Over the last few weeks, I’ve realized that it often takes the teeniest, tiniest happening to throw you back into a world of suck. But on the flip side, the teeniest, tiniest things can keep you from sliding into the abyss.
The world of suck is not my story to tell, but I need to shout out to my friends, Matt, Colby, the pups and the random people who saw me ugly crying through every stoplight on Stillwater and the Target parking lot. You’ve done exactly what I needed, whether it was providing hugs, patience, aggressive face and ear licking or just politely turning your head. Thank you.
For example:
a colleague saw me stomping up the corridor to deliver yet another phone to the assistant principal, she placed a chocolate treat in my mailbox the morning after. spot on, and thanks.
Matt went ice fishing for three days (men, God knows we miss you, but there is nothing like three days with the television off, no extra shit to pick up (or shit to be heard for not picking up after myself). amen.
Matt returned after ice fishing. 1. He didn’t die. 2. We had time to miss each other. 3. He relieved me of fire coaxing duties.
Colby came to yoga with me, silently drew in his sketch book the entire time and then we had a fantastic meal at 11 Central. Friends, teach your children to enjoy good food. It pays dividends.
I ran. Slow and halting and wheezing, I ran. And the sun was shining and the sky was blue and I saw a heron, my favorite bird, in the road.
As I type, Colby is helping clean the house and Matt has Easter dinner preparations underway. Do you know what I have to do? Make a bundt cake. That is IT. Halle-freaking-lujah. I get to barricade myself in my sunshiny bedroom to work. They’ve got it under control, and they also have my eternal gratitude.
Whether this weekend finds you celebrating the resurrection of Jesus, the Passover, Ishtar, or green grass and sunshine; I hope it is restful and inspiring. Find something to be grateful for, accomplish something, and get outside to breathe this fresh spring air.
Most years, I spend Colby’s birthday week in equal parts mourning and awe. I look down at what is left of my mom boobs, grateful they did what I needed them to (what 20-year-old college student can afford formula?) and sad they now are slipping away, like dropped eggs on toast, sliding sliding toward the ground. I tearfully flip through old family albums and baby pictures, in awe that we have survived. Neither one of us is in jail (kid or adult) yet, we are functional in that we make it to school most every day and purport to be well-adjusted and contributing human beings. Most of the time. Every year I use this week like most people use the first week of a new year. I think about where we’ve been, what I’ve done well (and not so well) and what I can anticipate for this new year. This year, though, I find myself not sad about the slipping away of Colby’s childhood, but the gradual reduction of my influence. My job is not done, nor will it ever be, but adolescents turn out, not in. The clay is beginning to harden.
Mama and Colby
Research shows that most children are the people they will become by the time they reach adolescence. This is scary, but it just is. At first, this terrified me. “Fuck!” I thought. “I totally totally fucked this up! Why did I need to move that frequently? Could I have lived longer with his father? Would it have helped?” Then I poured a glass of wine and realized if most of us are okay (therapy bills notwithstanding), my kid’s probably going to be fine. Also, I know that now is not the time to second-guess myself. Repeat –Â We’re All Okay We’re All Okay We’re All Okay.
Oh, blue eyes, you’re killin’ me.
I’m needing some armor as we move forward, Colby and Matt and I, into this wild territory of adolescence. Without question, the seven years of middle and high school were the absolute worst of my life. I have a few choice memories that I keep in my pocket like a worry stone. The rest I’ve boxed up and put away until I have enough medication and/or therapists to work on it. Like a circle of hell, those years. I know I’m not alone here. And after a lot of thinking and a lot of xanax, I realize that I have to relinquish the fear that Colby’s will be as dreadful and wrenching and life-altering as mine. Because it might be, or maybe not. Like life, the only part of this I can control is myself, well, except for all the parental controls I’ve put on every electronic device in the house. I’ve got that shit down.
What I can do now is breathe and love and be present.
I can attempt to yell “Just. Put. Your FUCKING BOOTS ON” with less frequency.
I can cook. Because we all know that food = love.
I can drive. He’s gonna need to get places. Then I can buy him a car with the highest safety rating available. And a black box. Maybe not.
I can continue to ask questions even if I know he won’t answer.
I can embrace realistic consequences instead of punitive punishments.
I can say “I’m sorry” and “I was wrong” and “You’re right. Let’s talk about this”.
I can start thinking of something really neat to do to him the first time he calls me a “fucking bitch”. Mamas – you cringe, but we need to prepare.
I can do more listening and less talking.
I can breathe and love and be present.
Mad mama love. xoxo.
Who’s that baby in the backpack on a mountain? COLBY!
That makes me giggle. Believe me, I am not becoming more mature or less impressed with scatalogical or vaginal humor thanks to this book. You should read it, but only if you won’t judge me and my love of it.
Anyway. This is what’s been happening in our neck of the woods.
a friendly reminder
Because I inherited a set of sub-par genes, I needed to have fasting blood work done. I am a coffee fiend, so Matt left me this kind note to remind my morning-zombie self to abstain.Then he gottheeffout before he had to deal with me.
Trey Anastasio BandThe morning after!
My dear friend (and concert partner) and I once took Colby to see Phish in Portland, ME on a school night. Neither my mother nor his teacher were impressed. But hey! Family values! We all do things differently. We see music. This most recent time, though, fortuitously occurred on a long weekend. It was lovely and affirming and Colby slept the whole way home so Angie and I could gossip.
Working time.
I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here, but I obviously thought it was photo worthy. Sometimes I have to be the foreman on our homework, work-site. It’s, uh, not so much fun.
Love.
And I read this book. And also this book. And this one. And another one that was meh. The one book you all need to buy and read, though, is We Were the Kennedys by Monica Wood. I took a class in memoir with Monica while she was writing it, and I smiled as I read because I could recognize her method as so completely her. She tells the story of an industrial Maine town, but at the same time she tells the story of every industrial town. This is a story for everyone who witnessed the end to a simpler way of life, and for everyone who wonders what that life could have been like. Buy it in hardcover, because you will read it many times.
the things I can get away with here!
My friend Jane let me babysit her delightful little girl. I promptly fed her sugar, got her dirty, let her dress herself, and whisked her off to a rowdy middle-school basketball game. It was the best day ever.
on the court
And when did my boy turn into a middle-schooler anyway? No fair.
All Saint’s Catholic School International Fair 2013
One of my favorite parenting books says that whenever you have doubts about your children (say you suspect they are heading down that road of sociopathic behavior or maybe that they are learning how to be drug dealers when you’re in the other room on facebook), anyway, the book says when you have doubts you should observe your child in his or her natural environment. When you have a school-aged child, that environment is pretty much anywhere that is not home and not directly involving you. International Fair night made me feel better. Much better. Phew. Even though I could use some – nevermind.
Colby’s favorite baby
My friends Megan and Justin are new members of the parental clan, and Colby loves their baby. As do I. Just look at his little shadow!
Animal!
Colby attended his first District V festival with his school’s jazz band. They were awesome, of course, and scored well enough to compete again at the end of this month. Wish them luck!
Camp kitchenCatan, yo.My fish, Bella, my fish.Boys dutifully writing in the camp journal.
Everyone has finally realized that when I say “I’m NEVER going ice fishing again”, I mean it. I am, though, quite happy to cook on the wood stove and read books while the boys are out fishing. Also, peeing outside when it’s 20 degrees provides perspective you can’t get anywhere else.
Colby and his friend CamOh, me and Chops.
We took in the last game played in the Bangor Auditorium. It didn’t hurt to see my alma mater (and a group of wonderful young men, some former students of mine) win the gold ball.
Sam goes to the vet. Her little wagging tail says “I love Veazie Vet Clinic”!Bella is just plain happy. All smiles.And Colby outgrows the pediatrician’s exam table.I do not support the ‘Joe-Dirt Impersonator’ career option.Game over.
Matt grew his hair out all winter. This was fine until he decided to cut his own bangs one morning. Any woman who has ever cut her own bangs knows exactly what happened next. They sprung up. It looked as if he had either passed out by the fire and they were burned off OR he had passed out on the couch and had bacon grease in them so the dogs chewed them off. It was horrific. I couldn’t even look at him. When he finally agreed to cut his hair I went to bed, dejected, he had refused to just. go. get. a. fucking. haircut. He woke me up 30 minutes later with the joe dirt mullet and blacked out tooth. I went back to bed, sure that I would have to deal with Joe in the morning. Much to my surprise, I woke to find a nearly normal looking human next to me. I finally won. Heather-1, Matt- 87.
I like to grade wearing my Pink Floyd snuggie. Thanks to all my awesome freshmen who picked it out!but being comfortable doesn’t make me more tactfulahh.
I am coming back to my mat thankfully and more frequently these days. We have an interlude of a slower-paced life in-between sports seasons, and I plan on making good use of it.
That’s it for now, friends. I have a piece of salmon to turn into supper and a kiddo who needs cold medicine and a new box of tissues.
Last night it was Michelle Obama cutting my hair, and me teaching a class on symbolism. I’m not joking.
I woke up at 10, 2, and 4. From approximately 10 p.m. to 2 a.m., Colby and I visited the White House, where Michelle gave me her signature bangs while Barack and the kids watched. Barack showed me their kitchen cabinets and laughed at his foolhardy idea to drill extra holes for all of the hardware. “Can you believe this shit?” He asked me, laughing, holding the various screws and handles in his hand. Let’s file this under “what the?”.
From 2 a.m. to 4 a.m. I was teaching a wild and dynamic class on symbolism and literary device in David Barnett’s room at Bangor High. It was standing room only – freshmen and seniors. I kept repeating “a symbol is something that stands for something beyond itself“. This was, of course, the most recent in a month-long series of school dreams. All my teacher friends – you know that teacher dreams reliably occur mid-August, every year. I just can’t stop. I’ve tried everything. I could understand if I were behind or truly preoccupied with a happening at school, but everything is FINE.
Do I have any therapist friends out there looking to donate some time? I love my job, really, but this school 24/7 is too much.
But, Oh, this winter. I love it and hate it. I’ve had lines from “Those Winter Sundays” running through my head for weeks. The blueblack cold and the splintering wood and reticence to rise from bed and enter into a sometimes angry world.
I love this, but it makes my heart splinter just like the wood in the poem. What do we know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
The emergence of the sun and some warmer (above -10) temperatures have made it easier, though, to get out and breathe fresh, if chilly, air and move my body. A good friend and I recently commented on how we would prefer to hibernate during the coldest stretches of winter, and I’m enjoying my willingness to enter into the wide world these days. I’m exercising a little patience with myself, I’m tromping about outside when I want, and cuddling up by the fire with my dogs when I just can’t bear face a -20 wind chill. This, this kindness is what Anne Lamott would, I think, include under the “radical self-care” umbrella. Whatever it is, it’s working.
When people ask me how we’re doing, how life is, I inevitably reply “crazy” and then immediately feel like an asshole. Here’s the thing – we are living the same life most of you are living (or have lived through OR are quickly on your way to experiencing). I, WE, are no different from any other working family with active, school-aged children. What I do is not exceptional, it’s what we all do.
Nearly every day is a sprint-to-the-finish mission to  just effing lay down. We herd kids, we drive kids, maybe we even teach kids. We go from sports practice to music practice to off-season sports practice to homework time to are-you-seriously-telling-me-your-science-book-is-at-school and where did you leave your pants?! time. I’m not sure about you, but by the time I’m halfway through my dinner glass of wine I am ready to hit the ground. As in, I would curl up ON the ground, with or without a blanket, and go to sleep if anyone would let me. But the dogs need to go out and the dishes aren’t done and my work bag is glaring at me from the corner and, insert your own after-dinner demon. I do not tend to end my evenings reflecting on how well my day has gone on the parent, partner, teacher scale.
Thank God this has finally happened.
Snow came yesterday and graciously canceled all after school activities, freeing up two or three extra after-school hours for us. I had a migraine and I had papers to grade, but had the odd ambition to run and swim. I’ll fill you in soon on exactly why and how fitness and general self-care left my life for a few months, but for now just know that this was a rare event. I decided to pick Colby up from school on-time and head over to the University of Maine rec center for a run and a swim.
Colby was both compliant AND excited (an anomaly these days) and packed quickly. I planned for him to use the indoor track with me to run and then hit the pool and hot tub. When I came out of the changing room (single mothers with male children – we need an entirely different post about the inherent problems with this system) he was nowhere to be found. Three frantic text messages and ten minutes later I spotted him on the basketball court with a bunch of his friends playing a pickup game. Once I was done being pissed about his lack of communicating his whereabouts I was elated – I got my solo run upstairs!
After I finished my (first in a looooong time) ssllllloooooowwwww and sweaty two miles, during which I realized some running pants actually do require you to wear underwear, I went downstairs and found Colby like this:
Happy and sweaty, just like his Mama.
We swam in the pool and soaked in the hot tub and left feeling like entirely different (and better) people. We kept asking each other “Uh – why don’t we do this all the time?”.
It took nearly a million years to get home on the snowy roads, but it was the best spent time we’ve had in so very long.
Here’s hoping that I won’t forget this small fact: we need to play, to hit pause in the general craziness of our lives, if we plan on enjoying any of it.
It’s Sunday night, but contrary to our usual Sunday schedule, today went pretty well. Colby and I went to early mass, out to lunch, and then I dropped him off at his friend’s house for a bit. I sent myself directly to Starbucks to drink tea and grade like a fiend. In less then three hours I was able to grade approximately 120 assignments and make a comprehensive grocery list.
Matt has been a total BUTTHOLE. I get to say that because, well, I’m the one at the keyboard. But he really, really was and I was really, really pissed. We’re on the tail end of our first (horrific) home improvement project and while on most days we really are quite amicable, this has brought out the worst in both of us. I’ve made a point to be out of the house for the past couple of days so he could finish up his end without interference from me and also so he can’t be mad at me for sitting on my ass while I do work (that honestly, must be done while I am sitting on my ass). But I digress.
By the time Colby and I returned with groceries Matt was nice and apologetic which immediately translates into “everyone leave mama alone in the kitchen so she can drink a vigorous glass of wine while she cooks.”
Jam jar or wine glass? You be the judge.
So I turned on my own music and poured a glass a wine and got down to business with a bag full of brussels sprouts after I made as many ‘balls in a bag’ jokes as I could. What I ended up with was a loose approximation of Smitten Kitchen’s take on Michael Chiarello’s Winter Panzanella. Smitten’s adaptation is great, but I made a few tweaks myself. In lieu of spending an hour cutting squash, I bought a pre-cut bag and halved the pieces that needed to be smaller. I used a pound of brussels sprouts instead of a 1/2 pound and was quite glad that I did. The recipe called for them to be quickly cooked in salted water, but I chose to roast them in a 400 degree oven. Water in my salad grosses me out. I’m on my second glass of wine so I guess I’ll get that recipe up for you tomorrow. But really, try this. You all know how much and how frequently I love my chickpea panzanella and this is my new way to fill that void during the Maine winter (when I cannot stand to eat anything cold).
Look Dad! I finally ate my brussels sprouts!I thought this was my sexy apron, but no one agrees with me. Seriously.Colby says “next time – no vinegar based dressing”Matt says “next time – add beets and cook everything more.” It’s not my fault the man likes his vegetables overcooked, I’m just not going to do it for him.
And the after-dinner shenanigans. Oy. That project I was talking about? The stairs and upstairs hallway are covered in polyurethane and someone  left the radio on upstairs. We had to put Colby through the drop vent to turn it off . . .
He goes up--and drops down his Santa given potato chips for safe keeping –-he comes down--and he lands. And is hit on the head by a briefcase that followed him down.
Only here. Only on a Sunday. Eat your vegetables, friends. I’ve gotta go. Downton Abbey is on in 7 minutes!
I can come up with a million over-used euphemisms about the nature of parenting, but we all know what is really going on here.
Sometimes, this shit is not fun or easy.
While I feel like I SHOULD preface this with the standard “I love my child and am so thankful that he is here and healthy and ALIVE”, maybe we shouldn’t have to do that. Maybe we should live in a world where we all assume that we love our kids and are doing the best jobs we can do. Even when we are really, really frustrated and not digging the whole parenting job in general.
Here’s the thing, C and I had a wonderful day today, and these days don’t come often. It was one of those days where I could see the kid he was (and the man he’s becoming) peeking out through layers of pre-teen, testosterone-fueled angst. Like sunshine streaking through clouds of the most violent August thunderstorm. One minute he’s telling me all the reasons why being an only child will ruin his life and the next? He’s holding the door open for thirty people and, smiling, telling them to have a nice day. One night he will kiss me on the cheek and give me a hug before bed – for reasons unknown to me. The next morning he will stomp through the house with the thick, tangible demeanor of a teenager with the entire world against him.
On those bad days, when I pick him up at school and on the way home hear the litany of things he hates and all that went wrong at school and oh, by the way, he has two detentions next week – it’s all I can do to keep my hands on the wheel. I try to breathe deeply and imperceptibly, but some days I sigh in audible frustration and disapproval. Some days I say words that I can never take back – words he will remember for his whole life. I drive home those days and wish that I could be one of those parents who always liked their kids – one of the parents whose kids always wanted to be home and willingly went on family vacations. I remember what it’s like to feel that dislike, that disapproval, as a middle-aged child. I have spent SO much time trying to figure out what I can do to help – but this week I realized something.
I spend all my time trying to figure out what I can do to make him act the way I want him to.
There’s a twinge of manipulation in this that, the more I think about it , doesn’t sit well with me. His life is not going to be irreparably damaged because he doesn’t want to be on math team or because he doesn’t obsessively practice his penalty kicks. Does he have incredible talent in both of those areas? Yes. Does he need to be 150% invested to gain any benefits from these activities? No. My boy, he loves music. He’s more perceptive than I wanted him to be, but because of this, he loves poetry.Because he questions everything, he will sometimes get into trouble. Also, because has a keen ability to turn a humorous phrase. He can make an instrument out of garbage and a symphony out of any chore.
Pictures courtesy of Eve Wiles, preschool photographer extraordinaire.
We were all cookie swap virgins, well, to the best of my knowledge anyway. In an attempt to be organized and festive, we picked a kitchen and set a date to come together, visit, and bake cookies. After multiple hours, lessons in such things as: how to hold the baby, how to cream sugar and butter together, and how to totally gross out an 11-year-old boy with a kitchen full of women and, ahem, women talk; we each had a pile of cookies, dirty clothes, and wine-stained teeth.
The non-bakers
I spy with my little eye . . . Eve’s finger!Eve and RussellA bit weary of cookie making?
Now these people here – a motley collection of childhood friends. Yes, we know how lucky we are. We really, really do. Nobody could blackmail me like any of these women could.
Festive.
If you count success by the number of cookies baked and sheer amount of shameful gossip swapped, the day was wildly successful. Merry Christmas, my girls.
Was it for this I uttered prayers,
And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,
That now, domestic as a plate,
I should retire at half-past eight?
Edna St. Vincent Millay
Many things mark the arrival into adulthood: one’s first child, a marriage, the purchase of a home. Mine arrived in different forms yesterday: my first trip to the dry cleaners, opening the package of checks for the first joint-checking account. The joyful dread of minutia.
Colby so rarely gets sick that I tend to give him one preemptive day “off” per school year. Usually this comes when he is exhausted or overwhelmed. This year, though, the boy is sick.
He was out-of-sorts toward the end of last week and I made the executive decision to skip our annual extended family Christmas party. By Sunday night he was sporting cheeks redder than Rudolph’s nose. We parked him on the couch for the night with the ubiquitous puke bucket, a water bottle, and a towel. Monday morning brought a temperature of 101.
He’s sick enough to accept the 2 ibuprofen he would normally scoff at (because according to him, REAL men deal with their headaches, they don’t take medicine!) and allow me to put Vaporub on his chest.
We’re into day #2 and the fever is still going strong. His doctor (who is, may I add, the best pediatrician of all time) gave us a timeline of 8-10 days before he’s 100%. I secretly wished he had just had strep so I could give him some antibiotics and we could get back to business.
While at the doctor’s office, my little boy weighed in at a whopping 130 lbs and stood 5’6. While I so badly want him to feel better, there is something about being allowed to mother him, even when he takes up the entire length of the couch, that is so, well, nice.
Stay healthy out there. If you or your family members do fall prey to what we’ve dubbed ‘the plague’ (lower case plague not uppercase Plague), I suggest you whip up a big pot of Jenny Rosenstrach’s Chicken Soup with Orzo. You can find the recipe in her book Dinner: A Love Story.
Pic compliments of DALS blog
All members of your family, sick and healthy, will thank you. AND you will get a chicken soup facial while you cook. AND you have an excuse to have a glass of white wine while you are cooking since the recipe actually calls for it. But please, take my advice here. Do not, under any circumstances, omit the parmesan rind. This advice can go for nearly any brothy soup. If you don’t have a rind, just cut off the driest chunk of parm you have and chuck it in when you add the broth.
Have a great day all. Between the dog that peed on my bed last night and a sick kid — I feel the need to disinfect my entire house while my red-faced boy sleeps on the couch.
from midnight oil 