Enough?

Ah, the sun sets on another weekend. Did I use every minute wisely? Did I seize each day, crush it, and make it count? Ummmm. No. Not so much.

But I did get quite a lot done. So it is enough? Enough is a word and a concept I have been grappling a lot with lately. I have more than enough. Too much, in fact, given the clutter around here. And yet, the desire to accumulate more is with me, all the time. Not in a compulsive, HAVE to have it way, but I do wish my house was fixed up more nicely, better appointed, if you will. There is more than enough food in the cabinets, and yet I think every other day one of the fry will wail about how "we have nothing to eat in this house!" I have seen people with NOTHING to eat in their homes. A dirt kitchen floor, and an open fire pit for a stove. I will never, ever say I do not have enough to eat. I have a roof over my head, I know where my children are at night, and I have a dry, comfortable, and safe place to sleep. That, in itself, is enough.

And yet -- here it is Sunday evening, and the list of all I did NOT do this weekend hangs heavy over me. I did not weed that garden, clean out this or that space, did not bring this or that to here or there. Did not spend time walking in nature, did not spend enough time with each child individually, did not spend enough time with my mother, did not did not did not. It does not feel like I got "enough" done. I made it to church, but not a museum. I cooked delicious food, but did not work in the garden. I did several long put off tasks, but did not complete several others....so does it count?

Who am I comparing against? When will enough be enough? It is true, that when the house is tidy, I feel less stressed. But right now to get the house really tidy would require a dumpster, a flame thrower and the team from Hoarders.....And again, "enough" comes into to play. Is it clean enough? Enough for whom?

And how is this all my job? Have I done a good enough job parenting, if the girls don't feel vested in keeping the house clean? Let's get real here, peeps -- who in the hell has kids who skip down the halls singing "yes, it's time to help mom clean today!" This isn't the Disney channel, folks. My kids walk around here with the same baffled looks I see on the faces of all of the friends too - how does the house get clean? They don't know.


Enough. Such a fun word to say, with that groovy fricative and all. So much, in two small syllables. Yes, I have enough. But did I do enough this weekend? And who is asking?

I am not sure I have a point....but I do have a point of view....

Here's the tricky thing about this blog writing business....I feel reticent to post sometimes, as I am not sure what, exactly, my purpose is in writing this blog. I read several truly excellent blogs written by some of my friends, and they post any number of wonderful essays about the challenges of raising their families, dealing with unexpected health crises, struggles in the world of academia, etc. I just sort of...ramble. I remember my intention was to write about my "new life" as a mid-40s divorced woman and mom of three kids, starting back in to the professional world, and maybe even (gasp) dating. But it turns out that my life moves rather slowly, on the whole, and milestones in the above areas are few and far between. There is much that happens in my life, but it's just....life. Challenges come, (none -- and I mean NONE -- as daunting as those my dear friend Pennsy faces, with great wit, style, and an incredible, unshakable faith). My children are no longer at the "say cute things" revelatory stages several of my other bloggy friends' children are. My career is more just a job, and one barely sustaining us, so what's to write about there? As for me -- still rather overweight, rather undisciplined, rather spiritually parched at the moment, and pretty much creatively tapped out. I am not in a theatre production, not tirelessly supporting a candidate I believe in, not redecorating my home with cast-offs that turn out to be hidden treasures, not spearheading the research campaign into a new medical horizon...not doing much of anything really exciting. The big whoopty yesterday was that I managed to put together a meal all three of us ate, and no one complained. Who wants to read about that?

And yet - I do have points of view. I feel things, all sorts of things. I do care about issues of the day -- when I can find time to educate myself about them. I juggle all sorts of things and do many things horribly and a few things well. I fiercely love my family, and I do wish for a career to come my way that would sustain me intellectually, financially, and responsibly. Who doesn't? But is that enough to warrant a blog? Does not having a set theme for my blog mean that it's not worth having at all? If what I really need is a journal, maybe I should save the bandwidth for someone else.....

I do like the process of writing; quite a lot in fact. At least 5 times a day I long to BE an actual writer of actual books, so I could make a living whilst still being able to make the kids' games and schedule a mammogram without feeling like I am letting the office manager down. But does me liking the act of writing justify me having  a blog?

I know I have a voice, and I know I have a right to have that voice. But does that mean I have a right to be heard, if it may be that I really have nothing of import to say?

Hmmmmm.

About a boy....2

So, um....hey. I know, it's been a looong time since I posted anything. Busy working, Second dropped my laptop and it broke, busy busy, yadda yadda.

Forgive me. I need to talk today.

I brought First to college today. Settled him in, spent time, set him up, went to the meet and greets....and then drove away. Tears pouring down, heart breaking, soul singing.

He is going to LOVE his school. Seriously. Like watching the Bee Girl find her field, First has arrived where they speak his language, see how he sees, feel what he feels. He will be happy with his own kind.

But. Oh, BUT. But once upon a time, *I* was his kind. I was his star, he was my planet. Bedtimes stories, private jokes, ritual songs before sleeps. I was his Alpha, and he was my world. And how quickly that time went. How far away, how almost forgotten under the rush of it all those long-ago nights seem now. How lucky I was to have them at all. That boy of mine! How I love him. I love all my children, don't ever doubt that. But it would taste a lie to not admit that the first one, my First, holds a different place in my heart. He made me a mother, you see, and whilst that will never change, my role in his life will.

From Manager to Consultant, and one on call, at that.I hope he wants me in his life. I hope that I have earned his trust, and that he misses me too. And his hard-earned glories will be all his own now. Faculty members, TAs and mentors will get the most deserved thanks now, and I will be thankful to them too -- I will! (As long as he remembers to add "and thanks to my mom" or some such courtesy nod to my presence. Sad, innit?) They will have taught him to sing in the language he stutters in now. He will thrive under their attentions, and he will strive for their praise as ardently as he once strove for mine (and if one of THEM ever hangs your art on THEIR fridge and shows it to all THEIR friends you be sure to let me know - so there!). I really do wish him well, and I really am glad that he is so happy and so very much at home in his new dorm.

How I wish mine didn't feel quite so empty, with him gone......

Please, First, fly now. Find your excellence, find all that is within you, find your absolute TRUTH. Please, find your bliss, find it and come back and share it with me. Not because you feel bound to, not because I can't live without you, not because of obligation, guilt, duty, none of that. Share it with me because you want to. Because it's funnier when we laugh together. Because you want me to know your new language too. Fly past me, but please don't fly beyond me.

I know I tell you all the time, but oh, my dear First. How I love you so.

A new addition to my "I can do this!" list....

I got my garden planted this weekend. I absolutely love planting vegetables in a garden. Setting out the starts, creating rows and furrows for the seeds to go in. Setting the tomato cages in, and hopefully getting them nice and straight. It all just seems so hopeful, somehow. I like to think of them stretching their little roots, sighing as they settle in and get comfortable in the warming sun. I imagine the blossoms to come, the baby green tomatoes on the vine, and then the wonderful, warm red tomatoes ripening, filling the yard with that incredible fragrance of fresh, growing tomatoes. Gently lifting pea vines and cucumber tangles to get at the latest offering. Eating as many pea pods right there on the spot as I put in the bowl to bring in the house....

Oh, I am a fool for a nice garden!

This year was even better, as I really, really prepped the soil, thanks to a friend, Davida. Davida is an acquired taste, to some, I suppose. I find her a treasure, and have from the first day we met. Many years my elder, she is a fine older lady crafted in the Katharine Hepburn mold. Well-educated, always impeccably groomed, hat and matching coat at church, Davida is a formidable woman, grounded and firm. She knows the road of betrayal, divorce, pain. She buried her second, beloved husband after nursing him through a long illness. Davida has earned her straight, set spine.

Davida had done amazing things in her life, and in a garden. Many years ago she helped establish a community garden in an empty lot in a city. That garden continues to thrive, and to date has yielded over 100,000 pounds of produce to feed the people in an otherwise totally urban city environment. I approached Davida a couple of weeks ago to ask if she had a rototiller I might borrow, and she was sure and delighted to reply yes indeed she did, and I was most welcome to it!

Davida never questioned whether or not I could use such a machine. She did not doubt my abilities for a second. She didn't hesitate, or look me over to see if I looked too risky to loan to. She didn't spend one second wondering if the mere fact that I would be using the tiller would unnecessarily imperil it. She didn't spend an hour going over directions with me. She never said "Oh, just let me do it for you, you will just mess it up." She just said "Yes".

She knows what a woman can do. She knew, even before I did, what *I* could do. Years of lessons in the school of hard knocks have taught her that a woman on her own can do whatever it is that a woman needs to do, and somehow she believed I would learn that lesson too.

And in that moment, feeling her confidence in me, I did.

Thank you, Davida. You were right. I could do it. I did do it. Thanks to you, my garden is growing.

And so am I.

Alzheimer's can KISS MY ASS.

Fuck off, Alzheimer's. I mean it. Forgive me, gentle readers, but I have had enough of that particular specter. You came and stole my mother in law, and that was bad enough, but now you have come for my mother, and that is a level of remove I did not appreciate fully until it struck. GO AWAY and leave her, all of us, ALONE. My kids are basically screwed now - it's on both sides of them, and it will creep in and steal them too.

How DARE you come for my mother? Don't you know who she is? She is a doctor, she gave her entire professional life to helping others, to making sure others were cared for. How dare you turn her, a community icon, an beloved authority figure to so many, a champion for the underserved, healer, missionary, teacher, mother, friend, into a doddering, timid, questioning, insecure, anxious, old lady? Do you think it doesn't stab me to the heart when they give me that sad, apologetic, knowing smile? Do you think she really can't see the people at church actively avoiding her at coffee hour, not wanting to have the same conversation for the tenth week in a row?

What is WRONG with these people? Those same people who would sidle up to her at every opportunity to ask her to squeeze them in next week, come in to the vestry to look at this mole, and does the baby look all right to her, now avoid her, because THEY don't have the time and patience to hear the same story again. Everyone will hug me and whisper how sorry they are, how sad it is, but no one will tell her. No one takes her to lunch, asks her over for a cup of tea. After all those late night phone calls she answered, extra miles she went battling insurance companies, countless hours spent. Nice.

Is it really them I am railing against? Or is it just that I can't stand seeing my mom reduced to this caricature  of who she once was? Worst of all - she KNOWS this is happening. She knows her mind is going and it is breaking her heart. It breaks mine to hear her say "I was never a great beauty. We know this. But I was always the smartest woman in the room. Who am I now?"  We both shake out fists at the sky, but the sky never answers.

And oh, I am selfish too. I MISS my mother. I want her advice, her counsel, her cheery voice at the end of the phone. My children miss her smiling face at their concerts, cheering on the sidelines, helping with chemistry homework. GIVE HER BACK, Alzheimer pigs!

Please, give her back. Please?

Label maker

So, here's the thing. I have noticing that lately I have been having some pretty strong reactions to the labels people use to describe each other. (And by "each other" I pretty much mean, well, me. I worry sometimes that I am entirely too self-centered on this blog, which is rather amusing, given that it's a blog about, well, me.)

Back to what I was saying.....the other day at church someone referred to me as a "single mother" and my dander got all up before I realized that, well, yeah. That's a label for me. It's just that I had never labelled myself that way. And then someone said something charming along the lines of "those skinny minnies over there aren't like us" and I was cut to the quick. Uh, who exactly is the us to whom you refer there, clueless?

Reduced to just the labels, I am a single mom, working mother, red head (or at least I used to be), funny, Methodist, American, divorced, white, middle class, college educated, Bostonian, suburban, middle aged, liberal, and apparently, fat-assed. Is that how I label myself? It that really how others label me?

We are all so much more than just the sum of our parts. What labels do I chose to accept from others? What other labels do I try to take on, even though the fit isn't quite right? When I go, are my labels all I will leave behind? Yes, as eventually I will be just a story my kids tell their grandkids, and that story will be made of labels, won't it?

I hope to leave a legacy of good ones. "Loving mother. Good friend. Creative. Kind. Singular."

Loved.

How to Save a Life

Where did I go wrong?
I lost a friend.
Somewhere out there in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known
How to Save a Life

That song was on the musical episode of Grey's Anatomy last night (along with several other songs, and the unmistakable sploosh of jumping a shark, but that's another post.....) and I can't stop singing it.

Funny how you can be aware of a song for months, years, and then suddenly understand the lyrics in a whole new way.

I could not save my marriage. I could not save it's life. I didn't know how. I didn't know he was gay. He didn't either, apparently, but this post is about me. I didn't know. I didn't know how to save our life.

And I have lost him as a friend. There is an ocean of bitterness between us now. Part of me thinks it is well deserved. His underhanded actions and his cowardice are HATEFUL and there is a big part of me that really and truly realizes that he does not DESERVE to count me amongst his friends.

And there is a quiet, sorrowful part of me that realizes that a lot of the bitterness is mine, my reaction, my creation, mine. I contributed to the air of hostility, of anger, and of alienation. I did not meet him halfway. I was too busy playing the victim role. I was so busy railing against what he didn't give me that I didn't spend a lot of time counting up what I do have, and being grateful.

Mostly the song just makes me miss my friend. The old husband I had. The one that made me laugh, was so amazing and charming and smart and nice. I fully realize that he disappeared years ago, behind a curtain of depression and lies that no one could reach, even doctors, but still. I miss my friend. I miss the idea of him. The solidity of knowing I was part of a marriage. That I wasn't alone. Realizing that for a lot of the time I was does help, sure, but not much. I totally get it. There are no rose colored glasses here, people.

I just miss the companionship of marriage. The shared history. The stories that only we could understand, because we were there, together. Little moments with the children, building the house together, trips, experiences, small wonders and bigger hurts and triumphs. I got really, really morose looking for a file the other day. We had twenty years together. Twenty years is a long time to live a lie, and it's a long time to be lied to, but it's also just....a long time. And I mourn the loss of that. For him, and for me.

Because if I had known what his real issues were, we could have forged a new future, in which he could live honestly, and openly, and we could have still been friends. I could have still had my friend.

And I realize that my actions in the past few years have not always been stellar. I absolutely know that. I acknowledge and fully take responsibility for the choices I have made that have hurt others, and hurt me. And hurt him.

I wish he had been honest with me all along.

I wish I had known, how to save our life.