5/26/08
5/19/08
Snippets from my morning
Walking the dog and the girls this morning before setting the day into motion:
A spotlight of sunlight falling through the leafy canopy overhead finds a boy between the ages of four and five, with a mop of dark curly hair framing plump cheeks, dark eyes and rosy lips. He stands on a square of thick green grass, his arms lifting and holding a girl not older than two. His back arches with the effort. She hangs long below his arms, her feet barely off the ground. Her hair is also dark and curly; her eyes study some point in deep space and drool strings out of her bemused mouth, highlighted as a backlit spider web in a garden. Her yellow sundress rides up as he adjusts her in his arms.
There is noise, but it is like watching them through a window -- or a frame somehow. It is idyllic and silent. They glow.
As we draw closer the boy awkwardly twists his body this way and that to walk across the sidewalk toward a car parked on the street. He is laughing. The girl has noticed us and keeps her eyes on us, her head slowly rotating to keep us in sight as they move jerkily forward.
Shortly behind them comes a father, overloaded with briefcase, lunch bags, a diaper bag, his suit jacket and a steaming travel mug.
"I can't carry her anymore. I can't carry her anymore," the boy says, his voice still full of play, as he continues to move toward the street.
"Well, don't, DON'T," the dad's voice is not playful, grows more urgent as the boy walks across the last of the mat of thick grass, approaching the street curb. He has his hand out as far as he can extend it without dropping anything.
And then, at the last minute, dad sloughs off everything and reaches for the girl just as the boy lets go. She clutches him, and he sighs.
As we pass the boy finally sees us. He laughs and points at the dog.
Dropping my children off with my mom before coming here to write:
I pull up in my VW Passat wagon on the opposite side of the street. This is a Monday morning inconvenience. My mother's side of the street is closed for cleaning. But at least there is parking available, I think; and so is the inconvenience of crossing one of Midtown's arterials with two small children, purse, and laptop in arms mitigated.
At my first pass, I have inadvertently parked the car so that Kay's door is blocked by a historic marker. With a sigh of exasperation, I buckle Dee back into her car seat and open my door. Without closing it, I start the car and pull a few feet forward.
As I sat, I saw a woman across the street begin to cross. I look up now and realize she is not just crossing the street, but approaching me.
She is disheveled, wearing a dark t-shirt washed so many times it is threadbare, its pronouncement or design now lost to time, with navy pants that are far too big for her -- and she is large. Her hair has not been brushed today. But her face is clean, open and sincere, and she stays at an appropriate distance. Though I sense impending discomfort, I am without anxiety.
"Hey lady," she says, holding out a cell phone and charger, cupped in her hands like a buddhist monk's alms bowl. "Can you take me to the nearest Verizon store? My phone, it's not working. I know you don't know me, but I just don't have... I just don't have..."
She slowly looks down at the phone and the charger and then lifts her eyes back to me. Her voice is barely audible. "I just don't have."
I cock my head to the side. I think I am considering this and then find myself saying, "I'm so sorry. I don't even know where the Verizon store is, and I..."
And she turns before I can finish, dropping her hands by her sides, the phone and charger still in them. For a second I consider running after her, but the logistics of this swamp me. I have my children with me. I leave my car with my mom on Monday mornings so that she can get them to a class they all take together. I really don't know where the Verizon store is.
By the time I have both girls out of the car, she is no where in sight. I am wondering how long she -- and my response to her -- will haunt me.
A spotlight of sunlight falling through the leafy canopy overhead finds a boy between the ages of four and five, with a mop of dark curly hair framing plump cheeks, dark eyes and rosy lips. He stands on a square of thick green grass, his arms lifting and holding a girl not older than two. His back arches with the effort. She hangs long below his arms, her feet barely off the ground. Her hair is also dark and curly; her eyes study some point in deep space and drool strings out of her bemused mouth, highlighted as a backlit spider web in a garden. Her yellow sundress rides up as he adjusts her in his arms.
There is noise, but it is like watching them through a window -- or a frame somehow. It is idyllic and silent. They glow.
As we draw closer the boy awkwardly twists his body this way and that to walk across the sidewalk toward a car parked on the street. He is laughing. The girl has noticed us and keeps her eyes on us, her head slowly rotating to keep us in sight as they move jerkily forward.
Shortly behind them comes a father, overloaded with briefcase, lunch bags, a diaper bag, his suit jacket and a steaming travel mug.
"I can't carry her anymore. I can't carry her anymore," the boy says, his voice still full of play, as he continues to move toward the street.
"Well, don't, DON'T," the dad's voice is not playful, grows more urgent as the boy walks across the last of the mat of thick grass, approaching the street curb. He has his hand out as far as he can extend it without dropping anything.
And then, at the last minute, dad sloughs off everything and reaches for the girl just as the boy lets go. She clutches him, and he sighs.
As we pass the boy finally sees us. He laughs and points at the dog.
Dropping my children off with my mom before coming here to write:
I pull up in my VW Passat wagon on the opposite side of the street. This is a Monday morning inconvenience. My mother's side of the street is closed for cleaning. But at least there is parking available, I think; and so is the inconvenience of crossing one of Midtown's arterials with two small children, purse, and laptop in arms mitigated.
At my first pass, I have inadvertently parked the car so that Kay's door is blocked by a historic marker. With a sigh of exasperation, I buckle Dee back into her car seat and open my door. Without closing it, I start the car and pull a few feet forward.
As I sat, I saw a woman across the street begin to cross. I look up now and realize she is not just crossing the street, but approaching me.
She is disheveled, wearing a dark t-shirt washed so many times it is threadbare, its pronouncement or design now lost to time, with navy pants that are far too big for her -- and she is large. Her hair has not been brushed today. But her face is clean, open and sincere, and she stays at an appropriate distance. Though I sense impending discomfort, I am without anxiety.
"Hey lady," she says, holding out a cell phone and charger, cupped in her hands like a buddhist monk's alms bowl. "Can you take me to the nearest Verizon store? My phone, it's not working. I know you don't know me, but I just don't have... I just don't have..."
She slowly looks down at the phone and the charger and then lifts her eyes back to me. Her voice is barely audible. "I just don't have."
I cock my head to the side. I think I am considering this and then find myself saying, "I'm so sorry. I don't even know where the Verizon store is, and I..."
And she turns before I can finish, dropping her hands by her sides, the phone and charger still in them. For a second I consider running after her, but the logistics of this swamp me. I have my children with me. I leave my car with my mom on Monday mornings so that she can get them to a class they all take together. I really don't know where the Verizon store is.
By the time I have both girls out of the car, she is no where in sight. I am wondering how long she -- and my response to her -- will haunt me.
5/16/08
Me on the Canvas
This morning I was working at Weatherstone when a group of mothers with children gathered at the table next to me. All of them were in their 30s, outfitted in hip-boutique gear, from the clothes they and their children wore to sippy cups, diaper bags and strollers. Their oldests were all two years old or slightly younger.
One of them, looking exceptionally well put together, had a five week old infant and a daughter probably 18 to 19 months older (the spread of my own children); two were just announcing their first trimester pregnancies to each other; the fourth was hoping to have another and recently trying. Her child was the oldest of the crew.
They were trying to have adult conversation while attending to the exploring, nursing, dancing, jumping toddlers in their midst.
If I hadn't gone into the headspace in which I compare myself unfavorably nearly automatically to anyone with mulitple matching data points, I would have been feeling very warm and friendly toward them. They were good with their children and good to each other's children. Their conversation was not boring -- though, by necessity and effect, due to the presence of their children if nothing else, it was also not profound and deeply stimulating. They would have reminded me of my own mom's group a year ago.
Instead, I was comparing my still-loaded with post-pregnancy (and post-post-pregnancy) weight body in my stained Cherokee t-shirt and Wrangler shorts to their nifty, composed, and stylish exteriors.
I think this is why it took me so long to really make sense of what was said, when as they were parting, and one of the newly pregnant mothers asked the mother newly of two children how it was going, the mother of two said, "Well, the first couple of weeks were good -- XX's mom was with us, I highly recommend that if you can do it -- and then the third and fourth weeks were really hard, but things are great now. It is SO much more manageable than I worried it would be."
"Things are great now?" I thought to myself -- and immediately began questioning why I had thought it was so hard, for so long, having two. I felt so deeply at odds for the first several months, so deeply torn by the existence of two children who needed me equally -- one long accustomed to having me all to herself, and the other who was just never going to get me as totally as the first had for so long (though she was, by all rights, equally deserving). Juggling their (not to mention my own) competing needs is still the biggest challenge of parenting for me, but by now that act feels "normal," rather than a daily emotional crisis for which I never feel like I gain traction toward sustainability, much less balance.
"So much more manageable?"
I thought of the multiple attempts my 15 month old daughter made just this morning to shove her sister out of the way and take the book I was reading to her sister from my hands. The book her sister had patiently (with great effort) waited for her turn to hear. My baby girl, who has recently learned to use the word "no!" with conviction, but not yet the "please" that her sister is now required to add to every request she makes.
I thought of their frequent hitting and biting, hair-pulling and pushing.
I thought of a recent moment when they were running in opposite directions, both toward the street.
Manageable? -- barely.
Maybe, I began to think, I'm just not as good of a mother as she is. Maybe my emotional intensity bogs me down, prevents me from being the happy-go-lucky mother who would always maintain an even keel and project a calm and a sense of fun that makes her children feel so safe and secure that they don't jockey for attention or make crazy willful breaks for the street.
It was at least thirty minutes into this train of thought when I remembered that the woman's second child is FIVE WEEKS old. Maybe the third and fourth weeks were just the toughest yet. In fact, that is almost certainly the case.
Honestly, I don't wish for her, or for anyone, to have a hard time with motherhood. But it was a relief to consider that maybe she: (a) doesn't really have any idea what she's in for yet; and (b) (and this one took a long time for me consider, but seemed obvious when I did) was trying not to scare the bejeesus out of her newly pregnant friends, and/or appear ungrateful to her trying to get pregnant friend.
For some reason, that thought was like a pass to a whole different perspective on myself, too. The thing is, ultimately, I believe I am well served by the emotional intensity and complexity with which I respond to my life. It isn't always pleasant. It's often murky and uncomfortable. But it undeniably adds nuance and richness to my experience that, according to my observation and limited understanding, isn't part of everyone's. And that belief derives from -- or is grounded by -- this strange little thought: that I belong on the canvas of human history. Me, my story, my perspective are part of a bigger picture under creation, in development -- however you want to put it. And so, I feel invited to live a little closer to the deeper truths of my experience. The painful parts as well as joyful parts.
I hope to pass along to my daughters this perspective: that they too (that we all) are part of the big picture, the biggest picture one can imagine -- and that to play their part, they have to show up like THEY show up, and not the way anyone else shows up. Even if sometimes that means in a stained, decidedly un-hip t-shirt.
It was nice to be reminded, however circuitously, of that myself. And that, for better or for worse, I show up in my teensy tiny corner of the canvas as the mother of these children, my children. Me, in all my faulty glory with them and all of theirs. And it's beautiful -- that big picture. A Masterpiece.
One of them, looking exceptionally well put together, had a five week old infant and a daughter probably 18 to 19 months older (the spread of my own children); two were just announcing their first trimester pregnancies to each other; the fourth was hoping to have another and recently trying. Her child was the oldest of the crew.
They were trying to have adult conversation while attending to the exploring, nursing, dancing, jumping toddlers in their midst.
If I hadn't gone into the headspace in which I compare myself unfavorably nearly automatically to anyone with mulitple matching data points, I would have been feeling very warm and friendly toward them. They were good with their children and good to each other's children. Their conversation was not boring -- though, by necessity and effect, due to the presence of their children if nothing else, it was also not profound and deeply stimulating. They would have reminded me of my own mom's group a year ago.
Instead, I was comparing my still-loaded with post-pregnancy (and post-post-pregnancy) weight body in my stained Cherokee t-shirt and Wrangler shorts to their nifty, composed, and stylish exteriors.
I think this is why it took me so long to really make sense of what was said, when as they were parting, and one of the newly pregnant mothers asked the mother newly of two children how it was going, the mother of two said, "Well, the first couple of weeks were good -- XX's mom was with us, I highly recommend that if you can do it -- and then the third and fourth weeks were really hard, but things are great now. It is SO much more manageable than I worried it would be."
"Things are great now?" I thought to myself -- and immediately began questioning why I had thought it was so hard, for so long, having two. I felt so deeply at odds for the first several months, so deeply torn by the existence of two children who needed me equally -- one long accustomed to having me all to herself, and the other who was just never going to get me as totally as the first had for so long (though she was, by all rights, equally deserving). Juggling their (not to mention my own) competing needs is still the biggest challenge of parenting for me, but by now that act feels "normal," rather than a daily emotional crisis for which I never feel like I gain traction toward sustainability, much less balance.
"So much more manageable?"
I thought of the multiple attempts my 15 month old daughter made just this morning to shove her sister out of the way and take the book I was reading to her sister from my hands. The book her sister had patiently (with great effort) waited for her turn to hear. My baby girl, who has recently learned to use the word "no!" with conviction, but not yet the "please" that her sister is now required to add to every request she makes.
I thought of their frequent hitting and biting, hair-pulling and pushing.
I thought of a recent moment when they were running in opposite directions, both toward the street.
Manageable? -- barely.
Maybe, I began to think, I'm just not as good of a mother as she is. Maybe my emotional intensity bogs me down, prevents me from being the happy-go-lucky mother who would always maintain an even keel and project a calm and a sense of fun that makes her children feel so safe and secure that they don't jockey for attention or make crazy willful breaks for the street.
It was at least thirty minutes into this train of thought when I remembered that the woman's second child is FIVE WEEKS old. Maybe the third and fourth weeks were just the toughest yet. In fact, that is almost certainly the case.
Honestly, I don't wish for her, or for anyone, to have a hard time with motherhood. But it was a relief to consider that maybe she: (a) doesn't really have any idea what she's in for yet; and (b) (and this one took a long time for me consider, but seemed obvious when I did) was trying not to scare the bejeesus out of her newly pregnant friends, and/or appear ungrateful to her trying to get pregnant friend.
For some reason, that thought was like a pass to a whole different perspective on myself, too. The thing is, ultimately, I believe I am well served by the emotional intensity and complexity with which I respond to my life. It isn't always pleasant. It's often murky and uncomfortable. But it undeniably adds nuance and richness to my experience that, according to my observation and limited understanding, isn't part of everyone's. And that belief derives from -- or is grounded by -- this strange little thought: that I belong on the canvas of human history. Me, my story, my perspective are part of a bigger picture under creation, in development -- however you want to put it. And so, I feel invited to live a little closer to the deeper truths of my experience. The painful parts as well as joyful parts.
I hope to pass along to my daughters this perspective: that they too (that we all) are part of the big picture, the biggest picture one can imagine -- and that to play their part, they have to show up like THEY show up, and not the way anyone else shows up. Even if sometimes that means in a stained, decidedly un-hip t-shirt.
It was nice to be reminded, however circuitously, of that myself. And that, for better or for worse, I show up in my teensy tiny corner of the canvas as the mother of these children, my children. Me, in all my faulty glory with them and all of theirs. And it's beautiful -- that big picture. A Masterpiece.
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