Inevitably, the start of a new year brings on all those thoughts about self-improvement. Some folks look forward to the feeling of a new beginning, others find resolutions debilitating, some have sworn them off for life. Me, I'm a dyed-in-the-wool list-maker, so I relish the idea of making resolutions each year. I make them (and take them) with a grain of salt, hoping each year to make good on them as best I can, knowing full well I will break some and also trusting I will not beat myself up for it. I approach resolutions with the same whimsical spirit I keep when I read my horoscope. For the most part, the resolutions - like the predictions - are there for entertainment purposes only. I approach them with reverence, interest... and a healthy dose of humor.
It is with this spirit that I continually resolve, every single year, to stop drinking so much Diet Coke. I fail this one every year, miserably. And yet with each fresh January, I write it on my list, almost scoffing as I do because I know I am doomed to disregard it. My dear friend Bonnie calls Diet Coke "the Nectar of the Gods", and I couldn't agree more. The two of us are dangerous with the stuff when we're together, a couple of addicts who can't be in the same room without using. We'll go for a walk around the block just to justify the need for a thirst-quenching beverage. "Diet Coke?" I'll say innocently. Her eyes will roll back into her head, and I'll know I have my cohort in carbonation. We'll sit on the sofa drinking together in silent reverence; in the can or on ice, there is absolutely nothing like it. But the resolution to kick my habit is there at the top of my list year after year, decade after decade. I'd like to think it keeps me to the one-soda-per-day limit I've imposed. But really, the one-a-day rule goes to hell when I'm face-to-face with a good pizza or a bowl of Cheetos. Hit me with the salt, and I can gulp down four cans without blinking.
I used to resolve every year to stop picking my fingers, something I've done since I was four years old. I was trained well by my thumb-bitin', skin-pickin' mother. She's worse than I am, God love her, and she sure made it look fun. Besides, I had alot of nervous evergy to burn off early on; Bio Dad gone AWOL, different home every few years, new father to integrate... I had to find an outlet for all that anxiety. Other addictive behaviors have been shed, but this one remains, and in 2010 for the first year ever, I wrote a different resolution: instead of promising not to pick, I promised I'd stop giving myself a hard time about it. I'm forty-one, for crying out loud. There are worse things. I've done this for thirty-seven years, and I've come to realize it actually doesn't bother me. The only time it's a drag is when, as my husband says, I "go amateur" and draw blood (he considers me such an expert at the art of finger-picking that he can't imagine I'd make such a rookie mistake). It's the only thing he ever says about it, by the way. Never once has he told me to stop, and never once has he (God forbid) yanked my hand out of my mouth (word to the wise,: if you are in my presence, you will never EVER do this, or you may get a couple of shredded fingers shoved up your nose). Yet another reason why I adore Stan. He utterly accepts me, rough cuticles and all.
Where new year's resolutions are concerned, I find them helpful because they serve as gentle reminders of what I'd like to do to become a better, more efficient human. It's a way of checking in with myself. How'm I doing? Where can I improve? I resolve to have more patience as a mother; it remains to be seen whether I will remember this when I'm on the phone and Addie starts in with his steady stream of "Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama. Mama", but it's there, and I've written it. It's in the world. I resolve to cook in more, and eat out less. This is a tough one for me... but if it cuts just three trips to Cheesecake Factory out of our annual expenses, it will have done its job. I resolve to stop dwelling on that which cannot be changed - events, past or present, which haunt me because I wasn't able to right them then, or I have no control over them now. HUGE. But with every passing year it gets easier, and I figure by the time I'm fifty, I'll have this one aced.
I think people tend to forget what a resolution is. To many, it's a duty people are supposed to execute at the beginning of every year, an annoyance, a curse even. But a resolution is a living, breathing thing; it cannot exist in a vacuum (Oh! Vacuuming! But I digress). The things that I consider to be my truest successes came with a great measure of resolve. I've looked inward all my life, but that is not enough. To understand oneself is not enough; my father taught me this. No, it took sheer resolve to transform the qualities in myself that were intolerable to me, for whatever reason. I've found that I have great strength in this area when I want to. And when I don't...
Pass the Diet Coke.
Friday, January 8, 2010
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Paging Dr. Ferber...
I am up at 2:25 am, typing this blog while I listen to the anguished cries of my ten-month-old.
We're sleep-training here at The Chandler Chateau.
For those of you unfamiliar with this harrowing ritual, let me offer the Cliff's Notes: when the exhausted parents of an infant finally decide it is time they got more sleep, or, when the weary breastfeeding mother is convinced her boob is going to fall off from over-use, we enter the world of Dr. Ferber, Sleepyplanet and all related schools of thought: we gently ignore the baby at night. I'm not quite sure there's a gentle way to ignore a baby, but in the sleep-training world that means that when the baby wakes and cries, instead of picking him up, you enter the baby's room once every ten minutes or so to let him know you are still there, you love him, but it's time to go to sleep. You do not touch the baby, but lean in to his room and offer in a gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now. I know you can do it. I love you. Night-night." You feel quite silly doing this, but you get used to it, as these books insist this will be the key to your sanity. Then you leave the room quickly, covering your ears as you go, because your child will inevitably let loose with a wail that could wake the dead. You climb wearily into your bed and wait another ten minutes, and repeat. Lean in, gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now, or Mama's going to have to take heavy medication. Mama doesn't want to do that, so go to sleep, sweetie. Night-night." Ten minutes, repeat: "Hello, sweetie pie. Mama's ready for a straightjacket, so it's best we get right to sleep! Love you, you little bastard. Night-night." In theory, your baby will eventually get the message that you are indeed right there in the next room, but it's time for him to learn to soothe himself to sleep without the help of you or your weary boob.
Addie was a snap to sleep-train. It took two days tops; in fact, I could swear he saw reason the first time we wandered in there to "gently" tell him he was on his own. I could almost hear him thinking, "Oh, okay. I get it. They want to get some sleep. I guess they deserve that. I guess now's as good a time as any to learn to count sheep." By the end of Night Two, he was down at 8:30 pm and waking at 7:30 am, which he does to this day. Wow, we thought. This Ferber stuff really works.
Judging from the ten-month-old who is still wailing in his room as I type this, I'm now convinced Dr. Ferber is full of crap.
With Tucker, we have attempted to sleep-train him almost every single week since he was seven months old. I suppose "attempting" to sleep-train was our first mistake, as the advocates of this method will insist that "there is no TRY". You have to just DO, and if you falter, you will be back at Square One. This puts an inordinate amount of pressure on the parents. As with all things parental, the first lesson you learn is that the easiest route is almost never the best route. But the easiest route is SO tempting. (Example: Family is shopping at supermarket. Kid wants box of animal crackers. Mom says no. Kid screams at top of lungs. Easy solution: give kid box. Avoid full-blown tantrum. Tough solution: teach kid that throwing fit will not get him what he wants. But as kid is throwing himself on the Barnum's Animal Cracker display and passers-by are staring, the easy solution is right there, hovering like a demon... "It's only one itsy-bitsy little box of cookies...") And so it goes.
We parents spend every day resisting temptation (and also picking our battles and deciding when it's OK to give in). This lesson starts with sleep-training. When the baby cries, you realize that the EASIEST thing to do is just wake up and nurse him. It works like a charm every time, the demon whispers seductively. Baby settles back down, and in twenty minutes you can be back in your cozy bed...
But you cannot succumb, say the books. Succumb, and the baby gets the message that all he has to do is cry- for five minutes, twenty, forty-five- and you'll come get him. The only solution is to NOT pick him up. Be consistent, they tell you. It's the only way. Easy for them to say. They aren't in your house, listening to your child do his best Mercedes McCambridge impersonation down the hall.
While I'm on the subject, I must tell you that in general, I no longer read books when it comes to raising my kids. When I'm truly in a mental pickle about a particular behavior, I might look something up... but most of the time, my instincts usually steer me in the right direction. Moreover, I have found that these books are missing one key element. Sure, they offer tricks, tips and solutions. But they never go that one step further and tell you what to do when the tricks, tips and solutions don't work. And so often, they DO NOT. I remember when Addie was two and flat-out refusing to be put into his car seat. The books offered many sound techniques. "Make it a game! Say, 'Let's see how fast we can put our straps on! Ready, set, GO!'" Cute. Except when I tried this adorable little game with Addie, he looked at me as if I had three heads. In the end, you're still standing out in traffic with a child who is arching his back with the strength of ten men and will not comply. What then? The books don't address that. And ladies and gentlemen, THAT'S the book I want. The one that says, "If the game doesn't work, take your right elbow and gently but firmly push it into your child's abdomen. Press down until child's buttocks touch the chair. Ignore screams of protest. While holding child down with right elbow and forearm, take left hand and quickly shove strap around child's writhing right shoulder, taking care not to dislocate shoulder. Quickly lift right forearm and snap restraints before child has a chance to wrench body up again. Once restraints are securely fastened, calmly tell child that if he ever does that again he will be arrested and sent to jail."
But back to our sleep-deprived household. In our defense, we have had a few natural disasters thwart our efforts. Travel messes it up, and we've done our fair share of that. Illness messes it up, and we're convinced that just when we were on the right path, Tucker decided that the best way to combat Dr. Ferber's evil was to simply come down with swine flu. The boy couldn't have been more right; his scheme worked, and we sat up with him night after night for a solid week. The baby gets used to this star treatment, so that when he's well again and you the parent are walking into walls from lack of sleep, he just can't understand when you change the rules and suddenly won't pick him up every two hours.
May I take this moment to mention that just to make it confusing for parents, there are a host of specialists who will tell you there is nothing worse you can do for your baby's sensitive young brain than sleep-train. They will tell you you are damaging him for life by ignoring his primal needs. They will convince you that you are going against nature, and the results will be potentially devastating. As you listen to the plantive cries of your child in the wee hours of the morning, you will wonder if Charles Manson was sleep-trained. You will be certain the Unabomber plotted his revenge from his crib between ten-minute check-ins.
The advocates for sleep-training tell you the opposite is true, that to allow a baby to wake and feed at night after a certain age is disrupting crucial REM sleep, which is essential to brain growth. Who do you believe? In the end, you gotta go with your gut.
For the Chandlers and many others, ultimately the quest for parental sanity wins. Let it be known that an infant with a sleep-deprived mother is also in danger of being damaged for life. I agree with most experts that a three-month-old is too young to be ignored at night, but more to the point, that choice wouldn't have felt right for me. But my sturdy, pizza-and burger-eating ten-month old? He is fully capable of sleeping through the night, damn it. He just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't trust. I will make him see. I have vays of making him sleep.
Silence through the household. Not a creature is stirring. I have been typing for an hour. He's finally given up. It worked... this time. He may begin to cry again in fifteen minutes, an hour, two. And our mettle will be tested yet again. Every cry is a new test, from now until forever. It would be so easy to just sit in front of my Netflix of 30 Rock Season One, and knock out an episode or two while I nurse him back to sleep...
I better go get some ZZZZZ's while the gettin's good.
We're sleep-training here at The Chandler Chateau.
For those of you unfamiliar with this harrowing ritual, let me offer the Cliff's Notes: when the exhausted parents of an infant finally decide it is time they got more sleep, or, when the weary breastfeeding mother is convinced her boob is going to fall off from over-use, we enter the world of Dr. Ferber, Sleepyplanet and all related schools of thought: we gently ignore the baby at night. I'm not quite sure there's a gentle way to ignore a baby, but in the sleep-training world that means that when the baby wakes and cries, instead of picking him up, you enter the baby's room once every ten minutes or so to let him know you are still there, you love him, but it's time to go to sleep. You do not touch the baby, but lean in to his room and offer in a gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now. I know you can do it. I love you. Night-night." You feel quite silly doing this, but you get used to it, as these books insist this will be the key to your sanity. Then you leave the room quickly, covering your ears as you go, because your child will inevitably let loose with a wail that could wake the dead. You climb wearily into your bed and wait another ten minutes, and repeat. Lean in, gentle tone of voice: "Hi sweetie-pie. It's time to go back to sleep now, or Mama's going to have to take heavy medication. Mama doesn't want to do that, so go to sleep, sweetie. Night-night." Ten minutes, repeat: "Hello, sweetie pie. Mama's ready for a straightjacket, so it's best we get right to sleep! Love you, you little bastard. Night-night." In theory, your baby will eventually get the message that you are indeed right there in the next room, but it's time for him to learn to soothe himself to sleep without the help of you or your weary boob.
Addie was a snap to sleep-train. It took two days tops; in fact, I could swear he saw reason the first time we wandered in there to "gently" tell him he was on his own. I could almost hear him thinking, "Oh, okay. I get it. They want to get some sleep. I guess they deserve that. I guess now's as good a time as any to learn to count sheep." By the end of Night Two, he was down at 8:30 pm and waking at 7:30 am, which he does to this day. Wow, we thought. This Ferber stuff really works.
Judging from the ten-month-old who is still wailing in his room as I type this, I'm now convinced Dr. Ferber is full of crap.
With Tucker, we have attempted to sleep-train him almost every single week since he was seven months old. I suppose "attempting" to sleep-train was our first mistake, as the advocates of this method will insist that "there is no TRY". You have to just DO, and if you falter, you will be back at Square One. This puts an inordinate amount of pressure on the parents. As with all things parental, the first lesson you learn is that the easiest route is almost never the best route. But the easiest route is SO tempting. (Example: Family is shopping at supermarket. Kid wants box of animal crackers. Mom says no. Kid screams at top of lungs. Easy solution: give kid box. Avoid full-blown tantrum. Tough solution: teach kid that throwing fit will not get him what he wants. But as kid is throwing himself on the Barnum's Animal Cracker display and passers-by are staring, the easy solution is right there, hovering like a demon... "It's only one itsy-bitsy little box of cookies...") And so it goes.
We parents spend every day resisting temptation (and also picking our battles and deciding when it's OK to give in). This lesson starts with sleep-training. When the baby cries, you realize that the EASIEST thing to do is just wake up and nurse him. It works like a charm every time, the demon whispers seductively. Baby settles back down, and in twenty minutes you can be back in your cozy bed...
But you cannot succumb, say the books. Succumb, and the baby gets the message that all he has to do is cry- for five minutes, twenty, forty-five- and you'll come get him. The only solution is to NOT pick him up. Be consistent, they tell you. It's the only way. Easy for them to say. They aren't in your house, listening to your child do his best Mercedes McCambridge impersonation down the hall.
While I'm on the subject, I must tell you that in general, I no longer read books when it comes to raising my kids. When I'm truly in a mental pickle about a particular behavior, I might look something up... but most of the time, my instincts usually steer me in the right direction. Moreover, I have found that these books are missing one key element. Sure, they offer tricks, tips and solutions. But they never go that one step further and tell you what to do when the tricks, tips and solutions don't work. And so often, they DO NOT. I remember when Addie was two and flat-out refusing to be put into his car seat. The books offered many sound techniques. "Make it a game! Say, 'Let's see how fast we can put our straps on! Ready, set, GO!'" Cute. Except when I tried this adorable little game with Addie, he looked at me as if I had three heads. In the end, you're still standing out in traffic with a child who is arching his back with the strength of ten men and will not comply. What then? The books don't address that. And ladies and gentlemen, THAT'S the book I want. The one that says, "If the game doesn't work, take your right elbow and gently but firmly push it into your child's abdomen. Press down until child's buttocks touch the chair. Ignore screams of protest. While holding child down with right elbow and forearm, take left hand and quickly shove strap around child's writhing right shoulder, taking care not to dislocate shoulder. Quickly lift right forearm and snap restraints before child has a chance to wrench body up again. Once restraints are securely fastened, calmly tell child that if he ever does that again he will be arrested and sent to jail."
But back to our sleep-deprived household. In our defense, we have had a few natural disasters thwart our efforts. Travel messes it up, and we've done our fair share of that. Illness messes it up, and we're convinced that just when we were on the right path, Tucker decided that the best way to combat Dr. Ferber's evil was to simply come down with swine flu. The boy couldn't have been more right; his scheme worked, and we sat up with him night after night for a solid week. The baby gets used to this star treatment, so that when he's well again and you the parent are walking into walls from lack of sleep, he just can't understand when you change the rules and suddenly won't pick him up every two hours.
May I take this moment to mention that just to make it confusing for parents, there are a host of specialists who will tell you there is nothing worse you can do for your baby's sensitive young brain than sleep-train. They will tell you you are damaging him for life by ignoring his primal needs. They will convince you that you are going against nature, and the results will be potentially devastating. As you listen to the plantive cries of your child in the wee hours of the morning, you will wonder if Charles Manson was sleep-trained. You will be certain the Unabomber plotted his revenge from his crib between ten-minute check-ins.
The advocates for sleep-training tell you the opposite is true, that to allow a baby to wake and feed at night after a certain age is disrupting crucial REM sleep, which is essential to brain growth. Who do you believe? In the end, you gotta go with your gut.
For the Chandlers and many others, ultimately the quest for parental sanity wins. Let it be known that an infant with a sleep-deprived mother is also in danger of being damaged for life. I agree with most experts that a three-month-old is too young to be ignored at night, but more to the point, that choice wouldn't have felt right for me. But my sturdy, pizza-and burger-eating ten-month old? He is fully capable of sleeping through the night, damn it. He just doesn't know it yet. He doesn't trust. I will make him see. I have vays of making him sleep.
Silence through the household. Not a creature is stirring. I have been typing for an hour. He's finally given up. It worked... this time. He may begin to cry again in fifteen minutes, an hour, two. And our mettle will be tested yet again. Every cry is a new test, from now until forever. It would be so easy to just sit in front of my Netflix of 30 Rock Season One, and knock out an episode or two while I nurse him back to sleep...
I better go get some ZZZZZ's while the gettin's good.
Friday, November 13, 2009
Thankful
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.
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.
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.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Addie Chat
I picked Addie up from school today, and as we were driving he was talking about his current and unrelenting obsession... trains. Entire afternoons can be whiled away drawing his favorite baggage cars or cabooses (cabeese?), daydreaming about model trains, discussing whether the Pennsylvania Railroad is available in O-Gauge or HO-Gauge. He can give dissertations on the difference between diesel and steam engines, and can often be heard humming the refrain of "The Atchison Topeka and the Santa Fe". However, this afternoon our locomotive conversation paused briefly while we both took in a building-size poster of the upcoming Disney animated feature, "A Christmas Carol".
"Do you want to see that movie when it comes out, Addie?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. "What is it about?"
"Well," I began, "It's about an old miser named Ebenezer Scrooge. He's a very selfish and greedy man, and he hates everything to do with Christmas. In fact, when people come up to him and say, 'Merry Christmas!', he says, 'BAH, HUMBUG.' But then, on Christmas Eve, three ghosts visit him, and they teach him the true meaning of Christmas. By morning, he wakes up feeling grateful to be alive. He shouts, 'Merry Christmas!' to everyone on the street, and he rushes out of his house to give all his employees and family presents and turkeys and jobs and good cheer!
"You know Addie," I continued, "That's a big part of the spirit of Christmas- giving. That's why I really want you to help me pick out gifts for all our family and friends this year, because you'll get so excited about all the great things we're going to make for other people. You know, I actually look forward to giving presents on Christmas more than getting them. Christmas is so much fun because I can't wait to see people open the gifts I've made for them. It makes me happy to see them so happy."
There was a great, long silence in the car. As we sat at the stoplight, I assumed that must have been alot for Addie to take in. Knowing his sensitive, introspective young mind as well as I do, I knew he was contemplating the themes I introduced, perhaps needing clarity about the folly of Mr. Scrooge, or the meaning of BAH HUMBUG. I waited patiently, ready to answer any questions he might have about the ins and outs of gift-giving. Maybe he'd even come up with some gift ideas I hadn't thought of yet, and we could start shopping materials for a homemade ornament collection as soon as we got Halloween under our belts. At long last, I heard his voice.
"Mama?"
"Yes?"
"I want to be SURE Santa knows I want the O-Gauge Surfliner train AND the New Jersey Transit AND the Southern Pacific train. Oh, and the Amfleet. Definitely the Amfleet."
So much for profound parenting.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Fabulous Fall
I must share my elation- it's AUTUMN! Glorious, festive, cozy and luscious autumn! How I adore this time of year; from now until December 25th, I am in bliss.How do we all know for sure when this sumptuous season has begun? Not when the air turns crisp and chilly- though I adore the moment when I can finally haul out my sweaters. Not when the leaves change- though I relish the tall, East-coast-like trees and piles of multi-colored jumping leaves in our little neighborhood. No, the moment that marks the beginning of fall for all mankind is simple: it is when we go shopping and as we walk by that perennial mall staple, Williams Sonoma, we are suddenly, mysteriously drawn into their doors by the seductive aroma of wintery oven smells that make us think we have died and gone to holiday home-baked heaven. They are evil, those Williams Sonoma people. They waft those smells on purpose. And it works. Stan and I wandered in there today, drawn into the vortex like moths to a flame. They bake their pumpkin quick bread, they brew their cider, they make mouths across the nation water. Then, of course, they have the nerve to have run out of samples. But no matter; it is enough just to smell that unmistakable smell of fall and know that the ultimate season has begun!
On October 1st, all bets are off. I know I now have unofficial permission to decorate for Halloween without incurring the wrath of my neighbors, who would probably prefer not to haul out their skeletons and witches until October 15th. But my spirit will not be deterred. I stretch the spider webs across the porch railing, gleefully singing "Monster Mash" as I work. I hang the spider egg sac that Addie and I made two Halloweens ago- a Martha Stewart masterpiece of white stocking stuffed with a styrofoam ball and teeming with tons of mini-black spiders; truly creepy and awe-inspiring. I post my "Low Flying Bats" sign, turn on my Target fake Jack-O-Lantern (the real one won't make his appearance until a few days before All Hallow's Eve), and dig out my Disney's Sounds from the Haunted House CD. Oh, joy. Rapture!
I'm not exactly sure why I'm such a holiday fiend. I always have been. One of the reasons may be that my family did holidays RIGHT. My mom specialized in creating a certain kind of kid magic. I never knew when she'd surprise me with a treasure hunt around town that would end with me discovering a brand new bike or a doll collection I'd been aching for. She'd go to elaborate lengths to make the best adventures happen. Members of our family were also expert storytellers, with potent parables handed down for generations and told with such conviction and detail that you didn't just "believe"... you KNEW. Holidays were the best. The Easter bunny didn't just hide eggs at our house. He also pooped on the hearth. My mom used to wad up little pellets of mud and bunch them near the fireplace for us to find Easter morning- bonafide proof that the bunny had been there (and apparently it was always at our house where his carrots kicked in). Her dedication to the fantastical was the stuff of legend. I'm still not entirely convinced that Santa isn't real. Too many things happened in my childhood to prove otherwise. Reindeer and sleigh tracks were embedded in the snow every Christmas morning. Santa himself ho-ho-ho-ed late one Christmas Eve at my grandparent's home in Eastern Pennsylvania when I was about eight; I heard his boots in the hallway and dove under my covers with my heart pounding, a mix of excitement and fear so heady I can still conjure the feeling today.
I suppose I see Halloween and Thanksgiving as so magical in part because they are the two holidays that lead to Christmas, the Grand Poo-Bah of all holidays. I admit it: I am a bonafide Christmas freak. But aside from my brief Santa rant, I won't wax rhapsodic now; it's too early. I know I have to wait until the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade before I feel I have unofficial permission to start decking my halls.
So for now, I bury myself in the wicked fun of Halloween. Addie and I take evening walks around our neighborhood to see who has added their spooky decorations. I set my TiVo to tape those classic "Roseanne" Halloween episodes; NO other sitcom captured the holiday to such exquisite, twisted perfection, and those episodes never get old. Our annual trip to the pumpkin patch is already on the calendar; it'll be Tucker's inaugural visit. I have already researched new recipes for roasted pumpkin seeds; maybe this year I'll get it right. Last year was an unmitigated disaster. I tried a carmelized seeds recipe, with inedible results. I think I carmelized a little too long. The whole thing ended up in a glop on my cookie sheet, and had the consistency of tree sap. I may be one recipe away from being convinced there isn't a way to make pumpkin seeds taste really good. Passable, maybe. Delicious? Not so far. But I'm not quite ready to give up yet. One more Halloween.
You know, don't you, that I said the same thing last year.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Old Friends
I saw some old friends last night. Friends who knew me when I was a completely different person.
Let me explain.
I was eighteen years old when I signed up for a musical theatre class in the heart of Hollywood. I thought it would be a good place to start making some real professional connections. You see, at eighteen I was, to my mind, on the fast track to Broadway stardom. I had played the lead in every single one of my high school's musicals, and had already dropped out of college to go on my first national tour. The call from Sondheim was imminent; I just needed to meet the right people.
I was in for a rude awakening.
For this particular musical theatre class, a dozen or so students came together once a week to sing a little and cry a lot. As students of the class, it was our job to bring a song we thought was appropriate for us, and perform it in front of our teacher for critique. Easy, right? Not for this crowd. These folks were fugitives from the Island of Misfit Toys, every last one of them. There was the girl who got up to sing for the first time, launched into "How are Things in Glocca Morra", and before she had even come to the word "Morra" she had completely broken down in uncontrollable sobs. Apparently, things in Glocca Morra were not so good. Then there was the buttoned-up businessman who got in touch with his wild side by climbing the rafters and swinging like a monkey while bawling through "The Lusty Month of May".
I remember stifling laughter and glancing around to see if anyone found this behavior as absurd as I did. Nobody was flinching. Was this the Twilight Zone? What was wrong with these people? This was musical theatre, not group therapy. Yet the tears flowed, Saturday after Saturday. The teacher used every song he critiqued as an excuse to dive headfirst into the mental mishigas of each and every one of his performing patients. Hours were spent working through their issues. I knew way too much about the troubled childhood of the woman who sobbed through "It's the Hard Knock Life" or the man working out his Oedipus complex with a ballad version of "If Momma Was Married". I sat dumbfounded. Why couldn't people just sing? Was singing so hard? I held myself at arm's distance from these quacks. My job was to show them all how effortless it was, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I was a star. I was going places. This rather pitiful musical theatre class was just a pitstop for me; a place to show off the talents that would someday fuel discussions at water coolers across the nation.
I wasn't long for this class, and truth be told I still chuckle when I remember the many hours spent in musical therapy with some mighty strange people. But somehow, and entirely without my permission, a few of the characters I met therein became my trusted friends and remain in my life to this day. How they ever suffered me in the beginning I'll never know. Maybe they all saw what must have been completely evident; I was just as much of a mess as they were. I just wore tighter armor.
Last night around my dinner table, there they sat: Clay, soft-spoken and tousle-haired, who back in the days of class didn't ever ask to be noticed. Clay, whose energy was quiet, contemplative... but who had impeccable taste in music and a passion for sharing the greatest melodies and lyrics from the Great American Songbook and beyond. Clay, whose emotions ran deep and tender and pure; he hid them well, but you could see them when he sang. When the best of Sammy Kahn, Jerome Kern or Harold Arlen overtook him, he couldn't help but show you his heart.
And Wendy, fabulously diverse Wendy, who probably shed more tears than anyone in class and opened my eyes to the fact that true beauty comes messy, with frayed edges. Wendy, gorgeous and colorful like a tropical bird with a huge wing expanse. Wendy, who is like Phoebe in "Friends"; no matter what you mention, she has somehow been there, done that. She is to my mind an artist, an athlete, a sommelier, a flight attendant, a zookeeper, and has probably done time in Costa Rica.
Then, there's Jeff. When I first saw him perform I shook my head; what a no-talent. He couldn't sing, couldn't act, had no business being on stage in my estimation. I could NOT have been more wrong, for Jeff soon emerged one of the most wonderful, glorious singers and performers I've ever known. Jeff, so completely and utterly unique, onstage and off. Jeff, who became my pen pal when I moved to New York at age twenty, and wrote me the most engrossing, wry and witty letters you can imagine. These high-calorie, good-to-the-last-drop letters I'd hunger to receive in the mail- oh, remember MAIL? The excitement of a thick envelope in your mailbox and a real, handwritten, juicy letter awaiting you? How I miss the mail!- and I'd write furiously immediately upon receiving his tasty diatribes, trying to rush the turnaround time so I wouldn't have to wait too long for his next installment.
And finally Karen, my soul-sister. Karen, who once fought emotion every time the teacher tried to coax it out of her and how ironic, since she is one of the most openly passionate people I know. Karen, who lives life out loud, seizes and squeezes it for all she's worth. Karen, as hungry for life as I am and always was, devouring moments the same way I do. Karen, who I can tell anything to, who has spent countless hours talking with me, eating with me, laughing and daydreaming with me. Karen, who has yelled and screamed at me and I have screamed at her, and we're still friends and always will be because we've seen the best and the worst of each other and it's okay, and how many people can you say that about in your lifetime?
All of these people were in my home last night, eating food and laughing and talking as if no time at all had gone by since we all sat quivering in that class. But so much has gone by, you see. And oh, the people they have become! Clay, now a counselor who is pouring his quiet devotion onto an accomplished wife and two gorgeous children. Wendy, who soars like an eagle wherever she goes and is never in one place for long, currently drawing larger-than-life cartoon visualizations for corporate meetings so companies can see their goals in technicolor and leave it to Wendy to find the coolest job that ever existed! Jeff, visiting from New York where he has lived for the last fifteen years, working at the same old job and comfortable there- but with more talent, wit and savvy in his pinky finger than any of his fellow employees would ever know. Jeff, making my world a happier place whenever he is in my home. And Karen, woman of a thousand emotions, never taking no for an answer, breezing in with the energy and light of the sun and shining her passion onto anyone within a hundred-foot radius.
And then, there's me.
Who have I become?
Well, a wife and mother, first and foremost- and that's everything. It's what drives me, it's the center of me now. It has become my passion, my art, my soul.
But beyond that? Is there a beyond that? Does there have to be? It's very strange, you see, to have been defined for so long as a performer, and a pretty good one at that. People are drawn to a life in theatre for different reasons; for me, it became evident that I performed in large part to fill a hole that existed deep within me. I needed recognition on a more global level. I needed it to overcome something- what, Lord only knows, and does it really matter? I wanted to avenge the high school classmates who made fun of me, prove something to anyone who ever wronged me, win the love of absent fathers, who knows, who cares. But though I always claimed to have Broadway in my sight, clearly my true passions lay elsewhere. I never really pursued my career, not with any real fervor. I was too busy figuring myself out, learning who I was in relationships and out of them, wanting to connect to family and friends, to understand, to grow and change. I made broad strokes, and big mistakes. I hurt, I suffered, I learned. And as I did, something extraordinary happened: I fell in love with my life. It happened slowly, and not without a substantial measure of pain. But now, I look back on the troubled girl who sat haughtily in that musical theatre class, and for the life of me I don't recognize her.
For the life of me.
The life of me. What is that, from now until forever? Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Who else am I? Where do I put my skills? When I was young and stupid and thought I had all the answers, nobody could have convinced me my passions would shift. I suddenly no longer fit in that world I inhabited for so long. In some ways, I never did. While most of my Theatrefriends dove headfirst into auditions, headshots, resumes and shoptalk, I paid it all its due lip service but always felt a bit like an imposter. I had plenty of disappointments and some moderate successes. I had a ball, I made money, I made lemonade when I was handed lemons, I was great in some shows, not so great in others. I met my husband and found my future. This is utterly true: without theatre, I would never have this life, this husband, these two children. There is absolutely no regret, there is only gratitude.
Okay, maybe not ONLY gratitude. I'm not Gandhi. Maybe there is a little sadness, because at the same time that I found my life, I have had to completely redefine my artistic identity. I have had epiphanies, and not all of them have been pleasant. I know how much I gave, and yet somehow I just missed. I think many people expected more from me. A part of me feels I disappointed them. I was supposed to do more with this gift. I have squandered it a bit, left it out to dry. I have doubted that it ever was a gift at all, and that is probably the saddest truth of all.
So where do I go from here, professionally speaking? I don't know the answer. In some ways I am clearer-headed than ever before. But the arrogant certainty of youth has its advantages. I never doubted my direction when I was a bull-headed, emotionally stunted young adult. And now? I know my own heart and yet have little clue where to place it beyond the people I so love and cherish.
I know I want to give back, to be of service somehow. That is why I teach, and why choreographing for high schools and working with young adults makes the most immediate sense to me. So, I do that for now. I love that. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor... teacher. The next chapter will reveal itself in time. I hope.
Last night, past and present converged. I have put my arm down; I know now that when I was eighteen, I was just as full of tears as Glocca Morra Girl, and maybe I needed to swing from a rafter or two. I stand humbly in awe of these weird, wonderful people who invaded my life. I try to learn from them. I learn from Clay that being quiet can yield great insight. I learn from Wendy that one person can do a million things, and do them all well. I learn from Jeff that I have a kindred spirit where I once least expected it. I learn from Karen that passion is eternal, and friendship means everything.
I learn that I am unfinished. But I wouldn't trade this lovely, messy, unfinished life for anyone's on Earth.
Let me explain.
I was eighteen years old when I signed up for a musical theatre class in the heart of Hollywood. I thought it would be a good place to start making some real professional connections. You see, at eighteen I was, to my mind, on the fast track to Broadway stardom. I had played the lead in every single one of my high school's musicals, and had already dropped out of college to go on my first national tour. The call from Sondheim was imminent; I just needed to meet the right people.
I was in for a rude awakening.
For this particular musical theatre class, a dozen or so students came together once a week to sing a little and cry a lot. As students of the class, it was our job to bring a song we thought was appropriate for us, and perform it in front of our teacher for critique. Easy, right? Not for this crowd. These folks were fugitives from the Island of Misfit Toys, every last one of them. There was the girl who got up to sing for the first time, launched into "How are Things in Glocca Morra", and before she had even come to the word "Morra" she had completely broken down in uncontrollable sobs. Apparently, things in Glocca Morra were not so good. Then there was the buttoned-up businessman who got in touch with his wild side by climbing the rafters and swinging like a monkey while bawling through "The Lusty Month of May".
I remember stifling laughter and glancing around to see if anyone found this behavior as absurd as I did. Nobody was flinching. Was this the Twilight Zone? What was wrong with these people? This was musical theatre, not group therapy. Yet the tears flowed, Saturday after Saturday. The teacher used every song he critiqued as an excuse to dive headfirst into the mental mishigas of each and every one of his performing patients. Hours were spent working through their issues. I knew way too much about the troubled childhood of the woman who sobbed through "It's the Hard Knock Life" or the man working out his Oedipus complex with a ballad version of "If Momma Was Married". I sat dumbfounded. Why couldn't people just sing? Was singing so hard? I held myself at arm's distance from these quacks. My job was to show them all how effortless it was, and then get the hell out of Dodge. I was a star. I was going places. This rather pitiful musical theatre class was just a pitstop for me; a place to show off the talents that would someday fuel discussions at water coolers across the nation.
I wasn't long for this class, and truth be told I still chuckle when I remember the many hours spent in musical therapy with some mighty strange people. But somehow, and entirely without my permission, a few of the characters I met therein became my trusted friends and remain in my life to this day. How they ever suffered me in the beginning I'll never know. Maybe they all saw what must have been completely evident; I was just as much of a mess as they were. I just wore tighter armor.
Last night around my dinner table, there they sat: Clay, soft-spoken and tousle-haired, who back in the days of class didn't ever ask to be noticed. Clay, whose energy was quiet, contemplative... but who had impeccable taste in music and a passion for sharing the greatest melodies and lyrics from the Great American Songbook and beyond. Clay, whose emotions ran deep and tender and pure; he hid them well, but you could see them when he sang. When the best of Sammy Kahn, Jerome Kern or Harold Arlen overtook him, he couldn't help but show you his heart.
And Wendy, fabulously diverse Wendy, who probably shed more tears than anyone in class and opened my eyes to the fact that true beauty comes messy, with frayed edges. Wendy, gorgeous and colorful like a tropical bird with a huge wing expanse. Wendy, who is like Phoebe in "Friends"; no matter what you mention, she has somehow been there, done that. She is to my mind an artist, an athlete, a sommelier, a flight attendant, a zookeeper, and has probably done time in Costa Rica.
Then, there's Jeff. When I first saw him perform I shook my head; what a no-talent. He couldn't sing, couldn't act, had no business being on stage in my estimation. I could NOT have been more wrong, for Jeff soon emerged one of the most wonderful, glorious singers and performers I've ever known. Jeff, so completely and utterly unique, onstage and off. Jeff, who became my pen pal when I moved to New York at age twenty, and wrote me the most engrossing, wry and witty letters you can imagine. These high-calorie, good-to-the-last-drop letters I'd hunger to receive in the mail- oh, remember MAIL? The excitement of a thick envelope in your mailbox and a real, handwritten, juicy letter awaiting you? How I miss the mail!- and I'd write furiously immediately upon receiving his tasty diatribes, trying to rush the turnaround time so I wouldn't have to wait too long for his next installment.
And finally Karen, my soul-sister. Karen, who once fought emotion every time the teacher tried to coax it out of her and how ironic, since she is one of the most openly passionate people I know. Karen, who lives life out loud, seizes and squeezes it for all she's worth. Karen, as hungry for life as I am and always was, devouring moments the same way I do. Karen, who I can tell anything to, who has spent countless hours talking with me, eating with me, laughing and daydreaming with me. Karen, who has yelled and screamed at me and I have screamed at her, and we're still friends and always will be because we've seen the best and the worst of each other and it's okay, and how many people can you say that about in your lifetime?
All of these people were in my home last night, eating food and laughing and talking as if no time at all had gone by since we all sat quivering in that class. But so much has gone by, you see. And oh, the people they have become! Clay, now a counselor who is pouring his quiet devotion onto an accomplished wife and two gorgeous children. Wendy, who soars like an eagle wherever she goes and is never in one place for long, currently drawing larger-than-life cartoon visualizations for corporate meetings so companies can see their goals in technicolor and leave it to Wendy to find the coolest job that ever existed! Jeff, visiting from New York where he has lived for the last fifteen years, working at the same old job and comfortable there- but with more talent, wit and savvy in his pinky finger than any of his fellow employees would ever know. Jeff, making my world a happier place whenever he is in my home. And Karen, woman of a thousand emotions, never taking no for an answer, breezing in with the energy and light of the sun and shining her passion onto anyone within a hundred-foot radius.
And then, there's me.
Who have I become?
Well, a wife and mother, first and foremost- and that's everything. It's what drives me, it's the center of me now. It has become my passion, my art, my soul.
But beyond that? Is there a beyond that? Does there have to be? It's very strange, you see, to have been defined for so long as a performer, and a pretty good one at that. People are drawn to a life in theatre for different reasons; for me, it became evident that I performed in large part to fill a hole that existed deep within me. I needed recognition on a more global level. I needed it to overcome something- what, Lord only knows, and does it really matter? I wanted to avenge the high school classmates who made fun of me, prove something to anyone who ever wronged me, win the love of absent fathers, who knows, who cares. But though I always claimed to have Broadway in my sight, clearly my true passions lay elsewhere. I never really pursued my career, not with any real fervor. I was too busy figuring myself out, learning who I was in relationships and out of them, wanting to connect to family and friends, to understand, to grow and change. I made broad strokes, and big mistakes. I hurt, I suffered, I learned. And as I did, something extraordinary happened: I fell in love with my life. It happened slowly, and not without a substantial measure of pain. But now, I look back on the troubled girl who sat haughtily in that musical theatre class, and for the life of me I don't recognize her.
For the life of me.
The life of me. What is that, from now until forever? Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor. Who else am I? Where do I put my skills? When I was young and stupid and thought I had all the answers, nobody could have convinced me my passions would shift. I suddenly no longer fit in that world I inhabited for so long. In some ways, I never did. While most of my Theatrefriends dove headfirst into auditions, headshots, resumes and shoptalk, I paid it all its due lip service but always felt a bit like an imposter. I had plenty of disappointments and some moderate successes. I had a ball, I made money, I made lemonade when I was handed lemons, I was great in some shows, not so great in others. I met my husband and found my future. This is utterly true: without theatre, I would never have this life, this husband, these two children. There is absolutely no regret, there is only gratitude.
Okay, maybe not ONLY gratitude. I'm not Gandhi. Maybe there is a little sadness, because at the same time that I found my life, I have had to completely redefine my artistic identity. I have had epiphanies, and not all of them have been pleasant. I know how much I gave, and yet somehow I just missed. I think many people expected more from me. A part of me feels I disappointed them. I was supposed to do more with this gift. I have squandered it a bit, left it out to dry. I have doubted that it ever was a gift at all, and that is probably the saddest truth of all.
So where do I go from here, professionally speaking? I don't know the answer. In some ways I am clearer-headed than ever before. But the arrogant certainty of youth has its advantages. I never doubted my direction when I was a bull-headed, emotionally stunted young adult. And now? I know my own heart and yet have little clue where to place it beyond the people I so love and cherish.
I know I want to give back, to be of service somehow. That is why I teach, and why choreographing for high schools and working with young adults makes the most immediate sense to me. So, I do that for now. I love that. Wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, neighbor... teacher. The next chapter will reveal itself in time. I hope.
Last night, past and present converged. I have put my arm down; I know now that when I was eighteen, I was just as full of tears as Glocca Morra Girl, and maybe I needed to swing from a rafter or two. I stand humbly in awe of these weird, wonderful people who invaded my life. I try to learn from them. I learn from Clay that being quiet can yield great insight. I learn from Wendy that one person can do a million things, and do them all well. I learn from Jeff that I have a kindred spirit where I once least expected it. I learn from Karen that passion is eternal, and friendship means everything.
I learn that I am unfinished. But I wouldn't trade this lovely, messy, unfinished life for anyone's on Earth.
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