Sam: I ALWAYS rinse my plate all the way off before I put it in.

Me: Hmm.  Sometimes I do but sometimes I don't. It seems like the dishwasher should be able to handle a little food, though.

Sam: I always do.  I guess my standards of cleanliness are just higher than most people.

{widespread bursting of laughter throughout the kitchen}

Ring-ring!  Hello? Oh, Sam! It's your room. It's calling to BEG TO DIFFER on the standards of cleanliness.

But thank you for the laugh.

Taken from flip video I took last weekend on a whim, shaky camera work and all. It's part of my personal geography, that house.  I love everything about it and the people therein.

Music: To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra

Was it being with my people? Was it spending leisurely, languishing, laughing hours with my mom, dad, grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins?

Was it thinking about my particular path and sharing it publicly in a setting where all the different, diverse paths were honored + not dichotomized?

Was it listening to the symphony play Mahler's 5th Symphony (my cousin playing the bass in the orchestra)? Or sitting next to my 90-year-old grandfather while he tenderly wiped his eyes?

Was it reading East of Eden? I finished it last night on the plane and sat cradling it to my chest for many minutes, thinking over its mastery (oh, the envy) and Steinbeck's celebration of "that glittering instrument, the human soul."

Was it sitting across from friends, both newly made and long held, sharing stories and souls?

Was it hours of thinking time staring out the airplane window with the perspective you only get from 30,000 miles in the air (and no, no one asked to sit on my lap)?

Yes, yes, and yes.  Whatever it was, I'm grateful.

And it was coming home, too, where part of my heart was waiting for me:

Video found via GwenBell

Sappy but true

I was delighted to read today that Kelly Corrigan's  new book, Lift, comes out next week.  I had no idea--what a happy surprise.  (I loved the Middle Place, didn't you?)

You can even go hear her in person: see book tour dates here.  Hey locals: she'll be in Acton next Friday.  Join me?

 

I've been in a bit of an annoying funk lately where my bear-like instincts are trying to dictate that I hibernate and growl a lot. Really.  I can't seem to get enough sleep and I feel cumbersome and effortful, like I'm trudging through honey. Normally I could get behind the follow your instincts approach but, no, following them right now would not be advisable. 

Instead it's time to pull out the Pollyanna/Music Man philosophy and decide to think happy.  To prime the happiness pump (which, after all takes energy before the pay-off) by stretching and exercising, praying and writing.

To find glittery bits of joy + pick them up + put them in my pocket: doing the newspaper crossword and sudoku every day. G rubbing my feet while we sit on the sofa. Walking with Louie, who happily trots ahead and loves life even when at the end of a leash. Eating fresh pineapple. Hot water and great smelling shampoo. Crossing things off of my lists. Bear hugs. Inside jokes. "I love you."

To tell myself "this is going to be a really great week!" and be willing to believe it, even if it means faking it for a while.   And it really is going to be a great week, with nice stretches of time today and tomorrow to get some things done. And I am heading to Utah on Thursday to speak on a panel at BYU for a symposium for students about education/career options and family/school/work balance. (I think I'm the representative for the going-back-to-grad-school-as-a-mom contingent.) Then I get to hang out with my parents for the weekend.

 Any other members of the hibernating bear brigade out there?  How do you pull out of a funk?

It was the first time I ever cried in a supermarket, unless you count the time I threw a tantrum for a lollipop when I was three.  But there I was, amidst the harsh flourescent lighting, overly friendly produce men in red polyester jackets, and tear-soaked lettuce.  I missed him, two hours away.  I missed him to distraction. 

I had been dating G for fifteen months--six of those months I was in London and three more I was away at school--so we had endured separations before.  In fact we joked about our feast-or-famine dating. No big deal. But the cold aching gnaw below my heart was telling me differently. I felt bereft and that wasn't good for my plans.  Not good at all.

Love...marriage...all of this was scheduled much later in my life plan, certainly after college graduation. We had talked about how we would wait for any serious plans, despite the increasing undercurrent of certainty about the fact that we would share a future, eventually. Some day. When we were older and had more of our career paths set. When the grad school we both planned was finished.  That was beginning to feel really very distant, the feasts too infrequent, the famines too...famine-y.

When G arrived the next Saturday night for our weekly visit we booked a table to eat at our favorite spot.  But this night the feasting failed.  Halfway through dinner, G seemed distracted, blankly nodding with a glazed look.  Finally he admitted to feeling a little sick. "Maybe the flu" he said so I took him back to my apartment for a place to recover.  An hour later he was still ill so I ran out for some medicine.  The night crawled on until I convinced him off of the sick-couch and took him home to his friend's apartment where he was crashing for the night.

I dropped him off and as he left the car he promised to see me tomorrow. "Don't forget to lock the car, okay?"  These words rang in my ears as I drove back to my place.  Don't forget to lock the avocado green 1971 Toyota Corolla station wagon? Does it even lock?  I had never seen him lock it before.

Once back in my parking lot, one glance in the back seat told me that Greg forgot his duffel bag. Poor guy, first he gets the stomach flu and now he doesn't even have his things for the night.  I grabbed the bag and hefted it up to my lap.  Expecting to find a razor or a towel or books or clothes, I unzipped the turquoise duffel bag and flailed my hand through the dark opening.

The contents clinked together and my hand brushed the velvet covering of a small box.  Curious, I clutched the box and brought it out into the field of the lone streetlight.  In my hand was a light blue jewelry box, much like one...an...engagement...  My mind choked on the thought.

Should I open it? [pause]  Yes.

Slowly I creaked open the box to reveal two gold rings nestled in the furrow, one bearing a gleaming diamond.  Frantically, my heart started beating faster and my mind protested: I thought we had already...oh no...I can't believe this...what am I going to do...does the ring even fit?

Should I try it on? [pause] Um, yeah.

I tugged the ring from the anchor and slipped it over the knuckles of my left ring finger.  A little snug but it fits.  I'll get used to it.

Then the tears started, not the muffled supermarket kind but real, solitary weeping.  It would be a long night.  Tomorrow he'll ask.  What will I say?  As I laid in bed, many things played through my mind: thoughts of expectations (my own and others'), of stories of my cousin turning several proposals down, of overheard conversations about happy relationships and other, distressed marriages.  One last thought drifted before sleep fell: I'll bet I'm the first one in history to propose to herself.

To be continued...

 

I'm thrilled to have Tessa Meyer Santiago at Letters to a Parent this week.  She wrote about, among other things, a familiar feeling I've had as a mother, too. Kind of an identity crisis of sorts. It started when I had my first baby and, after a few days, couldn't shake the feeling that I was somehow waiting for her 'real' parents to pick her up pretty soon, just faking it until someone more qualified showed up.  And then, later another epiphany emerged when I realized that my kids see me as That Central Person the way I saw my mom.  Was I Grown-up enough to qualify for that? Ah, but Tessa says it so much better than I do:

I am simultaneously small Tessa, knobbly-kneed in green school uniform, and someone’s mother. The years run through me like it was yesterday, today and tomorrow at the same time...

I thought getting older meant I would suddenly be transformed into the competent, unruffled, self-assured adults who surrounded me as children–at least from my vantage point closer to the ground...

I am learning that, sometimes, it requires tremendous courage and nerve to simply show up, to be present in a particular day. 

Check out the whole essay here.  (It's a little longer than LTOP's usual posts but completely worth the extra minute or two.)

. . .

Do you have a post about parenthood you'd like to see on Letters to a Parent? Would you like to tell us about an experience or lesson in your mothering/fathering learning curve? Or even a photo, poem, image that distills what parenting is to you?  Send it, lovelies.  Do.  And, psst, pass it on.

Photo found via

Are you sure you want to make me blog, everybody? Well okay,  I guess I don't have a choice.

(Sometimes blogging really does feel like this SNL skit--sorry about the ad at the start):

 Well, if you insist--I can do one blog I guess! I hope you're enjoying the clams casino...

. . .

With the girls busy with friends on Friday night and G in Utah, Sam and I found ourselves with a free evening. We settled on going to the Harry Potter exhibit at the Museum of Science. (Lauren went to it on a date and raved about it.) We've been meaning to go for ages and ended up cutting it really close since it closes in a couple of weeks.  Anyway, it was fabulous.  If you get a chance + it comes to a place near you, definitely go. p.s. Sam is an excellent date.

. . .

We put together a junk food buffet and watched much of the SuperBowl last night (it's all about the food, right?).  Homemade rolls for ham sandwiches. Chips + dip. Veggies + dip. Chips + salsa. Sopapilla cheesecake for something sweet + decadent.  

Did anyone else love watching victorious quarterback Drew Bees with his 1-year-old son last night, tears and obvious love in his eyes?  

I loved what Lisa Belkin had to say about it.  Here's to good papas.

. . .

Speaking of good papas, G arrived home late last night from his weekend away.  The only wrinkle: he arrived into THE WRONG AIRPORT, an hour away from his car.  Apparently I booked his tickets out of one airport and back home to another one without realizing it.  He didn't realize it either until they landed and SURPRISE! He was in Boston instead of New Hampshire.  So he took a cab home and I drove him up to NH this morning to fetch the car.  Ah, Annie. Queen of the details, that's me!

. . .

Now I'm off to finish weekend recovery: laundry, cleaning, supervising practicing and homework, conjuring food.  Happy Monday!  But don't make me sing...

Once he got a seat on the plane, he called to tell me goodbye and thank you, that he made his plane, and that he accidentally took my credit card with him. We were chatting away when in the background I heard a woman say (obviously to G), very clearly, "hi! do you mind if I sit in your lap?" + playful laughter.

Now, maybe there are some situations in travel I'm not aware of where sitting in a strange man's lap (or offering to) would be advisable.  I can't really think of any right now. Or, let's give her the benefit of the doubt...maybe G was accidentally sitting in her seat.  But, still.  It rankled.

I piped up on my end of the line "um, I DO!"

He relayed, "my wife says to tell you she minds."  We all laughed. Hahahahaha.  (Grrrr.)

. . .

It really was funny. Except not really.  

It's been a tough year for the marriage model, fidelity wise.  It feels like every month there's a new scandal about someone (Say it ain't so, Dave! and Tiger. and various governors. and presidential candidates. and friends' husbands.  Say...it...ain't...so.)

I hate that this betrayal happens...especially when it's to people I love.

I hate that with every new story another whisper of a fear enters my marriage heart, despite my trust in G.  I really do trust his love and goodness. Even saying that, the whisper pipes up "that's what all those wives said, too."  

And you know what else? I hate that women feel free to flirt with other people's husbands. We should be better to each other than that.

. . .

Because marriage is a leap of faith. And fidelity (the Latin fides, meaning trust, belief, faith) is the privilege and price of that unique, wholehearted relationship that marriage offers.  

Because this is what should be happening more often, not less:

My grandfather was born and raised on our New Zealand farm. He and my grandmother were married nearly 60 years. Preparing for a photo in the barley, my grandmother lovingly reached up to adjust his hat. This was his last harvest.

Gemma Collier, National Geographic Photo of the Day, 11.04.09

Does the road wind uphill all the way?
Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
Yea, beds for all who come.

-- Christina Rossetti

Also, I do not want a viewing. There's no need for people to lean over my not-there self. I'm much too shy (vain) for that.  Just lots of music and poetry and maybe a New Orleans-style brass band to send bring in some lightness and joy.  That would be good.

p.s.  Maudlin? Macabre? I guess I'm just feeling the uphill today. I also love this one:

And did you get what 
you wanted from this life, even so? 
I did. 
And what did you want? 
To call myself beloved, to feel myself 
beloved on the earth. 

~ Raymond Carver