A Mother's Taps

I'm halfway reclined on a charcoal gray leather couch, trying to read a Cheryl Strayed essay for a class that begins Wednesday. I'd wrongly bet the ranch that Wednesday would be relatively free, given that it's the second day of school and all. But now I'm thinking, Wednesday is the second day of school and all, and why do I ever count on the first week of school for anything except some mayhem. When will I learn?

But class, and a small procedure which I'm choosing not to contemplate too much, is coming. And at the other end of the gray couch is a little boy in a pink-striped pajama top and vehicle-themed undies. His head is just shorn, freed of the three months of summer 'ponytail' growth we'd come to brush away from his eyes and out of his ears.

All that hair, that clogged his goggles and frizzed so dramatically each morning, is gone. Cut and vacuumed away while his older brother and I grocery shopped for back-to-school gumbo and the always-needed new gallon of milk. 

I didn't even get to see a cut or finger a lock. Didn't say goodbye to that street urchin wig. And like that, one vision of summer is gone.

I glance down at this pink-clad wonder, one hand clasping his iPad, the other wrapped around his only slightly pudgy thigh. He's going on seven-and-a-half, and pudge is hard to come by these days. Adult teeth are coming in, his legs and feet are looking terribly manboyish, his slightly dirty nails, the ones on the hand clasping his thigh, seem older. I don't know how or why. They just do. 

“Do you want me to blow this thing up?” his precious, perfect, magnetic voice asks.

“No,” I say, wondering what he's talking about now. I pay attention to just about 40% of all Minecraft-related jabber these days. Now that I write that, the number seems incredibly high.

“Why not?” he asks. “I am going to because I can rebuild it. Also, I have a safe room. And do you know how well bonemeal makes things grow? You should see my carrots."

He is so little and yet not. What does he know of TNT and bonemeal and safe rooms and tidy nails? Not yet past the first page of Strayed's essay, I am so ready for school, and yet these moments.

They strip away the fatigue and the mind-numbing boredom, the bickering and the Legos everywhere. Strip, peel, slough, toss, leaving behind glossy, exfoliated memories, ephemeral snapshots that focus on the sweet and trim away the rest; the rest that ages, wears, begs to be forgotten. 

All I can hear and see and want to know is this precious creature who is mine. But Cheryl has just lost her mother, and the US Open is on, and this darling, blue-eyed Frenchman who looks straight out of 1983 is head to head with Rafa Nadal, a man I admire so much but who tonight reminds me of a balding rat, and Tom and I have only been teammates for days, nothing more. And carpool and schedules and my god the unread emails.

I shoo Ol upstairs to brush teeth and get ready for bed. I eat a salad of garden tomatoes and fresh mozzarella. I’ve had several glasses of wine. I've taken a bite of an offensively disappointing butter cookie. I've given it up with disdain.

I can hear the kids sorting Legos, as if their arms and hands are plastic-brick rakes. Will the raking yield the longed-for piece or does it matter? Is the raking meditative? Purposeful in its own way? I hear them talking and chatting, no longer fighting and ear-clapping out each other’s words. They adore each other. I hope they always do. But have they brushed those teeth?

I've not bothered to mark my place in Cheryl's essay. I'll just start over tomorrow-isn't that what I always say? Which is why I have so many hopefully saved articles to read on Facebook and on my night table and strewn about the house.

I've returned, instead, to Oliver Sacks' last book, On The Move, which I'm well into and love. What a man he was. I wonder, with regards to people like him, what might have been different if they'd had children. Would anything? Everything? Would their accomplishments be less? More? Quieter? 

How would I be different were I not a mother? Would I have not received that writing rejection today? Would I even be writing at all? What is one without the other? What would either be on its own?

Impossible to know. I have never for a second regretted having children, but I'd be lying if I said I didn't sometimes wonder about motherhood's costs. They feel mammoth in dark moments, irreplaceable gifts in the next. All the onions to chop for a big gumbo- the mound of tear-inducing alliums: will it ever end? Just a bit later all that work is but a stew of translucent rumors, there enough to make you sure of their crucial presence, mysterious enough to keep your doubt aflame.

One toddles downstairs-"I'm hungry, mama!"-as the cat starts to gag. I put away my book, relocate the cat from carpet to wood floor, wonder aloud if a cinnamon apple and an ants on a log will quiet the rumbling tummy. 

"Mama, did you invent ants on a log?"

"No, sweetie, it's been a snack for as long as I can remember."

The ants and their what? Mud? tumble to the floor. "It's OK, pick it all up. It's fine." And he laughs as he mashes the ants and peanut butter and whatever else is along for the ride back into the log. And he howls as fibrous ribbons stream away from the celery as he bites and chews, green ribbons going every which way.

Cheryl and Oliver and Tom and the cat and the Legos wait in the other room, as a little one and I dance, sticky with muck and rogue ants and streamers. And my sweet other comes down and says, "I'm hungry too."

Reentry: a mom leaves, returns, and restructures family life

Reentry

In mama parlance, the week following any child-free getaway is known as reentry. Every time I go away, I receive a flurry of friendly check-ins in the days after my return: "How's reentry going?" "How are the kids behaving?" "You ok?" I also send these notes to my girlfriends following their no-kids travel.

Sometimes sweet, at other times, reentry sucks.

When I first glimpse the boys after any multi-day separation, I find myself death-gripping them in loving embraces and also looking over them with some remove: do they look older? more tan? have longer hair? any missing teeth? It's funny how a relatively short time can look as if much more time has passed.

Return strategically

What looks long often feels very short, and before you know it, you are back.in.full.bore. For this reason, I urge you to return home from your vacation after the kids are asleep and, for a bonus, when they will go to camp or school the next day.

This realization was thrust upon me last Sunday because it takes most of a day to get to the east coast from its western counterpart. I left California at 9am pacific time and walked into my home at 9:30pm eastern. I was tired and felt grimy. I needed food. Because of all of that and because I was still hanging on to the peaceful zen I'd acquired en vacances, I was fully aware, pretty much immediately, that I was grateful the timing had worked the way it had. 

I could settle back in, cuddle with T and Nutmeg (both fairly quiet), get some sleep and then wake with the boys, rested and ready for the reunion. Rested 6am hugs and squeals and the inevitable sock in the face by some flailing little boy limb is definitely something I can do; it is preferable to hugs, squeals and the inevitable sock when also dirty, tired, and strung out from air travel and fellow passengers.

Consider that a return might be an opportunity for a dynamic shift?

That first morning, I hugged and nuzzled and packed lunches and kissed my bigger/taller/tanner/longer-haired/teeth intact children goodbye as they left with T and headed to camp.

And then I exhaled and looked cheerfully upon the eight hours of solitude ahead. 

A carpenter arrived to do some work, I unpacked and did laundry, caught up on emails, grocery shopped and showered, all the while musing about what felt so good about being away and on my own besides the relative novelty of it.

• I engaged with interesting, funny, inspiring not-related-to-me people for a week straight.
• I had alone time when I needed it and stimulation and new opportunity when I needed that.
• I learned stuff, used my brain, thought deeply.
• I slept more than seven hours each night.
• I took time to read and exercise and also to sit and do nothing. I felt no guilt associated with any of that.
• I didn't do anything I didn't want to do.

On the one hand, all of that seems like Vacation 101--or, Seeing Best Friends and Attending a Neat Conference 101--but on the other hand, it doesn't seem like a laundry list of Xanadu pipe dreams (the Olivia Newton-John Xanadu, y'all, not Kublai Khan's). 

In other words, it seems like the sort of living that daily life could more closely approximate.

I sat with this a-ha wonderment all day. In the garden, in the shower, while buying toilet paper, and while transferring darks from the washer to the dryer. And I became determined, hellfire determined, to point our family dynamic (or my dynamic within the family?) toward the vacation-at-home north star.

I picked the boys up at 4:45, overjoyed to see their happy, dirty faces. They're at Calleva right now and are outside all day- fishing, kayaking, rapid swimming, rock climbing, pony riding, shooting bows and arrows, traversing ropes courses, and working at the farm. They come home filthy. Filthy!

Their ankles are ringed with dirt, toe cracks stuffed with nature's detritus, faces painted with a blend of river water, sweat, and muck. Their lunch boxes, oh lord, y'all should see and smell their lunch boxes. And I think of all that is just the sort of thing kids should do and be during the summers. I love it!

We headed to 2 Amys to resume our after-Calleva tradition of Monday dinner there.

Avoid overcompensating

Often after I return from time away, I overcompensate. I "make up" for leaving, and within a day I'm exhausted. 

Not this time. I walked slowly, I did not rush. I did not answer every question shot at me, nor did I look at every line drawn in real time. I was present and engaged but I kept some for me, not least by refusing to look out the restaurant window when they went outside, pretended to be dogs by crawling on the ground, and lifted a leg in faux-pee. I cannot encourage that, y’all.

On Tuesday, J was talking a mile a minute while simultaneously asking me to engage in 85 ways, and look and respond and see. I could feel my heart quicken under the onslaught, but instead of freaking out as the tidal wave approached, I took a deep breath and with love in my voice and eyes said, "Sweetie, I'm not going to interact like this. I'm not going to be on, on, on all the time."

He said, "Ok, Mom. Right!" because this is not the first time I've said all of that but it might be the first time he could hear how much I meant it. The tidal wave petered out.

He (more calmly) told me about camp and I told him how great my trip was, how good for me it was, what I learned and what I enjoyed. He quietly built something in Minecraft, and Ol expanded the Lego base he's been working on for two months. 

For the second day in a row, I didn't even consider going upstairs to ensure that they bathed. I said, "Sweeties, go on up and shower, and then we can have dinner and start our movie."

Wednesday and Thursday, same song third and fourth verses. I taught a class and registered for a multi-month writing class I've eyed for a while now. I worked in the garden and got a mammogram (tip to all who've not yet entered this stage of life: Don't, under any circumstance when you're in the vise-grip, look down. You do NOT need to see your breasts in that state of being.) When the boys are home, I give them a lot but I keep some for me.

Leave and Let Everyone Shine

My week away (a must for all parents who can fly the coop for a bit) and my determination to hold on to a good amount of that way of living has been wonderful for me but also, I think, for the kids. Tom is a great dad but he does not consider doing, and never has, some of the things I do in terms of parent-child interactions. There's a lot to be learned from that.

He also likes to do some things that I really don’t, like taking the kids swimming for two hours and painstakingly building light saber hilts from wood and PVC.

Since I’ve been back, I’ve let him keep the reins he took hold of while I was gone. I mean, if I don’t let someone else help drive, how can I fault them for not doing so? He has gotten up with the kids every morning, done breakfast, made coffee, and driven the boys to camp. Jack jumped on the bandwagon two days ago and packed his and Oliver’s lunches on his own accord. Excuse me, did someone steal my child and replace him with an engaged-in-household affairs doppelganger? I accept!

The thing is, T feels good when he knows he’s helping me. As well, it is meaningful for him to be equally involved when he’s home because of how the kids respond. They establish their own relationships on their own terms, not on mine.

When Jack steps up and receives truthful, thrilled praise, he beams, learns a lot about giving back and helping, and is inclined to do more.   

As I did by virtue of leaving (and let me say that a week may sound long, but it really reset everything in the best way), I also need to step back when I’m here. I need to ensnare my Take Care of Everyone in the World compulsion and toss away about 30% of it because not only does it take agency away from others but also it’s just too much to shoulder.

When the dynamic has shifted, don’t turn back!

There have been moments this week in which I or the kids have reverted into patterns I really don't want any of us to return to. Fortunately, because I am still rested and zen and they are at camp from 8am - 4:40pm (these are really good hours, y'all), I've had the reserve to both realize what's happening and alter course, back toward the vacation-at-home north star.

Quantity of time spent together really isn't as important as the quality of it. Equally true is that each of us must honor and make time for all of the facets of our lives that make our souls sing. When we starve a few, the whole is weakened.

I came back from my week away as a happier, more fulfilled mother and Tom and the boys were thriving. Here's to this being our new normal!

A call for compassion and apolitical morality

People, it is SO hot outside. Going out is like putting your face as close as possible to an oven that's been on high broil for three hours and then opening the door. You reel back, stunned by the heavy slap of heat; your limbs wither immediately and your skin beads with moisture. Sweat drips down chest and back, the hair at the nape of your neck dampens with breakneck speed. Inhalation makes you wonder if you have or need gills. 

I feel enormously grateful to have an air-conditioned home and that the class I taught at Strosniders earlier today was inside rather than out, as it has been for years. Today's was a terrific class- lots of people, friendly faces and new ones, great energy. Thanks to all who came!

I pulled up to the store just after 8am and saw a woman sitting under a tree on the sidewalk that immediately abuts the parking lot. She had two pull-carts with her, each stacked with plastic storage boxes and bags, and strung with water bottles, helpful hooks and straps. She was wearing shorts, and her hair was pulled up in a clip. I could see that the tendrils hanging down her neck were wet.

As I put my car into park, I noticed her lower legs. Her calves were so swollen and reddish purple that I did a double-take. They looked waxy and cracked. They looked enormously painful.

Her ankles and lower calves were wrapped in layers of fresh-looking gauze, but even so, the bandages were stained with what was weeping from underneath them. My heart pinched, and I fought back tears of worry as I ferried my canning pot and supplies inside.

I returned to the car to get another load and approached her gently. "Excuse me, ma'am, may I buy you some breakfast from the bakery here?"

She turned to me, her beautiful blue eyes clear and sparkling. "Oh no, I'm fine. I have some food and water here, and really, it's almost too hot to eat a thing."

"Are you sure? I'd be so happy to help you if you're hungry or thirsty. It's SO hot."

"If you can imagine," she said in a soft, sweet voice, "it was even hotter than this at 3am this morning. I'd just gotten back here from Twinbrook, and you always think it's going to be cooler in the dark, but it wasn't. My goodness, at least there's a little breeze now." She smiled broadly, revealing a mouth missing most of its teeth.

We talked a bit more, and I again offered a meal, but to no avail. I wish I'd asked if she needed some Advil or something, but I suspect that lovely woman would have demurred.

"Take good care of yourself today," I said.

"You too, and thank you so much for the kind offer," she replied.

She was gone when I left class a few hours later, and I have thought about her since, continuing to marvel at her grace. I hope she is OK. I hope she can get some care for her legs. She seems to walk a lot, to carry her belongings with her on those sturdy carts. If the look of her calves was any indication of discomfort, she must suffer so much.

***

Yesterday, while the boys were at camp, I logged into Facebook and saw a few private notes on Messenger. I clicked the first one open and was so happy to see they were from a friend who I've not seen since the school year ended. I adore this woman and wish we crossed paths more.

By default, I expected a basic check in, how's summer going, what's new. Instead, I read of her fear about the upcoming Presidential election.
"I watched George Takei's video...what a powerful message...I can't imagine the pain those families went through. And now, 'a Mexican is a Mexican.'(1) Can you imagine? My kids keep asking if something will happen to us."

My heart pinched again in a big, yukky way. She and her husband are incredible people. Their children and bright lights, smart and vibrant. She dedicates huge amounts of time to our kids' school. He is one of the warmest, most intelligent men I know. They came to the States because they are talented and were recruited to work here. Because they have so much to offer.

It has not been without sacrifice. They miss, strenuously, their extended families back in Mexico. Where they once had the proverbial village, here they don't really feel they do both because of distance from grandparents and cousins but also because American culture and communities have become so diffuse and inward.

"You can always call me," I've told her many times before. And in her answer I see what so many of us feel: But do you really mean that? Can I really call? Mightn't it burden you?

I do mean it, but I understand her skepticism. And I am heartbroken that her children are fearful, that little kids even think to ask that question. Mine never have. For her family and for so many others like them to live looking over their shoulders, to worry deeply about the safety in tomorrow and next month and next year is, simply, wrong. 

***

Earlier this week, as I slogged through the ugly, hateful, bigoted, fear-based vitriol being spewed from Cleveland, I found myself wondering what had happened to non-partisan morality. To non-partisan compassion. To bearing witness to the plights and pain of fellow people and feeling an innate desire to help because helping is right and good, not because of what team they bat for. 

When I see a woman with swollen, red-purple, cracking, weeping calves, I don't see a political identification. I see a human being who needs assistance. 

When I hear the anguish in my friend's fears, I don't see Republican or Democrat. I see a human being who needs support and community, who deserves to feel safe.

When I watch the pain in Diamond Reynold's face, the frustration and fatigue and heartbreak flashing in the eyes of oppressed communities of color, the agony in the trembling bodies of wives and children burying husbands and fathers slain in the line of duty, I see humans who have endured violence no one should have to experience. 

None of these sights should be political, but all have become so, and that is a national tragedy and a collective moral failing. 

The Republicans have tried to repeal the Affordable Care Act roughly SIXTY-TWO times since it was passed in 2010 and rolled out in 2013. The ACA is imperfect; no one disputes that. But since a 2013 high of 18% of Americans under 65 uninsured, we are now at a record low of 9.1% uninsured in that same group. Only by continuing to expand access, lower costs, and increase the ways in which people can obtain health care will we be able to reach more and more people like the woman I met this morning.

My friends are fully legal immigrants. Their fear is not based on being here without permission (not, in short on problems with our immigration system which does desperately need addressing) but instead, and wholly, derives from the xenophobic language embraced by Trump and a sadly huge number of his Republican supporters. 

Trump and too many Republicans tell us daily that we are in great danger from all fronts:

Islamic terrorists abroad and at home which means we should ban all Muslims from America; Mexican "rapists and criminals" are swarming across our border to harm us and so we must build a huge wall and shut them out; transgender people want to use our restrooms to access and defile children and so we must shut them out of the restrooms they prefer to use; the threat of death and financial ruin is around every brown and black and progressive corner and so we must arm ourselves, renege on the alliances that have helped us stand strong with our allies (imperfectly in financial terms, I admit that, but we are an exceedingly wealthy country) since 1949.

The use of fear and jingoism to oppress and overpower and rule dictatorially is as old as the sun, but it never loses its atrocious glare. That Trump and his cronies would stoop to such depths is appalling; that people respond to his fear-mongering and bigotry with zeal is ugly and craven and scary. Watching the rabid calls and answers from that convention hall last week was terrifying political theater. 

Actually, "theater" implies something far less sinister than the Trump-Pence-do-anything-to-get-power crew seems to have planned. 

To scream that Black Lives Matter protesters are terrorists and that Hillary should be locked up and then killed for treason (a death threat in my opinion),
to aver that come inauguration the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau will be abolished and that a President Trump will appoint judges who are staunchly pro-life and anti-gay marriage in the hopes of overturning Roe v Wade and reversing the Supreme Court's decision on marriage equality,
to continue to claim that climate change is a hoax (per the RNC platform, "we demand an immediate halt to U.S. funding for the U.N.’s Framework Convention on Climate Chang") and that stem cell research must be banned...

These are not ways forward. These are not beliefs based on inclusion and respect for difference. These are NOT ways of ensuring that everyone is entitled to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.

They ensure quite the opposite and that is neither moral nor compassionate. 

We desperately need to do better, and I deeply believe that the best option for our immediate future is by voting for Clinton and Kaine in November. 

(1) Back then, they simply said, “A Jap is a Jap,” and we lost our homes and freedom, even though two thirds of us were U.S. citizens.
Today, Trump tells his supporters that a “Mexican is a Mexican.” -from Takei's speech