run, feeling guilty about everything, best friend fighting breast cancer, looking for something I can’t find, still baking cookies and loving mothering, but afraid of what happens when it’s only me and the nice man left at home.
Age 54: Working writer, divorced mother of five, grandmother of three, administrative assistant, rarely feel guilty, hardly ever bake cookies, still see movies in the theater multiple times, wear my hair long, my best friend is still alive in the world, constantly trying to face fears, still friends with the nice man, enjoying single life for now, but looking forward to another nice man someday, figuring out how to mother older children, grateful, happier than before, anticipating, tasting, relaxing more than ever.
It’s all about dreaming lately. Not sure why. No, wait.. I am sure why. There are things I want to do.. and in my own bumbling way, I’m figuring them out–with the help of Amazon.com.
Recently, I ordered a few items and it wasn’t until later I saw the pattern in my purchases.. and I have to admit it surprised and delighted me a little.
Carolyn See’s memoir, Dreaming: Hard Luck And Good Times In America, is a book I’ve wanted to read for a long time. These pages are brutal and excruciatingly honest– sometimes making them hard to read. But that didn’t stop me from inhaling all 300 pages of this book like a new lover. When I wasn’t reading it I wanted to be. When I was, I didn’t want to stop. See has me hooked. Her colorful, wild life is what prompted the book’s final sentence: “It has to do with dreaming, inventing, imagining, yearning, and there’s more of it–like blue smoke–in the American Dream than we’re ever, ever, going to be able to acknowledge or admit.”
Can’t Stop Dreaming by Daryl Hall (Hall and Oates) is a CD I’ve had on my mind for awhile, too.
Hall’s vocals are urgent, and his serpentine voice glides over the scale and back again in an instant. He makes it sound easy. I’ve been a fan of his forever. And whaddaya know–the cuts are almost all about dreaming! There’s even one I think Hall must have included as an homage to Marvin Gaye’s What’s Goin’ On? He calls it All By Myself. Oooooh baby.
I loved these purchases. However, there’s another item, even meatier and more interesting in some ways, that scares me a little. I think it’s because it requires more of the recipient than just breathing or listening–it wants us to participate. And particularly because of this book’s origins and my own dreaming–I want to.
You Can Do It–The Merit Badge Handbook For Grownup Girls by Lauren Catuzzi Grandcolas is a celebration of her life that, although was ultimately put together by her sisters, was conceptualized by Lauren. She had the idea in the works when her life ended abruptly on United flight 93 on September 11, 2001. Her sisters, Vaughn Lohec and Dara Near kept Lauren’s dream alive by completing a book she undoubtedly would have loved.
Merit badges range from sky diving to knitting to learning how to negotiate. Each one features a mentor who dishes out inspiration and instruction, complete with a sticker merit badge to put wherever you want. This book reminds me that although I’m not particularly interested in trying everything within its pages, there’s a world of creativity and challenge that awaits those wanting to live fully.
What Catuzzi-Grandcolas’s book invites me to do is think not only outside the box, but everywhere that’s NOT the box. It encourages me to live my dreams.. and maybe even a few things that weren’t ever on that list, but might be fun to try.
When dreaming becomes tangible, whether in books we are drawn to, music we seek out or activities that invite personal risk, we need to listen. It’s easy to fall into insentience.. to barely keep up with the status quo. No wonder we find ourselves unconsciously watching the Frasier marathon on Lifetime. Life’s too much to handle sometimes.
But that’s because we forget to dream. Dreaming isn’t about lamenting something we never get. It’s about nudging us to action..
Not long ago, on a Sunday night when life did not feel warm and fuzzy, I drove to a nearby bay. I parked my car so I had a view of the sunset, dined on a baked potato I brought along (one of the ultimate comfort foods), wrote down feelings that were spilling over, and shot this pic as the sun dropped.
Silence, a baked potato and beautiful water.. each on their own is a pretty good deal. Together they were spectacular.
My friend Megan Pincus Kajitani has tagged me for a meme about consumer consciousness.
I’m not much of a shopper.. and I fear that any comments I make about my own buying habits will be dreadfully boring. However, according to the meme instructions, items I purchased at the grocery store last weekend qualify.. so here goes:
1. What are you proud of?
Well, the word ‘proud’ seems a bit ostentatious for the likes of anything I bought, but I suppose if I had to choose.. it would be the produce: tomatoes, celery, Yukon Gold potatoes, an avocado and a pear. I hadn’t felt well for a couple of days and as I was trying to shore up strength, this relatively healthy fare found its way into my cart.
2. What are you embarrassed by?
It would have to be the huge, chocolate chunk (not just ‘chip’) cookies I bought at the store bakery. Reason for embarrassment? I was supposed to make cookies for a children’s gathering the next day.. and I’d felt rotten enough that I didn’t want to bake.. so I bought the best darn cookies I could find! I didn’t eat any of them.. but still had the pervading guilt I should have baked rather than bought. What is it with that, anyway?
3. What do think you couldn’t live without?
Probably would have to be the crushed ice I bought (actually cubed ice). I have no ice maker on my fridge.. and water I drink HAS to be ice cold. This is non-negotiable– and yes, a bit indulgent.
4. What did you most enjoy purchasing?
This will seem a tad pathetic (I don’t get out much).. but those great energy saving light bulbs were on sale.. and I bought one for the back porch. I was THRILLED to get home and screw that puppy into the socket!
5. What were you most tempted by? (This last one may or may not be an actual purchase!)
It was probably the big ole bottle of tomato juice. This is something I don’t generally buy..although I enjoy it. I think because I was feeling a bit under the weather, I just got it.. even though it was something I would normally consider too expensive.
This week I said goodbye to my son who is going to teach English in Austria for a year. It’s a dream job in a place he loves and in his world, things are pretty great right now.
I am thrilled he gets this opportunity.. I really am. It’s just that… um.. (insert spontaneous crying jag here).
Whenever a child leaves my company.. it aches–bad. This usually occurs when they’ve been home visiting for awhile and then they leave.
I believe a mother’s physical bearing of a child contributes to why it feels like such a palpable loss when they leave. It’s almost as if they are once again being expelled from the womb and there’s a part of you.. maybe like the placenta.. that wants to hang on. Once again, it’s like they are being torn from you. Only this time, they are doing the tearing. It’s usually for right and natural reasons. It’s also incredibly painful.
Loving a child is an experience of unrequited, unreciprocated devotion mixed with the sensation of constantly being in labor. Nothing incestuous implied here, but mother love has that corporeal history that other kinds of love do not. Maybe that’s the reason for the sickening ache at separation. There are definite physical undertones.
You madly want them to understand the depth of what you feel, but they can’t. Once when I was seeing my oldest son off at the airport, I told him that I adored him. His response? “I know you do, Mom.” I viewed this as a sweet acknowledgment of something he will probably never fully understand.. even though he now has a little boy at the center of his own adoration. I’m pretty sure fathers don’t feel this the way mothers do..although, I know they deeply love their children.
Sometimes I wonder if this is so acute for me because I had five children–my life was full of little ones and their lives for so many years.
I have a friend, a mother of four grown children, who refers to the events of children coming and going as “little deaths.” She’s right, you know. It’s that tearing away.. and saying goodbye every time that feels like grief incarnate.
And it’s not because I don’t have a life, other interests or important people in my life. It’s not because I sit around all day dreaming about my children or wishing they were at my side. And no, it’s not because I am jealous of their lives or wish to exert control over them.
It’s just that mother love is so different from any other kind of love. It’s unique in that it stays strong and deep and true..it doesn’t really evolve. It just is. In every person’s life.. mates, friends and others come and go.. but a mother is tied physically and emotionally to her child in a way that creates an impenetrable bond for her. It doesn’t matter who else is around or who else they love, a mother will almost always experience this ongoing depth of feeling for her son or daughter.
I know of mothers who don’t feel this way. They have children, they raise them.. and they even love them. They just aren’t attached to them. Sometimes mothering just doesn’t ‘take’ with certain women.
But I’m not talking about them. I think they represent a relatively small sector of the maternal population. Most of us are crazy in love with our kids.
A mother can be, and often is.. a child’s best friend, even a confidant. But her offspring will evolve, grow.. and develop other lasting and meaningful relationships–usually with a spouse and children. Once again, it’s right and good.. and you rejoice and then you cry because your child never feels the attachment like you feel it-at least they don’t feel it for you.
It’s sort of like having a crush on a rock star you never outgrow and that is never fulfilled. You have to learn to live with it.
I believe grown children love their parents in new and different ways. They begin to finally understand the cycle. Daughters in turn will get to experience that fierce mother love.. that longing and intensity for another person who can never return it in just that way.
Oye, the emotion.
During a lull on Oprah tonight I went to tidy up the kitchen.. and in a peripheral glance I saw something scuttle across the floor. My heart stopped as it always does under such circumstances.. especially this time of year when one can expect to see an occasional ‘big one.’ It wasn’t as huge as some I’ve seen, but large enough to induce the paralysis that settles over me when I catch a glimpse of one of these bad boys.
Spiders and I have a checkered past. No, that’s not true.. there’s nothing checkered about it. It’s been all bad. Tonight, alone in the house with no one else to take care of the dreaded eradication, I got mad. This is my first instinct. “What do you think you’re doing here??” I say to no one in particular. ” This is my house! No! You don’t belong here!” I feel my blood start to boil. Scared and mad.. that’s how I get. Granted, it’s an overreaction– but oh, well.
In the past I’ve resorted to any sort of aerosol.. which seems to slow an arachnid enough to really do some damage. Tonight the closest thing was cooking spray. I grabbed it. Spiders really hate spray of any kind.. and with good reason–it usually kills them.
The spray cornered this big guy.. then.. it crawled up under the cabinet (shudder). I ran to the garage and got the hard stuff.. Raid. I sprayed up under the cupboard.. again and again. I haven’t seen it since.. and I’ve spent the remainder of the evening checking the surrounding area.. and anywhere remotely close to my bed. Nothing. I sincerely hope that its sticky, rotting carcass is plastered to the cabinet’s underside. This spider’s notable absence from his family and friends should serve as fair warning to any others who may dare enter my domain. They should prepare to die.
Tiny spiders on webs drifting out of nowhere and even those little jumping ones get a free ride around here. But those bigger, beefier, hairier ones get the ax–ASPCA and PETA aside.
People say.. “Oh.. spiders are so useful.. they eat insects, and they are actually quite fascinating to watch.” Great. Let them go watch and sing the praises of these horrifying pests. I’m sorry.. but when I spot a 2 and a half pound creature with long, hairy legs roaming around the place, I prepare for carnage—-his.
Bedding up off the floor? Check. Bed moved away from the curtains? Check. My rapid heartbeat subsiding? Gradually.
Meanwhile, the can of Raid is poised for action. I’m taking no chances.
I think this particular meditation, though titled something different, is really about practicing generosity.
My friend, The Writer Mama has taken generosity and shaped it into an exquisite art form. Her writing and her life, it seems.. is all about how much she can give away.
It has been my habit, especially in late years, to pull back: Will there be enough? What if I do it wrong? What if people don’t like me? What if I don’t get enough attention? (Ouch.. that one hurts, but it’s true)
This pinched and limited way of being in the world never works long for me–at least not very well. I start feeling stifled, untrue to myself and others and exhausted. Every time I plunge into scarcity mode I view my retreat as protection from hurt or pain. The irony is, a scarcity mentality only brings more hurt and pain, not to mention isolation.
One might think I would learn the lesson I need to one of these times and stop the spiral. I think it’s getting better.
From Christina and others like her, I do continue to learn that putting the focus so wholly on someone else doesn’t diminish me as a woman, a writer, a mom or a human being. In fact, in some cosmic way, it makes me better–much more useful to others and happier than I would be hogging the spotlight for myself. And it’s refining somehow.. even relaxing.. to not have to be the center of the universe all the time.
Oddly enough.. when I’m generous with time, talent, money and ideas–the abundance I gave away–and more–comes back to me. When I employ a death grip hanging onto whatever I’m afraid of losing, I’ll lose it for sure.
I think this is called something–karma, the law of retribution or something else I can’t remember. Whatever it is.. it’s not magic.. it’s real.
I believe it’s in our natures to give, emote, share and nurture. And without trying to sound ‘woo-woo,’ I know this because of experiencing light and wholeness whenever I engage others in this way.
It can be exhausting to give–just like pulling back is. But if it’s done with the right intention, it’s a different kind of tired. It’s the kind that makes you want to get up in the morning and do it all over again the next day, rather than stay in bed with the covers over your head–something I’m sorry to say I’ve practiced a lot.
This is what I know: If we lovingly give away what we have, even if it’s everything we can muster– somehow–and probably in a way we won’t expect–we’ll get it all back in spades.
Not long ago, thanks to a salon visit, my face, except for eyelashes and eyebrows, was devoid of hair. It was as smooth as butter. I felt beautiful, desirable and 29 years old again–for about 47 minutes. That’s when those little nibs of hair started to grow back. 47 MINUTES! I guess it could have been a little longer than that, but not much.
Advancing age has made it necessary to regularly exfoliate so I don’t morph into someone resembling veteran actor Ernest Borgnine–or, even worse, Bert from Sesame Street, sporting an unrelenting uni-brow.
Since I turned 40, finding hair in annoying places has become a common occurrence–one I hate.
Today I was thinking about this: Every woman if she lives to be old enough, will most likely experience this lovely phenomenon. First, the little hairs coming out of the chin.. then the eyebrows get shaggy and without sufficient warning grow out of control.. then.. and here’s the kicker.. facial hair starts showing up all over the place–tiny protuberances everywhere that grow into full-blown hairs. Yuck.
That’s right– every woman. That means Halle Berry, Queen Elizabeth, Angelina Jolie, Condoleeza Rice, Miss Universe.. and me. And any other female that doesn’t subscribe to a more simian look and feel.
It comes down to the very real possibility of spending an hour or more every day in front of a mirror with a pair of tweezers–even after a facial wax.
I no longer look at a woman and wonder why “she doesn’t just pluck that thing off her chin.” She’s either taking a stand, is tired of the daily procedure or doesn’t care. Whatever the case I applaud her.
But since unwanted facial hair drives me nuts, I pluck, wax and tweeze with the masses. Waxing hurts, but for the momentary pleasure of experiencing a nubile face on a body that’s, well, not quite ‘all that’ anymore, I do it. And it feels really gooooooood.
Until the next time..
