Christmas is a time of joy and good cheer, baby Jesus, peace on earth, good will toward... Yes, yes, I know.
But for a lot of us, Christmas means stress. It means shopping, which means ricocheting from store to store, sweating in our winter coats as we wait in too-long lines, smiling weakly when cashiers wish us "Happy holidays," hoping we can manage to accomplish all we've planned for while staying within our budgets.
Christmas is damned hard work.
This year I had a revelation which led to a determination. I realized that my pre-Christmas angst is rooted in expectations - mine, not other people's. I assign imaginary expectations to my family and friends and then try to build a Christmas based on those imaginings. Forget visions of sugarplums, I'm too busy picturing the disappointment on my children's faces if I don't manage to match their (meaning my) expectations of what the holiday should bring.
Mind you, the "children" are 19, 23 and 25, and they are the most undemanding, grateful, enthusiastic gift recipients anyone could hope to wrap a box for. Again, it's my expectations that twist my guts and pull my neck muscles tight. I worry about pleasing them. I fear disappointing them. All based on a foundation of absolutely nothing other than my own insecurity and need to control and create an absolutely perfect Christmas each and every year.
This tail-chasing state of mind usually kicks in right around Thanksgiving, when the world around us becomes steeped in pre-December 25th regalia. Carols on the radio. Ads on TV and in newspapers. Christmas movies, Christmas programs. Did I mention Christmas shopping?
This year, just as I was getting a nice knot of anxiety formed, I had a revelation. What if I approached Christmas the way I try to live my recovery program?
Ba-zing! Talk about a new perspective!
Instead of being overwhelmed, I could keep it simple. Instead of thinking of Christmas as the be all and end all, I could think of it as one day, and I could approach that day with ease, one day at a time. And if I didn't manage to achieve Christmas nirvana for my loved ones, I could forgive myself, knowing I'd done the best I could, and done it all with love.
Christmas is now about two weeks away, and my stomach doesn't ache, and commercials exhorting me to get out there and shop, shop, shop don't make me feel panicky. I am aiming for a Christmas focused on family, love and laughter, which is what always ends up being at the center anyway, no matter what the big box stores say. My kids and I will all be together, alive and well. We'll decorate the tree, hanging the breakable ornaments up high so the cats can't bat them down, we'll keep "A Christmas Story" on throughout its 24-hour run on TBS, we'll exchange gifts and hugs. We'll take a day to stand still and celebrate, pure and simple, accent on simple.
May your days be merry and bright. May you give and receive. And may you give yourself the gift of freedom from self-imposed expectations.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Where I was
Of course I remember where I was.
I was working as a receptionist/office assistant for an architecture and engineering firm. I took a call from Noreen, wife of Bill, our landscape architect.
"I'm watching the Today show, and a plane just crashed into the World Trade Center" she said.
My mind created an image: a single engine private plane, a pilot who was obviously inept or had had a medical emergency. I transferred Noreen to her husband's line and went into the copy room to make duplicate sets of blueprints.
Some of my coworkers had radios on, and within moments music was interrupted by news alerts. This was bigger than one person and one plane.
When a second plane hit the other tower, I ran to a computer to try to find more information online. I couldn't get online. Too many people were doing the same thing as me.
I felt the frozen fear that grips you when you know you're going to be in a car accident and all you can do is watch it happen.
Everyone stopped working and gathered around the office radios. Not being able to see the escalating destruction, only getting a vision of it from the news announcer's hushed, deliberately steady tone, was chilling. He announced the collapse of the first tower without changing his tone. Minutes later he said, "And now the second tower is going down." Then, for a long moment, he said nothing at all.
Two of our coworkers went across the street to the cable office, where there were televisions. They came back quiet and stunned. "It's even worse than it sounds," one said.
I'd been blissfully asleep and didn't know it until I woke up on 9/11. I paid little attention to the news in those days. To me, other countries' hostilities toward the U.S. meant angry, shouting mobs burning American flags in faraway lands. I could never have imagined such hatred manifested against my country, couldn't have conceived of men willing to give their lives in order to punish thousands of their fellow human beings for the crime of being American.
In the days that followed 9/11, as I tried to shape a perspective to fit the incomprehensible, what I kept returning to was how everyone had been having an ordinary Tuesday. Ordinary people arriving at work, saying good morning, filling their coffee cups, settling down at their desks. Like me, like millions of other people that day. Men, women and children settled into their airplane seats, thinking about where they'd been or where they were going. Every last one of them ordinary, unique, irreplaceable. Someone's mother, father, daughter, son, best friend.
Ten years later, I saw footage of the second plane hitting the tower and I burst into tears. I believe most of us, if not all of us, carry a scar from that day that will never quite heal, and a certain memory or image awakens that day for us all over again.
When I mentioned the anniversary to my older daughter, she brought up the fact that other countries suffer incalculable losses as a rule rather than an exception. I've heard and read that from others, too. Who are we to act so wounded when other countries suffer so much more than we do, seems to be the sentiment.
Who we are is ordinary people who were unprepared for violent acts of such magnitude. If we were naive, well, that doesn't make it any less painful. Tell the children growing up without their father that their loss pales in comparison to children in other countries. Tell the sobbing parents and spouses to suck it up and take the larger world view.
You can't. You wouldn't do it to the citizens of the perpetually war-torn countries, either. Loss is loss. Sorrow isn't the exclusive privilege of the long suffering.
I'm no longer oblivious to politics or terrorism. And I'm not oblivious to the suffering of people on foreign soil. But today belongs to ten years ago, the people lost, and the people left behind. They're who I'm thinking of, who I'm praying for, and who I'm crying for.
I was working as a receptionist/office assistant for an architecture and engineering firm. I took a call from Noreen, wife of Bill, our landscape architect.
"I'm watching the Today show, and a plane just crashed into the World Trade Center" she said.
My mind created an image: a single engine private plane, a pilot who was obviously inept or had had a medical emergency. I transferred Noreen to her husband's line and went into the copy room to make duplicate sets of blueprints.
Some of my coworkers had radios on, and within moments music was interrupted by news alerts. This was bigger than one person and one plane.
When a second plane hit the other tower, I ran to a computer to try to find more information online. I couldn't get online. Too many people were doing the same thing as me.
I felt the frozen fear that grips you when you know you're going to be in a car accident and all you can do is watch it happen.
Everyone stopped working and gathered around the office radios. Not being able to see the escalating destruction, only getting a vision of it from the news announcer's hushed, deliberately steady tone, was chilling. He announced the collapse of the first tower without changing his tone. Minutes later he said, "And now the second tower is going down." Then, for a long moment, he said nothing at all.
Two of our coworkers went across the street to the cable office, where there were televisions. They came back quiet and stunned. "It's even worse than it sounds," one said.
I'd been blissfully asleep and didn't know it until I woke up on 9/11. I paid little attention to the news in those days. To me, other countries' hostilities toward the U.S. meant angry, shouting mobs burning American flags in faraway lands. I could never have imagined such hatred manifested against my country, couldn't have conceived of men willing to give their lives in order to punish thousands of their fellow human beings for the crime of being American.
In the days that followed 9/11, as I tried to shape a perspective to fit the incomprehensible, what I kept returning to was how everyone had been having an ordinary Tuesday. Ordinary people arriving at work, saying good morning, filling their coffee cups, settling down at their desks. Like me, like millions of other people that day. Men, women and children settled into their airplane seats, thinking about where they'd been or where they were going. Every last one of them ordinary, unique, irreplaceable. Someone's mother, father, daughter, son, best friend.
Ten years later, I saw footage of the second plane hitting the tower and I burst into tears. I believe most of us, if not all of us, carry a scar from that day that will never quite heal, and a certain memory or image awakens that day for us all over again.
When I mentioned the anniversary to my older daughter, she brought up the fact that other countries suffer incalculable losses as a rule rather than an exception. I've heard and read that from others, too. Who are we to act so wounded when other countries suffer so much more than we do, seems to be the sentiment.
Who we are is ordinary people who were unprepared for violent acts of such magnitude. If we were naive, well, that doesn't make it any less painful. Tell the children growing up without their father that their loss pales in comparison to children in other countries. Tell the sobbing parents and spouses to suck it up and take the larger world view.
You can't. You wouldn't do it to the citizens of the perpetually war-torn countries, either. Loss is loss. Sorrow isn't the exclusive privilege of the long suffering.
I'm no longer oblivious to politics or terrorism. And I'm not oblivious to the suffering of people on foreign soil. But today belongs to ten years ago, the people lost, and the people left behind. They're who I'm thinking of, who I'm praying for, and who I'm crying for.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Tres chic? Non!
I will never be an elegant woman.
I've long suspected as much, but tonight I confirmed it. The epiphany came to me as I was walking Indy, my dog. First, there's no way to elegantly walk an exuberant, leash-tugging, wildly panting schnauzer.
I did a brisk head to toe appraisal: this morning's eyeshadow smeared across my eyelids; layers of hair lofting upward with every gust of wind; nails mostly OK, but darned if I can give up biting my thumbnails.
And my outfit? Well, that sealed the deal. One T-shirt featuring a giant chicken looming over the Capitol building. Two blue socks, one printed with little dog pawprints (cute, yes - but not elegant), the other plain blue. The battered gray sneakers I call my Chuckie Finsters, because one of them squeaks with every step, just like the shoes of the "Rugrats" character.
The entire ensemble was accented nicely by the small orange bag I carried, filled with... Well, I was walking a dog; you figure it out.
Once upon a time I dreamed wistfully of acquiring elegance. I wanted to sweep into a room gracefully, more like a swan, less like Jerry Lewis. I wanted to be as calm as a reflecting pool, lithe as a reed, with a musical speaking voice and manners to fit all occasions, a regular Yooper Meryl Streep.
And therein lies my quandry. I am 100 percent Yooper, zero percent Streep.
Truthfully, I like the idea of elegance more than the practice of it. I don't like wearing high heels, I feel like an imposter when my hair is all done up, and I'm lousy at making charming small talk. I'd rather pull on my Eeyore pajama bottoms and Phil Collins T-shirt and eat ice cream right out of the carton than slip into a too-tight silk gown and pinchy shoes and nibble caviar on crackers.
I'm not less than just because I lack certain ladylike attributes. I may be more crass than class, but what you see is the truest, realest me. I may not be at the top of anyone's invite list for a cocktail party, but if someone's ordering pizza and rustling up a game of dominoes, I'm your girl. Especially if I can come over wearing my Eeyore jammie pants and Phil shirt.
I've long suspected as much, but tonight I confirmed it. The epiphany came to me as I was walking Indy, my dog. First, there's no way to elegantly walk an exuberant, leash-tugging, wildly panting schnauzer.
I did a brisk head to toe appraisal: this morning's eyeshadow smeared across my eyelids; layers of hair lofting upward with every gust of wind; nails mostly OK, but darned if I can give up biting my thumbnails.
And my outfit? Well, that sealed the deal. One T-shirt featuring a giant chicken looming over the Capitol building. Two blue socks, one printed with little dog pawprints (cute, yes - but not elegant), the other plain blue. The battered gray sneakers I call my Chuckie Finsters, because one of them squeaks with every step, just like the shoes of the "Rugrats" character.
The entire ensemble was accented nicely by the small orange bag I carried, filled with... Well, I was walking a dog; you figure it out.
Once upon a time I dreamed wistfully of acquiring elegance. I wanted to sweep into a room gracefully, more like a swan, less like Jerry Lewis. I wanted to be as calm as a reflecting pool, lithe as a reed, with a musical speaking voice and manners to fit all occasions, a regular Yooper Meryl Streep.
And therein lies my quandry. I am 100 percent Yooper, zero percent Streep.
Truthfully, I like the idea of elegance more than the practice of it. I don't like wearing high heels, I feel like an imposter when my hair is all done up, and I'm lousy at making charming small talk. I'd rather pull on my Eeyore pajama bottoms and Phil Collins T-shirt and eat ice cream right out of the carton than slip into a too-tight silk gown and pinchy shoes and nibble caviar on crackers.
I'm not less than just because I lack certain ladylike attributes. I may be more crass than class, but what you see is the truest, realest me. I may not be at the top of anyone's invite list for a cocktail party, but if someone's ordering pizza and rustling up a game of dominoes, I'm your girl. Especially if I can come over wearing my Eeyore jammie pants and Phil shirt.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
One leaf at a time
I'm nursing a resentment against leaves.
Not the emerald green leaves fluttering above me on the trees; no, it's the quitters I begrudge, the crispy orange-brown defectors already scattered across the sidewalks, crunching under my sneakers as I walk with my dog Indy.
That's August for you, though. August, the hand at your back pushing reluctant you toward September, the end of summer. August has never been my friend. As a child it meant the end of schedule-free days spent reading, playing Barbies and riding my bike, and a return to school, where I was an awkward, uncomfortable misfit.
As an adult it meant folding my own children back into the routine of early to bed, early to rise, juice boxes, clean socks and homework.
This year August will mark my younger daughter's departure for college in Minnesota. I've been trying to imagine what it's going to feel like to hug her goodbye and leave her behind, an eight-hour drive away. I happen to be blessed with an Academy Award-worthy imagination, but I still can't picture how that's going to feel.
But about those leaves. Yesterday I woke for the day at 6:30 a.m., an unprecedented event for a Saturday. I took Indy for a walk down by the lake and saw the pink sun morph into white, felt the cool breeze surrender to warmer, humid air. A perfect summer morning, of not for those accursed leaves.
"Look at this," I grumbled to Indy, who ignored me. He doesn't share my distaste for the premature leaf drop. To him it's just one more interesting thing on the ground to sniff. I looked up, thought I spotted an orange patch on a neighbor's tree, and felt my heart give its familiar pre-autumn sink.
Then, mercifully, my recovery thinking kicked in - specifically, One Day at a Time.
It's still summer, I reminded myself. It's going to be beach day. At this moment in time all is well. You're walking your four-legged best friend on a stellar summer morning. There's a fresh pot of coffee waiting at home, where your three beautiful children lie sleeping, all together under your roof for a little while longer. You're going to hang out with friends today. This day is all you're promised. Don't waste it mourning the chillier, leafier days that haven't arrived yet.
Fall is on the horizon, and winter not far behind it. But today, today I am alive and well, I'm barefoot, and my windows are wide open, with a fine summer breeze wafting in.
Rather than nurse a resentment, I'm going to sit on my porch and nurse an icy glass of lemonade. Just for today, it's summer!
Not the emerald green leaves fluttering above me on the trees; no, it's the quitters I begrudge, the crispy orange-brown defectors already scattered across the sidewalks, crunching under my sneakers as I walk with my dog Indy.
That's August for you, though. August, the hand at your back pushing reluctant you toward September, the end of summer. August has never been my friend. As a child it meant the end of schedule-free days spent reading, playing Barbies and riding my bike, and a return to school, where I was an awkward, uncomfortable misfit.
As an adult it meant folding my own children back into the routine of early to bed, early to rise, juice boxes, clean socks and homework.
This year August will mark my younger daughter's departure for college in Minnesota. I've been trying to imagine what it's going to feel like to hug her goodbye and leave her behind, an eight-hour drive away. I happen to be blessed with an Academy Award-worthy imagination, but I still can't picture how that's going to feel.
But about those leaves. Yesterday I woke for the day at 6:30 a.m., an unprecedented event for a Saturday. I took Indy for a walk down by the lake and saw the pink sun morph into white, felt the cool breeze surrender to warmer, humid air. A perfect summer morning, of not for those accursed leaves.
"Look at this," I grumbled to Indy, who ignored me. He doesn't share my distaste for the premature leaf drop. To him it's just one more interesting thing on the ground to sniff. I looked up, thought I spotted an orange patch on a neighbor's tree, and felt my heart give its familiar pre-autumn sink.
Then, mercifully, my recovery thinking kicked in - specifically, One Day at a Time.
It's still summer, I reminded myself. It's going to be beach day. At this moment in time all is well. You're walking your four-legged best friend on a stellar summer morning. There's a fresh pot of coffee waiting at home, where your three beautiful children lie sleeping, all together under your roof for a little while longer. You're going to hang out with friends today. This day is all you're promised. Don't waste it mourning the chillier, leafier days that haven't arrived yet.
Fall is on the horizon, and winter not far behind it. But today, today I am alive and well, I'm barefoot, and my windows are wide open, with a fine summer breeze wafting in.
Rather than nurse a resentment, I'm going to sit on my porch and nurse an icy glass of lemonade. Just for today, it's summer!
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Small town mom, big city daughter
In the past two days I've discovered two things about myself. The first is that I'm not as ready as I thought to say goodbye to my younger daughter and leave her eight hours away, at college in Minneapolis, Minn.
Melissa and I attended student/parent orientation at Augsburg College on Friday and Saturday. Due to the mechanical unreliability of my Jeep (and the woeful lack of big city driving skills of its owner), my friend Kathy was kind enough to get us to Minneapolis. While Melissa and I were oriented, Kathy explored that jungle of excess known as the Mall of America.
As we neared the city I was gripped by a mix of sorrow and distress. How could I let go of my daughter? How would it feel to not see her every day, to face the end of our comfortable girlie rituals of tea and "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights and occasional Saturday afternoon strolls through the stores of downtown Marquette?
What I wanted to do was burst into tears. What I did was suck it up. Melissa had worked hard to get accepted to Augsburg. It was her dream school, this was her dream moment, and I had no right to compromise her happiness with my quivering reluctance to face the fact that my baby was all grown up.
So this was actually a twofold discovery. I am a) More bereft than expected at the prospect of Melissa's leaving, and b) A loving enough mom to push my own feelings into the back seat for the sake of my child.
Discovery number two occurred during parent orientation. As I sat in the modern, glass-doored conference room, listening Augsburg staff enumerate the many cultural advantages of living on an insular campus with a major metropolitan city mere footsteps away, a yen to live in the big city myself stirred in my brain.
I could do it, I thought. Imagine packing up and starting fresh in a city with so many opportunities for cultural enrichment. What an adventure it would be!
Later that day, Auggie parents were offered walking tours of the surrounding neighborhoods - abbreviated tours, courtesy of the high temperatures and obscene humidity.
The neighborhood my group toured was tidy and vibrant, a colorful mix of older, well-kept homes and ethnically diverse businesses, shops and theaters. I could easily imagine Melissa eagerly exploring it all, expanding her cultural horizons in a way I never had the opportunity to do.
What I couldn't imagine was me living there. The houses are so close together you could practically reach out and knock on your neighbor's window. The yards were square green handkerchiefs of grass or garden. No lakeshore. No tree lined bike paths. Just lots of concrete, cars and people.
I couldn't do it. I don't want to exchange my slow-paced, small-town life for any advantage the big city can offer. I know Melissa will thrive there. I'm proud of her for her adventurous spirit and intellectual and cultural curiosity. I look forward to hearing all about her new life as it unfolds.
Meanwhile, I'll keep the home fires burning. This trip taught me that I'm destined to be a small town girl. Maybe that's another way of saying timid, or lacking in a spirit of adventure. Or maybe it means I know where I fit - and I know enough to value it.
Melissa and I attended student/parent orientation at Augsburg College on Friday and Saturday. Due to the mechanical unreliability of my Jeep (and the woeful lack of big city driving skills of its owner), my friend Kathy was kind enough to get us to Minneapolis. While Melissa and I were oriented, Kathy explored that jungle of excess known as the Mall of America.
As we neared the city I was gripped by a mix of sorrow and distress. How could I let go of my daughter? How would it feel to not see her every day, to face the end of our comfortable girlie rituals of tea and "Desperate Housewives" on Sunday nights and occasional Saturday afternoon strolls through the stores of downtown Marquette?
What I wanted to do was burst into tears. What I did was suck it up. Melissa had worked hard to get accepted to Augsburg. It was her dream school, this was her dream moment, and I had no right to compromise her happiness with my quivering reluctance to face the fact that my baby was all grown up.
So this was actually a twofold discovery. I am a) More bereft than expected at the prospect of Melissa's leaving, and b) A loving enough mom to push my own feelings into the back seat for the sake of my child.
Discovery number two occurred during parent orientation. As I sat in the modern, glass-doored conference room, listening Augsburg staff enumerate the many cultural advantages of living on an insular campus with a major metropolitan city mere footsteps away, a yen to live in the big city myself stirred in my brain.
I could do it, I thought. Imagine packing up and starting fresh in a city with so many opportunities for cultural enrichment. What an adventure it would be!
Later that day, Auggie parents were offered walking tours of the surrounding neighborhoods - abbreviated tours, courtesy of the high temperatures and obscene humidity.
The neighborhood my group toured was tidy and vibrant, a colorful mix of older, well-kept homes and ethnically diverse businesses, shops and theaters. I could easily imagine Melissa eagerly exploring it all, expanding her cultural horizons in a way I never had the opportunity to do.
What I couldn't imagine was me living there. The houses are so close together you could practically reach out and knock on your neighbor's window. The yards were square green handkerchiefs of grass or garden. No lakeshore. No tree lined bike paths. Just lots of concrete, cars and people.
I couldn't do it. I don't want to exchange my slow-paced, small-town life for any advantage the big city can offer. I know Melissa will thrive there. I'm proud of her for her adventurous spirit and intellectual and cultural curiosity. I look forward to hearing all about her new life as it unfolds.
Meanwhile, I'll keep the home fires burning. This trip taught me that I'm destined to be a small town girl. Maybe that's another way of saying timid, or lacking in a spirit of adventure. Or maybe it means I know where I fit - and I know enough to value it.
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Farewell, June-tober
And so we bid farewell to June-tober. I know we've had damp, dreary Junes in other years, but I've blanked them out of my mind, which makes this the dampest, dreariest June in my memory.
But give us Yoopers credit: When the calendar says summer, we live summer. Children gallop up and down soccer fields in sweatshirts and mud-caked shoes. Dogs are walked under sullen gray skies, their coats soggy, their owners shivering. Families pile into RVs and pour into campgrounds, parents sticking close to the fire, kids running themselves as sweaty as they'd be if the sun were blazing down. We line up at Frosty Treats, cold-reddened hands wrapped around ice cream cones or waxy milkshake cups. It's the principle of the thing.
That's the true U.P. spirit. But believe me, under that spirit lurked one hell of a lot of disgruntled Yoopers yearning for sunshine.
Resentment is a luxury alcoholics cannot afford. That's a little something I was taught - repeatedly - throughout my 28 years in recovery. Note that I said I learned it; I didn't say I always practice it.
By about mid June-tober my Yooper stoicism had given way to a festering, unreasonable, childish resentment. By God, I waited all freaking winter for June's arrival. I wanted my sunshine! I wanted my beach days! I wanted to pull on a pair of shorts, peel my humidity-curled hair off the back of my damp neck and sip an ice cube-filled glass of lemonade.
The unrelenting 50-something degree days began to feel like a personal insult. I developed an irrational hatred of all meteorologists. I checked The Weather Channel online and on TV several times each day, like a Wall Street trader checking the Dow Jones index.
I'm usually big on gratitude. I tried correcting my sour attitude with thoughts of the violent weather and wildfires tormenting much of the rest of the U.S. At least we're safe, I reminded myself. Cold, wet and deprived of sunshine, but safe. But as you may recall, I did describe this as an unreasonable, childish resentment. Reality tends not to be the cure for the irrational.
What finally cured me was the inevitable: The sun came out and the temperature rose. I pulled on my bathing suit and went to the beach with a couple of my friends. The sand was a patchwork of bright beach towels. Children ran into the water and quickly out again, shrieking at the cold. Adults either basked in the long-awaited warmth or waded into the water themselves for a quick dip.
All this joy, and the temperature never broke 80. The wind was, in fact, a tad cool. When goosebumps rose on my arms I pulled on a T-shirt, then tipped my face upward - grateful for the sunshine and able, finally, to make the best of a less than perfect summer day.
But give us Yoopers credit: When the calendar says summer, we live summer. Children gallop up and down soccer fields in sweatshirts and mud-caked shoes. Dogs are walked under sullen gray skies, their coats soggy, their owners shivering. Families pile into RVs and pour into campgrounds, parents sticking close to the fire, kids running themselves as sweaty as they'd be if the sun were blazing down. We line up at Frosty Treats, cold-reddened hands wrapped around ice cream cones or waxy milkshake cups. It's the principle of the thing.
That's the true U.P. spirit. But believe me, under that spirit lurked one hell of a lot of disgruntled Yoopers yearning for sunshine.
Resentment is a luxury alcoholics cannot afford. That's a little something I was taught - repeatedly - throughout my 28 years in recovery. Note that I said I learned it; I didn't say I always practice it.
By about mid June-tober my Yooper stoicism had given way to a festering, unreasonable, childish resentment. By God, I waited all freaking winter for June's arrival. I wanted my sunshine! I wanted my beach days! I wanted to pull on a pair of shorts, peel my humidity-curled hair off the back of my damp neck and sip an ice cube-filled glass of lemonade.
The unrelenting 50-something degree days began to feel like a personal insult. I developed an irrational hatred of all meteorologists. I checked The Weather Channel online and on TV several times each day, like a Wall Street trader checking the Dow Jones index.
I'm usually big on gratitude. I tried correcting my sour attitude with thoughts of the violent weather and wildfires tormenting much of the rest of the U.S. At least we're safe, I reminded myself. Cold, wet and deprived of sunshine, but safe. But as you may recall, I did describe this as an unreasonable, childish resentment. Reality tends not to be the cure for the irrational.
What finally cured me was the inevitable: The sun came out and the temperature rose. I pulled on my bathing suit and went to the beach with a couple of my friends. The sand was a patchwork of bright beach towels. Children ran into the water and quickly out again, shrieking at the cold. Adults either basked in the long-awaited warmth or waded into the water themselves for a quick dip.
All this joy, and the temperature never broke 80. The wind was, in fact, a tad cool. When goosebumps rose on my arms I pulled on a T-shirt, then tipped my face upward - grateful for the sunshine and able, finally, to make the best of a less than perfect summer day.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
Commencement Day
Today I watched my youngest child receive her high school diploma. Virtually anonymous in a sea of bright red caps and gowns, I only saw her face when she was walking across the stage to accept her diploma and when she carefully maneuvered back down the stairs in her high heels for the walk back to her seat.
Melissa's face, like the faces of her classmates, reflected joy, relief and excitement: It's over! We did it!
I imagine that sentiment was echoing in the minds of every parent, as well. And, like the graduates, our joy was tempered by a throat-tightening recognition that an era was ending. Our children are free of our sheltering/smothering oversight. We are free from the mantle of vigilance and daily responsibility we've worn since the day we became parents.
I am a veteran of high school graduations, having seen my older daughter and son collect their diplomas seven and five years ago. But seeing my youngest, the baby of our family, reach that milestone, tugs a little harder at the heartstrings. Even Melissa's big sister and brother are sentimental over it.
Yes, it's sentimental. And also, for me, surreal.
For the first time in 25 years, I will not be the mother of a public school student. No more permission slips to sign, no more lunch boxes to pack, no more sitting in a crowded, stuffy auditorium for an hour and a half to see my kid sing or play an instrument for 12 minutes.
Am I going to miss all that? I imagine so. But being a person who's allergic to "have-to's," it's also going to be a relief. My days are going to be my own, with only myself to consider.
At times like this it's hard for me to do what my recovery program advises: live one day at a time.
Each of my children's graduations have opened up my overpacked closet of memories, and for every happy one there's a prickly remembrance of the times I let my children down, the times I wish I'd been better to them, better for them. That chapter of their lives is over, though, and all I can do is acknowledge the times I was hurtful and be grateful for the good times, and for the fact that, despite a far less than charmed childhood, each of them - Jessica, Daniel and Melissa - has grown into an openhearted, intelligent, loving young adult.
My recovery program also promises that, in time, I will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. I don't think that's possible for a parent. But if I can't not regret the past, I can most certainly be grateful for the gift of the present, for a program that's given me sobriety, the ability to make amends to my kids for the times I failed them, and a heart full of gratitude and pride for each of them, including my newly minted graduate.
Melissa's face, like the faces of her classmates, reflected joy, relief and excitement: It's over! We did it!
I imagine that sentiment was echoing in the minds of every parent, as well. And, like the graduates, our joy was tempered by a throat-tightening recognition that an era was ending. Our children are free of our sheltering/smothering oversight. We are free from the mantle of vigilance and daily responsibility we've worn since the day we became parents.
I am a veteran of high school graduations, having seen my older daughter and son collect their diplomas seven and five years ago. But seeing my youngest, the baby of our family, reach that milestone, tugs a little harder at the heartstrings. Even Melissa's big sister and brother are sentimental over it.
Yes, it's sentimental. And also, for me, surreal.
For the first time in 25 years, I will not be the mother of a public school student. No more permission slips to sign, no more lunch boxes to pack, no more sitting in a crowded, stuffy auditorium for an hour and a half to see my kid sing or play an instrument for 12 minutes.
Am I going to miss all that? I imagine so. But being a person who's allergic to "have-to's," it's also going to be a relief. My days are going to be my own, with only myself to consider.
At times like this it's hard for me to do what my recovery program advises: live one day at a time.
Each of my children's graduations have opened up my overpacked closet of memories, and for every happy one there's a prickly remembrance of the times I let my children down, the times I wish I'd been better to them, better for them. That chapter of their lives is over, though, and all I can do is acknowledge the times I was hurtful and be grateful for the good times, and for the fact that, despite a far less than charmed childhood, each of them - Jessica, Daniel and Melissa - has grown into an openhearted, intelligent, loving young adult.
My recovery program also promises that, in time, I will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it. I don't think that's possible for a parent. But if I can't not regret the past, I can most certainly be grateful for the gift of the present, for a program that's given me sobriety, the ability to make amends to my kids for the times I failed them, and a heart full of gratitude and pride for each of them, including my newly minted graduate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)