In honor of Thanksgiving, 26 things I am truly thankful for (one for each day in the month leading up to the best feast of the year!):
1. An almost-five-year-old who sleeps like an angel, and always has.
2. So You Think You Can Dance... especially Mia Michaels' inspired routines.
3. Parmesan cheese.
4. Peet's Coffee, and Peppermint Mocha Coffeemate.
5. My health, and the health of my loved ones.
6. That we bought this house when we did and get to live in this neighborhood, complete with its parades, block parties, and amazing neighbors.
7. My parents, who are there for us- and our kids- in every imaginable way.
8. Target.
9. The Original Pancake House's glorious, melt-in-your-mouth buttermilk pancakes.
10. My ability to overcome the emotional roadblocks and insecurities that might have taken a serious toll on my happiness, had I not tackled them.
11. Aroma Cafe's heart-shaped blueberry scone.
12. That I took a job choreographing for a high school five years ago.
13. That my high school sweetheart introduced me to the Beatles when I was 17, and thus opened up my heart to a world of music.
14. James Taylor.
15. The day I hear the first Christmas song on the radio.
16. Friends who stand up for what is right.
17. People who have forgiven me.
18. One amazing architect, who has given us the house of our dreams... and one miraculous mom, who deserves that amazing architect.
19. My friends... many of whom feel like family.
20. My family... most of whom feel like friends... and how miraculous is that?!
21. A husband who makes my insides go all gooey just by laying a gentle hand on my head.
22. That I listened to a deeper calling within me, and decided to have kids.
23. Addie and Tucker, the lights of my life.
24. A good shower.
25. A great pizza.
26. A fantastic... well, let's just say if I'm lucky it comes right before the shower and the pizza.
And, because with every yin there comes a yang, 26 things I truly dislike:
1. That we still haven't sleep-trained our nine-month old, and I have the bleary eyes to prove it.
2. Tyce Diorio.
3. Fruit Roll-Ups.
4. Gristle.
5. That certain people I know are sick, suffering, or scared.
6. That when somebody says something mean, I think of the perfect comeback... three hours later.
7. People who cut in line, or cut me off; people with entitlement issues in general.
8. People who call me up, and then answer their own call-waiting a minute later.
9. Scientology, and similar cult-ish groups.
10. Fear, worry, and sleepless nights.
11. Katherine Heigl. Come to think of it, Grey's Anatomy. But still, I watch. What is wrong with me?
12. That I will probably never be able to stop picking at my fingers.
13. Being misunderstood, or misrepresented.
14. My own impatience.
15. Clutter.
16. My allergies.
17. Ultra-low-rise jeans. Why do these exist? Nobody looks good in them. If I accidentally grab them to try on, I look like I'm wearing my son's pants.
18. People whose way of connecting to others is by commiserating in negativity and mean-spiritedness.
19. When people don't train their dogs, say pit bulls aren't dangerous, or put the comfort of their animals above that of humans.
20. The existence of evil on earth in any form.
21. Earthquakes.
20. Blind hatred of any kind.
21. People who use weddings, pregnancies, and other joyous family events to make it all about them, what they need, and how they can find ways to be offended or otherwise unhelpful.
22. Undercooked chicken.
23. Halitosis, or other unsavory body smells.
24. The phrases "It's all good", "Everything happens for a reason", and "Whatever".
25. Lack of common sense.
26. People in charge who don't know what they're doing.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
On Being a Parent
It is truly amazing how the world falls away when your kid is sick.
Both our boys just got over the dreaded swine flu. Our family is just emerging from quarantine, and reintegrating into society. It's a good feeling, one that falls in stark contrast to the intense worry that overtook us for two weeks, as we devoted our lives to nursing them both back to health. In one instant- in the time it takes to feel a blazing hot forehead or hear a cough that just doesn't sound right- all social plans, professional concerns and petty worries drop away. Suddenly, all that matters is HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
A few weeks ago, we met an older couple while we were in San Diego celebrating our eighth wedding anniversary. Our conversation with them took place while standing in line to get on the Amtrak Surfliner and head for home. The man, still handsome, tan and silver-haired, stood chatting with us while his wife stood a few paces away, watching the trains come into the station one-by-one. I held a very twisty eight-month-old in my arms, and the man admired him, asked his age and name. Small talk gave way to medium talk, as we began to discuss what brought us to San Diego.
"We're celebrating our anniversary," Stan explained. "We took a train down here from Los Angeles because our older son is obsessed with them. We thought it would be fun to take the boys down here on the Surfliner, and experiment with public transportation around the city."
"What brings you here?" I asked.
The man said, "Actually, we're visiting our son in Newport Beach."
"How nice. Where do you live?"
"Montana," he answered. "We took the train from Newport to San Diego to have a nice dinner, just the two of us. It's been a tiring trip."
"Lots of activity?"
"No," he said, "We came out here because our son has stage four metastatic melanoma."
My heart dropped. Medium talk was now very large. I didn't know what to say.
"God, I'm so sorry," Stan said.
The man shrugged. "We'll be out here indefinitely. All of this is so sudden. One minute he was fine; the next, he had inoperable cancer. It's wild. The irony is that our son is a triathlete. In the peak of health. He has a great job. He just got a boat. Loves to sail."
His wife wandered over to us from where she was standing.
"Honey, I just told them about Matthew," the man said.
The woman looked in my eyes, and managed a sad smile, a lift of her shoulders, and a nod of acknowledgement. "Your baby is beautiful," she said.
Before I had kids, I had an empathetic heart, to be sure. I felt genuine sadness for stories such as these; I knew the world could be mighty unfair sometimes. I could offer eloquent words of understanding and support. It's hard to explain what is different now, but it is devastatingly so. Since I had children, I am rendered speechless. My heart has transformed.
I sometimes long for the emotional distance I could create in times past. Before Addie and Tucker, I could hear a story like the one this man so candidly shared and not have it penetrate me so deeply and personally. Now? I am this man, sixty-something, frightened, helpless. And he is me, snuggling an infant boy, so much joy and heartbreak ahead. As the man spoke, I saw him looking at Tucker, and I knew he saw his own son as surely as if it was yesterday. I knew the woman watched me hold my baby and could only think of her own. Her now thirty-eight-year-old baby, who is very sick and whose chances of long-term survival are slim. They are still cradling him, still fighting for him, still and forever trying desperately to shield him from pain. Nothing else in this world matters. HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
For me, this is the most beautiful part of becoming a parent. I feel a profound connection to the human race, to a grand continuum, to my part in a much bigger picture... I feel it in a way I never could have understood before. Nothing I say to these two people will ever convey how I feel towards them in this moment. Our paths will cross ever-so-briefly, and then our train will take us to two different destinations, and two different destinies.
I don't know their names. But I know them. We are parents. We are the same.
Both our boys just got over the dreaded swine flu. Our family is just emerging from quarantine, and reintegrating into society. It's a good feeling, one that falls in stark contrast to the intense worry that overtook us for two weeks, as we devoted our lives to nursing them both back to health. In one instant- in the time it takes to feel a blazing hot forehead or hear a cough that just doesn't sound right- all social plans, professional concerns and petty worries drop away. Suddenly, all that matters is HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
A few weeks ago, we met an older couple while we were in San Diego celebrating our eighth wedding anniversary. Our conversation with them took place while standing in line to get on the Amtrak Surfliner and head for home. The man, still handsome, tan and silver-haired, stood chatting with us while his wife stood a few paces away, watching the trains come into the station one-by-one. I held a very twisty eight-month-old in my arms, and the man admired him, asked his age and name. Small talk gave way to medium talk, as we began to discuss what brought us to San Diego.
"We're celebrating our anniversary," Stan explained. "We took a train down here from Los Angeles because our older son is obsessed with them. We thought it would be fun to take the boys down here on the Surfliner, and experiment with public transportation around the city."
"What brings you here?" I asked.
The man said, "Actually, we're visiting our son in Newport Beach."
"How nice. Where do you live?"
"Montana," he answered. "We took the train from Newport to San Diego to have a nice dinner, just the two of us. It's been a tiring trip."
"Lots of activity?"
"No," he said, "We came out here because our son has stage four metastatic melanoma."
My heart dropped. Medium talk was now very large. I didn't know what to say.
"God, I'm so sorry," Stan said.
The man shrugged. "We'll be out here indefinitely. All of this is so sudden. One minute he was fine; the next, he had inoperable cancer. It's wild. The irony is that our son is a triathlete. In the peak of health. He has a great job. He just got a boat. Loves to sail."
His wife wandered over to us from where she was standing.
"Honey, I just told them about Matthew," the man said.
The woman looked in my eyes, and managed a sad smile, a lift of her shoulders, and a nod of acknowledgement. "Your baby is beautiful," she said.
Before I had kids, I had an empathetic heart, to be sure. I felt genuine sadness for stories such as these; I knew the world could be mighty unfair sometimes. I could offer eloquent words of understanding and support. It's hard to explain what is different now, but it is devastatingly so. Since I had children, I am rendered speechless. My heart has transformed.
I sometimes long for the emotional distance I could create in times past. Before Addie and Tucker, I could hear a story like the one this man so candidly shared and not have it penetrate me so deeply and personally. Now? I am this man, sixty-something, frightened, helpless. And he is me, snuggling an infant boy, so much joy and heartbreak ahead. As the man spoke, I saw him looking at Tucker, and I knew he saw his own son as surely as if it was yesterday. I knew the woman watched me hold my baby and could only think of her own. Her now thirty-eight-year-old baby, who is very sick and whose chances of long-term survival are slim. They are still cradling him, still fighting for him, still and forever trying desperately to shield him from pain. Nothing else in this world matters. HOLD KID. KISS KID. GET KID WELL.
For me, this is the most beautiful part of becoming a parent. I feel a profound connection to the human race, to a grand continuum, to my part in a much bigger picture... I feel it in a way I never could have understood before. Nothing I say to these two people will ever convey how I feel towards them in this moment. Our paths will cross ever-so-briefly, and then our train will take us to two different destinations, and two different destinies.
I don't know their names. But I know them. We are parents. We are the same.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
