Tag: growing up

anxiety, friendship, life lessons, love

Coming Full Circle, Sort Of..

mimijk

My sister and brother-in-law are in the midst of moving into their recently renovated house.  It’s been the longest labor and delivery – literally and figuratively.  And now that they have their little parcel of joy (so to speak), I hope they love and enjoy it and make it their own.  Needless to say I can’t wait to see the new addition to the family (I know that was a groaner, but I couldn’t resist).

There is a gentle irony in her move to this house.  Although we didn’t grow up there, it’s proximate to where my parents lived (they bought their house when my sister and I were already in college.  I used to say that had we moved to the suburbs before I finished high school, my graduation gift would have been way better than a Panasonic stereo).  It is where I remember them at their happiest.  And it became home – because it was where they were,  where my children crawled and toddled and ran – where so many memories were made.    My sons always reference this house when remembering their grandparents – the backyard with apple trees as bases and dad throwing pitch after pitch after pitch, looking for shells down at the dock, creating innumerable ways to take indoor soccer to new levels of hilarity.  It’s where Andy and I got married.

I can’t wait to visit my sister and yet, when I think about driving up 95 and getting on the Hutch, my eyes cloud with tears and there are no words.  No words.  Perhaps because my heart is too full.  There are some things that time doesn’t temper.  There are some moments that may  change in hue or shading, but remain the same in form and substance.

This sentimentality is heightened by another serendipitous experience.  My parents had a circle of friends (all European but for our dad)  that was arguably too close, too intimate, too ‘Mad Men’.  They were known as “The Group” – they had their children within months of each other,  summered together in the Catskills, wintered together at each other’s houses.  As their offspring, we identified with each other in so many unspoken ways.  All first generation Americans (again, dad being the exception), all growing up with a European perspective of child-rearing, all connected by an emotional cord tied by our parents.  Until it unraveled when we were young adults.

You know where this is going – Deb and three of these women have picked up that cord once more.  They had dinner together recently, and she described it as warm and loving.  They will see each other again; I’m hoping to join them.  And slowly I feel the ground shift, the angles inherent to any journey smoothing and perhaps unresolved elements coming full circle.  I find myself gravitating to these memories and holding myself back, venturing forward with some reluctance.  I need to protect the little girl who is in my care; she still has hurt along with the delight.  She’s never been very good at self-protection.

So I sit here in the silence that arrives with snowfall, recognizing the wonder in the nexus of these moments, their undeniable connection to the past and their inextricable relevance to the present.  As to the future?  It’s not mine to predict – I just know that it makes me smile, albeit with one tear.

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inspiration, life lessons, love, mindfulness, parenting

A Really Good Man

mimijk

“You don’t raise heroes, you raise sons.  And if you treat them like sons, they’ll turn out to be heroes, even if just in your eyes.” –  Walter Schirra Sr

 

See that gorgeous baby?  Today he turns thirty-one – at around 10:47AM.  As much as he will shake his head with disbelief and some embarrassment that I am writing about him today, he can be comforted with the knowledge that he remains anonymous to most who will read this.  Truth is, it’s his birthday to celebrate; it is mine to remember.

I’ve assumed many hats in my life, and played at many roles.  We all do this – it’s part of growing up.  The one hat that I always wanted to wear was that of  ‘mom’.  I couldn’t wait.  I would admonish my six-year-old peeps if they were rough on their stuffed animals (my theory being that all these toys came to life once we slept, and their retribution would be fierce).   I was a maternal kind of friend before I could spell ‘maternal’  – or even knew what it meant.  Whatever I became professionally was serendipitous; becoming a mom was my touchstone.  If I became nothing else, so be it.

Memory blurs years together which must be why they pass so quickly.  One moment a baby is born and from that point forward time accelerates, making it impossible to isolate and hold each moment.  I can still remember holding and bathing him, the smell of his neck…I thought his baby toes were replaced with ten little pearls.   He squinted like Mr. Magoo, the lights were too bright.  So I’d squint back at him and dim the glare.  When he was nine months old he spent an entire night pulling himself into a standing position and then plopping down on his butt.  The next morning, he held on to a chair as he rose and wobbled into the dining room.  I was on the phone with my mom while I watched in disbelief – he had only crawled for four days!  Where were these days going?

We developed our own language and as awful as it sounds, I reluctantly brought him for speech therapy.  I wanted him to be able to converse with everyone; I wanted him just to talk with me.  He had one of those baby laughs that bubble up from the belly and just erupt into the room.  His grandmother’s toes were a real hit, don’t ask me why.  I couldn’t get enough of this child – I still can’t.

He is of course now a man – a really, really good man.  I respect him tremendously, though I love him more than that.  I love his heart – he will dismiss this publicly and appreciate it privately.  His sense of the greater good, his relentless work ethic.  He’s loyal and highly principled.  I love how much he loves his wife, how close he and his brothers are.  He’s very handsome.   I appreciate that he asks for my opinion though I fully expect him to do what he thinks is best.  I understand that I had to let him go into his life, and he understands that in many ways it is impossibly hard to do.  I keep trying to get that balance right.  My sons have grown into heroes in my eyes – not because of me, but in spite of me.

There are days when I just want to stop time and make cookie pizza, hold one on my lap and the other under my arm and repeat the chorus from “Horton Hatches An Egg”.   I want to watch a high school baseball game and learn secrets that most moms don’t get to hear (I am very very aware that I wasn’t told all of the secrets by any stretch).  It’s okay to want all of this, but time has its foot on the pedal and is driving this train.  So I’ll savor today and celebrate his birthday,  from his first breath to the man he has become.  May each day bring him all that he wishes for and may he wish for all that he has.  I love him all there is – Happy Birthday..

discretion, friendship, inspiration, life lessons, love, mindfulness, motivation

These Are The Days

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My cousin’s daughter got married last night.  Gorgeous bride, handsome groom – they could be on the cover of any bridal magazine.  They glowed, as only newlyweds can glow – reflecting so much light that your eyes are magnetically drawn to them, as one looks to the stars on the clearest of nights.

Our family has shrunk remarkably – my cousins and I now represent the elders of this tribe.  How strange, as we compared ages and reminisced about how large those nominal differences in our ages once seemed.  We don’t speak of our parents, for none of us have them any longer.  Family events used to be full of grown ups – there were so many of them, and eight of us.  We don’t say anything because each of us is so acutely aware of the absences.  The counterpoint of love and loss is too exquisite.

We are wearing our seniority with limited gravitas.  Dancing with typical disinhibition, not giving a moment’s thought to any propriety associated with our status.  I killed it (and myself) in five-inch heels, caring little about the consequences (sounds like me in college actually).  Let’s not talk about my crooked shape today.  It was worth it.  We longed for the opportunity to forget that there were no parents watching us from the perimeter, nudging each other and marveling at our energy and rhythm.  My dad wasn’t there when the music moved into Motown; I longed to see my mom’s ‘dancing face’ (lips pursed seductively, eyes harmless yet flirtatiously looking directly at her partner).   I wore her bracelet because I knew she would want to be there.  The days of going from one table to another knowing that because you were one of the kids, you were met with the kind of familial adoration which may have little heft, yet envelops completely.  My aunt’s laugh – which would begin a chain reaction with her brothers both hiccupping and crying with delight.  Who knows what our children see when they watch us.  Fortunately they dance along.

Perhaps the bittersweet taste is more acute this time of year.  Tomorrow is the beginning of Rosh Hashanah – the beginning of a new year and the ten ‘Days of Awe’.  ‘On Rosh Hashanah it is written on Yom Kippur it is sealed’ – the fate of another year decided by the sincerity of one’s heart, the commitment to a life led with the best of intentions, the depth of one’s atonement for causing another person pain or sorrow.  I am not religious – and yet I believe deeply.  I attend services on the High Holy Days – am I trying to hedge my bets?  I don’t know.  But I remember leaning against my father’s shoulder and playing with the fringe of his prayer shawl, doing my best to behave so I could sit with the grown-ups when the kids’ service was over.  To sit with my two grown-ups.

And now that is me.  And I ask myself  if my words and my actions have been kind enough,  my generosity sufficiently reflective of that which is in my heart, beseeching  that my family be graced with a sweet, healthy year.  I take my role seriously in this regard – I’m not fist pumping to Marvin Gaye, not trying to prove to my body that it’s still too young to be anything other than spontaneous and flexible.  I am praying for continued life and that’s a pretty adult activity.  The responsibility of the senior members of the tribe to effect with concentrated sincerity and seriousness.  And the wind seems to sigh, knowing that this is the truest dance of all – one that we all move to regardless of our sense of rhythm.  To my friends and family, whom I love more deeply than any ocean and with width and breadth that spans farther than the sky – I wish you a year of joy and health, abundant laughter and sweetness – and love..always, love.

humor, inspiration, life lessons, love, mindfulness, parenting

So Lucky Saturday

mimijk

I don’t think I have more fun than hanging with my kids.  Last night two of the three plus daughters-in-law were here for dinner, celebrating a birthday and anniversary (not mine).  Easing into the weekend with a lot of laughter,  some serous sidebars and multiple chances to wrap  my arms around these amazing people who I love with all that I have and then some.

Adult children don’t necessarily say adorable, wondrous things that can delight both parent and reader.  Their bodies no longer resemble the round, magically smelling perfection that I can still remember with all my senses.  They have to bend down to kiss me – a completely inverted calculation.  And yet, as often as we see each other (which is thankfully, often), as easily as we still share the thoughts in our heads and the secrets of our hearts – I am always left in tears when they head back to their homes.  I cry with gratitude – they are the most remarkable people; I cry with disbelief, for I truly don’t know where the time has gone (I mean really – have you seen me lately?  Who would think I would have a 30, 28 and 25 year old) and I cry because every time they go away, I want to keep them with me.  Corny stuff, huh?  I know, but there is no other way for love like this to be articulated – we’re past poopy diaper jokes, dirty baseball uniforms and unexpectedly found condom wrappers.  What we’re left with is a perfectly imperfect family, that continues to return to itself to restore, renew and reaffirm this story which is as old as time itself.

My boys…my boys…

parenting

The Hidden Agenda Of Babies

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How are babies born with such incredible cunning?  Seriously, if they could talk, I would appreciate it if they would enlighten me.  It really matters little what species it may be – there’s a huge scam going on and I think it needs some exposure.

For reasons that I can only attribute to fantastic visits from the karma truck, I happen to have had the most beautiful babies in the world – probably in any other world too.  I had to negotiate with the nurses to hold them (this was before babies roomed with their moms, so I’m dating myself).  When I was getting my first born dressed to go home, two nurses came in and asked me if I was taking  ‘their baby’.  This filled me with a reasonable amount of confusion for a) I was there and awake when he was born and felt certain that he was mine and b) I wondered if this meant that they were going to come visit.  I decided immediately that if they ever came knocking, I would pretend we weren’t home.

My second son was very anxious to come into the world, despite my insistence that he was fine where he was and encouragement to stay put.  So he arrived six weeks early, fully ready physically to be here, but in a lousy mood.  Regardless of his reaction to this decision, he was eighteen inches long and a tiny round bundle of complete perfection.  Because he was a preemie, the competition between the nurses and I was fierce.  I admit to eyeing them with some suspicion and distrust.  It was fine for them to check his vitals – then they needed to withdraw and find someone else’s baby to coo over.

I met my third when he was three and a half, and in this instance I must give credit to his bio-mom and my husband.  He was so adorable, I spent hours scratching imaginary ‘itchy bumps’, providing endless piggy back rides and making up silly songs just because I was thoroughly besotted.  It didn’t matter that he would engage in lengthy conversations while ostensibly trying to go potty (which in and of itself was also cute but for the fact that this usually  happened when we were in a restroom on the NJ Turnpike), or that he would hold food in his mouth until he turned green.  He had me the first time he shared his Power Rangers.

I loved being a mom with such indescribable enthusiasm (I still do), I would have had more.  I’m not thinking as many as the Duggars necessarily – but the ferocity of love was unparalleled by any emotional experience I had ever known.  You know what I mean – it’s visceral, unconditional, it lives in your skin.  Babies do that.

Puppies, kitten, guinea pigs, bunnies – they melt me too (though arguably not in the same way).  I think baby rhinos are precious, a new foal can move me to tears and I can’t even watch Bambi or Dumbo without dissolving (by the way, am I the only one who sobs when Dumbo’s mom is in circus jail rocking him through the bars singing ‘Baby Of Mine’ – stop, can’t even think about it).  When the boys were little we had a veritable zoo.  The house was insane.  I can’t say I did it for them; they were still too little.  This was my doing – those baby animals lured me, and the boys were happy beneficiaries.

So here’s my theory – they reel you in at the outset.  With each sigh, funny face, cry, nuzzle, bath time…with each rendition of ‘The Muffin Man’, the ever-wondrous delight with magically appearing M&Ms and each belly laugh..they know they’ve got you.  And frankly, I think they’re calculating the goodwill reserve they’re going to need when they get older and move into the snarky depths of adolescence.  Those years when they need not to need you and you still need to be their mom while wondering with no small amount of horror when axillary hair and weird odors invaded your yummy baby’s body.  But it matters little – I can still recall the sensory delight of how they smelled before they smelled.  How wise they are, how cunning.  I’m telling you – these babies are so on it.

And when a puppy piddles, I don’t get mad – look at that face.  He’s a baby too and doesn’t know what he’s doing yet.  Puppy breath and kisses diffuse any frustration over the fact that the window sill in the family room is pockmarked with teeth marks.  Clearly the dog is bored and I need to rush over to PetSmart to pick up some new toys for his entertainment.

Now those babies are grown men, and their goodwill reserve is still full.  I have ‘sucker’ tattooed on my forehead (fashionably covered by my hair) – and they know it.  They tease me when I cry – which happens every time I try to articulate how deeply they are etched in my heart.  Of course, they don’t have children of their own yet.  I am confident I will be redeemed.  The time will come when we will marvel together at the limitations of the English language when trying to explain how a heart can so swell it’s palpable.  And I will be thinking to myself – ‘gotcha’.