Present

Well, I just kind of disappeared there, didn't I???

My apologies to my readers! I do miss my blog and all of you and the catharsis I get from writing.  But there have been lots of changes in my life of late, most of them positive. The biggest news is that I reached goal and became an employee of Weight Watchers. I'm currently in training and hope to be a leader by early next year.

WOW, is there a lot to learn. But I LOVE it. I get to interact with people in a really meaningful way; people who are having the same struggles I once had, people who need what others once gave me. I find it monumentally fulfilling. If you've been a reader for any length of time, you know how desperately I needed to feel fulfilled.

You may remember that mere days before she died, my Mom reached her 100lb goal and was beginning to think about becoming a leader herself. Even chronically ill, retirement and the sedentary lifestyle that inevitably accompanies it just wasn't her bag. She needed something to do. And she would have been GREAT at it.

It never fails to cross my mind at some point in each meeting that I work, that my Mom was really cheated and that I am now doing what she dreamt of. That makes me very sad, but also proud. She would have been thrilled for me. And I think she alone would have understood what it truly meant to me to find something to do that really matters.

But I found a way of honoring my Mom and including her in the journey that I thought was ending, but had really just begun. It's been a secret until now. Not even my husband knows. I'm going to share it with you now. Why? I don't know. I guess just because...it's time. I need people to know just how much a part of my success she has been and always will be.

Weight Watchers is big on recognition. It's what keeps people motivated. It might sound silly, but a little green "bravo" sticker can make your whole day when you're struggling. Weight Watchers also sets small goals; 5 and 10 percent, to get members started and help them feel less overwhelmed when they have a lot of weight to lose. When a members reaches their 10 percent goal they are awarded a keychain. Then they get a washer to go on the keychain for each 25lbs lost. They also award little charms for various other achievements along the way. My Mom had them all, except the lifetime key, which is the most coveted of all the charms. A member must stay at their goal weight for 6 weeks to get their lifetime status. My Mom only lived for one after reaching hers.

When she died we kept that keychain, of course. For both my sisters and me, it was a symbol of the courage, determination, and strength that my mother had always modelled for us. The middle child took posession of it, as she was at the beginning of her weight loss journey and wanted it as a talisman. I can't think of a more powerful one, at least for the three of us. Since I was near goal, I was happy to let her have it and really thought no more about it.

It took me a lot longer than I thought to actually reach my goal. My body simply refused to go below a certain point. Though I battled for nearly six months, I could not get beyond the 75 lb. mark. I could get the pounds off, but they would come right back, despite not changing my habits. It was maddening. Ultimately, I got a doctor's note that said I didn't need to lose the last 9lbs, because I was strong, healthy and sufficiently lean in my body composition.

To this day it puzzles me...many women that I weigh in are significantly larger than me, but weigh quite a bit less. And I'm told all the time that I don't look like I weigh what I do. Most people attribute this to the fact that I am very muscular. A pound is a pound of course, but muscle is much smaller and much more dense than fat. But I think it also has to do with my frame. Though I am short, I do not have a little birdlike frame. I am not a wispy, or lithe, or wraith like. I have a very strong German heritage and we Germans are a stalwart, hardy and sturdy race.

But I digress...

Months later when at last I had been granted lifetime status by Weight Watchers, I received a package in the mail from my sister. I was puzzled. We send things back and forth to one another, but I'm usually aware of when something is on it's way. When I tore the envelope open, a little velvet box tumbled out. I couldn't imagine what it could be, since we'd divided up all of Mom's jewelry and baubles months before. There was a card, but I didn't want to read it first and ruin the surprise. I opened the box and literally gasped aloud. Tears sprang to my eyes and immediately overflowed to stream down my cheeks. I didn't wipe them away.

There in the box was Mom's Weight Watchers key chain with all the charms and washers. It's not shiny anymore. My Mom carried it with her on her actual key chain and it bears all the scars of a well loved and well used object. If someone found it on the street, they would likely toss it in the garbage as it looks as if it couldn't possibly be of any value to anyone. But to me, it shone with a brilliance that could not be equalled by any diamond. I sat there in my kitchen with the silly thing cupped in my hands like a baby bird and cried.

The note from my sister said simply that I should have it because I'd earned it and Mom would want me to. And that she was proud of me. And Mom would be too.

When I last saw my Mom, I had only lost 22lbs. When she died, I had lost 65, but I hadn't seen her in 9 months. She never saw me thin. She doesn't know I became a Zumba instructor. God, that would have tickled her to death. She doesn't know I made goal. She doesn't know that Weight Watchers hired me. All this stuff I did....and she didn't get to see any of it.

I'm so angry about that.

For much of my life, I felt like I was a disappointment to my Mom. Oh, I know she loved me. Never, ever, did I doubt that. But I rejected her faith at a very young age. I didn't do well in school (I actually had to repeat my entire senior year to get my high school diploma) and I didn't go on to college. I moved away very young to a big city. I married a man from an entirely different sphere of humanity (though she loved him like her own son); one she never could understand or identify with. I never came back home to raise my family as she hoped. I bore only boys, which were completely foreign to her. And we differed on just about every political and moral issue there is.

My Dad always said that we clashed so much when I was young because we were so, so, so much the same. Now I see that is true and I consider it the highest compliment I could ever be paid. But back then...boy it pissed me off.

So I thought that maybe if I achieved these goals I had set for myself, she might finally be proud of me. But then she died. Everybody says..."Oh, she knows. And she's proud."  I know people are trying to be kind, but frankly, I don't want to hear that. Because I want her HERE. To see with her own eyes and to speak it with her own lips. Though I did all these things first and foremost for myself...I really wanted to hear her say, "I'm proud of you honey."

And I'm also angry because she was cheated. For her entire life she did what had to be done; to feed us, to shelter us, to make sure that above all, we had good character, strength and dignity. She never got to live life just for herself. She endured so many years of struggle and sacrifice; so many years of meaningless drudgework for a paycheck. And then, just when she had the luxury of doing something purely for her own enjoyment and fulfillment...she died. I can't even explain how intensely angry I am about that. Me, the wordsmith, at a loss for how to explain the deep, aching, blinding, binding, searing ANGER that I feel over her death.

But on to the secret...

I take my Mom with me to work.

It's silly and stupid, but it makes me feel like she's there and she's a part of of what's happening.

I take that little velvet box out of my jewelry armoire and slip it into my purse or my pocket before each meeting. I keep it someplace nearby, though I am TERRIFIED of losing it, so often it stays in my purse if I don't have any pockets in which to keep it. But she's with me. She's cheering on the members who lost and commiserating with those who gained. She's chit chatting, smiling, lending support, giving advice, sharing recipes and food finds. She's restocking shelves and swiping credit cards and stacking chairs.

Recently I added my lifetime charm to the keychain. It's very shiny and stands out amid the worn ones she earned. There we are together on that key chain and it reminds me that...

She's present. Because she's the reason I am present.

And together, we will help change lives.

The Great Divide; Not So Great After All

We took our boys to Open Hand Saturday afternoon to do some volunteer work. Open Hand provides nutritious balanced meals for shut ins; disabled, ill or elderly folks who would otherwise go without a hot meal each day. We thought it was a great cause and a great way to give our kids a broader world view. Growing up in Suburbia is safe and sanitary, but terribly homogenized. Our boys don't really know true need, though they think they do, since they don't own many of the gew gaws, gadgets and trappings that their peers do.

The socioeconomic divide between the volunteers and the paid workers was pretty obvious. My boys and those of other volunteers wore brand name shoes and clothing. They had stylish haircuts. They carried expensive cell phones. All of those things spoke of  the affluence and privilege that they believe is their due. I hate that my kids feel entitled. I thought I had done an adequate job of guarding against that, but I don't know if it's entirely possible when they have no genuine disadvantages to overcome in their lives.

The workers, rather than being standoffish and disdainful of our elitist Suburban affectations, were friendly and helpful. They did not roll their eyes when simple tasks were beyond our scope of knowledge. They did not snicker when we recoiled at the grease and the grime and the odor. They did not take offense when one of my children remarked that he could see now why college was so important.

We made polite chit chat to break up the tedium and the monotony of the work. The lady working next to me was the line supervisor. I asked her questions about her job and she answered them cheerfully enough. We formed a tenuous rapport. Eventually she shared that she had lost 125 lbs. I shared an abbreviated version of my story. Another worker; short and plumpish, but pretty and outgoing, marvelled at our success and wondered aloud how in the world she could ever stay disciplined enough to lose that much weight.

The first lady told her, "You just got to make up your mind to DO it girl. If you WANT to do it and you NEED to do it,  you goan do it." I echoed that sentiment. The second woman stated that she wasn't sure she wanted it enough to give up her favorite foods. The first woman said "You ain't found that reason yet. You ain't hit rock bottom. When you do, that's when you git strong." She looked at me, her dark brown eyes serious and soulful. "You been there, I reckon. You had a thing, right?" I told her about my stroke. The fear. The feeling of being helpless. She nodded as I spoke, her hands never ceasing their work. When I was done, she looked at me again and said, "I lost my baby 'cause I was too fat. That's when I decided." I wanted to hug her, but my gloved hands were glazed with grease and my apron was smeared with the remains of several different meals. Instead I said, "I'm so sorry." It felt terribly inadequate, but she smiled back at me and nodded again. "Thank you ma'am. It's always with me, and it hurts, but I know it changed my life."

I said, "I'm proud of you". And she said it back to me. And then we went back to work. She began to hum something I couldn't name; her tones strong and pure. She was changed, yes. But still breathing.

And still able to hum.

In Memory Of Everything

Tomorrow is my birthday. It's my first without my Mother. It's one of the very last firsts we have to get through, though I'm not sure it really makes losing her any easier. My Auntie Carol called me to say happy birthday, knowing I'm sure, how I'm feeling. But I wonder if she knows that every time I talk to her, I fear it will be last and that as with my Mother, I won't get home in time to say goodbye to her when she is still living and breathing. I don't want our last embrace to be the cold and empty hug that I gave my mother's body in the funeral home when nobody was looking. My last memory of hugging my mother is that of the vaseline with which they had coated her skin to keep it moist, and the absolute absence of any smell. I had braced myself for the scent of death and embalming fluid, but there was just nothing. She always smelled like something in life; cigarettes and perfume and cosmetics and nail polish and earth and food. But I've written enough about her. I can't seem to pull anything meaningful out of myself as I've mentioned here before. Maybe with time. So here's a piece I wrote about Auntie Carol. It's a couple of years old, but it still says everything I feel. Enjoy.

This post is not going to be about anything profound.

What it is going to be, is filled with sentimental woolgathering about my childhood; in particular, about a person in my life who likely has no idea how much she has meant to my sisters and me.

And it's going to be very long. I know, long is the kiss of death in the blogosphere, but this is for me, not you, so there.

My grandmother died when I was just an infant, and this person I speak of stepped in to fill the cookie baking, cheek pinching, present buying void Grandma left with her passing.

It wasn't a big decision, there wasn't a lot of thought. It's just what she did. She fussed; over anybody and everybody who needed it. She still does.

She is my Auntie Carol; my mother's sister, and she was 17 years old when my mother, a "late" baby, was born (my Grandmother was 35). She mothered my mother, and then she grandmothered us. She is 78 and she still mothers my mother. I have moved far away, so she doesn't get to grandmother me much anymore, but when I go home, she makes up for lost time with a vengeance.

She cooks us a fine meal and sets the table with dishes that I ate on as a child. The olive colored water goblets feel familiar to my lips. The tablecloth is one I spilled gravy upon as a child, horrified to have spoiled the snowy and carefully pressed linen. She still puts out a relish tray piled high with pickles and olives; remembering, I suppose that my sisters and I loved to stick them on our fingers and then pop them into our mouths one by one.

She makes my boys Shirley Temples with two maraschino cherries. She lets them drink soda until they are crazed with sugar and indulgence. She lets them have two desserts, even though she knows they won't finish them both. She lets them drag out the stereoscope and piles of stereographic cards. She does not complain when they don't put them back.

I try to help. After so many meals, so many dirty dishes, so many pies and turkeys baked in the trusty harvest wheat colored oven...she's earned the right to enjoy her meal, linger over her coffee and savor her dessert without jumping up to refill glasses or platters. She will have none of it, of course. She shoos me away, protesting that she can still put a meal on the table by herself. But the last time I was home, she deigned to let me mash the potatoes, and that was when I knew that she was growing tired.

She and my uncle are moving out of their home of 50 years this weekend. They are elderly now, and can't keep up with the demands of home ownership, or maintain the acreage the house sits on. My uncle has been infirm for several years now and she has carried the burden by herself.

She is relieved, if a bit regretful as well. She is happily clearing out closets and cabinets and giving away the momentos of her life, a life that is intertwined with so many others. I have not been there for the yard sales or the carefully considered doling out of personal things. I have not been able to gather up the memories and store them away for safekeeping, except in my mind.

But not  not long ago, I received an envelope addressed in her distinctive hand. Inside was a drawing I had done as a child. It was a simple drawing...nothing about it was special or unique that I could see. I have no idea why she kept it. Another time she sent me one of the pink and blue trifold cards announcing my birth. And now and then I receive other little treasures; a tattered but beautifully embroidered hanky, a piece of old lace, a snapshot, a butter pat, a cut glass salt cellar, a piece of doll clothing sewn by my grandmother, black and white photographs of my mother, my grandmother, my sisters, me.

They make me smile, but they fill me with sadness. My childhood in that house is being slowly dismantled. Last Christmas we visited for what I knew was the last time. And it filled me with a melancholy that lingered for days. I went through every room, remembering.

In the bedroom, I sat at the vanity that had been my playground as a little girl. I remembered sitting there for hours sniffing, smearing and powdering. I remember clipping enormously gaudy rhinestone earrings onto my delicate earlobes; wincing at the pinch, smiling at the effect. I remember sliding bangles and bracelets onto my arm until it was nearly too heavy to lift. I remembered pushing the antique hatpins through the thin cotton of my play clothes. I had no idea what they were for, but I liked them.

She never frowned at the mess and she never scolded when I spilled her perfume or smushed her favorite lipstick into a creamy stump. She always exclaimed over my beauty when I emerged from the bedroom, trailing a cloud of Emeraude behind me and looking for all the world like a Davis-esque Baby Jane.

Even the bathroom held memories for me. I remembered bathing in strangely squatty little tub (our home was very old and had a huge cast iron tub). I used her White Rain shampoo and her Camay soap and felt very pampered and mature. I can still smell the fragrant lather.

Later, I would lie in bed and enjoy rubbing my face against the fresh, cool, sweet smelling sheets. Our sheets at home, worn from many years of washing, were never so crisp. My sister and I whispered and giggled in the antique twin beds, but she never called to us to be quiet or settle down. She always let us have the closet light on to gaurd against the deep, still darkness of the country night.

In the morning, we woke to the smell of coffee and frying bacon. She always smiled at our sleep blinky eyes and our wild hair and asked us how we would like our eggs cooked. We all wanted them cooked differently of course, but she never sighed unhappily at that. She cooked our eggs the way we wanted them and poured us each a cup of coffee from the percolator. She said nothing when we heaped spoonful after spoonful of sugar into our mugs and then didn't drink it.

She let us bring the barn cats in the house when Uncle Norm was gone. She let us turn the vinyl ottoman upside down and pretend it was a horse, a car, a boat. She let us eat ice cream right before bed. She let us eat tomatoes and cucumbers right off the vine; never fussing about them being washed or sliced. She let us play in the cornfield, unmindful of bruised ears or bent stalks.

She took us places...To the fish hatcherie, where rectangular cement pools of fish were teeming with silvered bodies, packed so closely together that it seemed impossible that they could swim at all. She took us to the Red Mill, and told us stories about the Mill Pond covered bridge, which my grandfather had helped to build.

She took us to my grandmother's grave, where we just stood quietly. She didn't cry. It had been a long time I suppose and the tears had been exhausted long ago. But she pulled the weeds and carefully righted the little stone urn and replaced the plastic flowers. With a wistful smile, she told us how Grandma would have loved us girls.

She took us into the tiny chapel in the woods and let us lay wildflowers upon the altar. She took us to the farm where we jumped when the calves bawled, started violently when the chickens flapped crazily past and gave the bullpen an absurdly wide berth. We held our noses and exclaimed over the smells and wiped our feet disgustedly in the high, sweet smelling grass.

She laughed at us for that. She thought us funny and sweet and innocent, I think. Her own children grown, she took pleasure in everything about us. Even our city kid skittishness was charming to her.

I  will miss that house, but it is just a place after all. She is still here. I don't want to think about when she is not.
So I don't.

I just close my eyes and think about sunny days in her backyard, swaying lazily in the hammock or the swing beneath the oak tree...listening to the emphatic snickety snack of her shears as she pruned rosebushes.

I think about how it was to never be afraid of her not being there and I don't think about not making it home in time to say goodbye. And I love you. And thank you.

We are Northern people and German to boot. We are not terribly demonstrative or outspoken about how we feel. I don't think she has ever told us that she loved us. She didn't have to. I knew. I still know. Everything she did and continues to do, is a testament to her love for us.

But I want her to know how much she has meant to us, to me. I want her to know how those moments of my childhood are suspended in time as moments of true and perfect happiness. I want her to know that no grandmother could have grandmothered us better than she did. I want her to know I love her.

Thank You Auntie Carol. You were one of the things that made childhood so right and good.

To you it was may have seemed like nothing.

To us it was....everything.

Magic Potion

The other day in the grocery store, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn't seen in a couple of years. We used to see each other regularly because our boys attended the same school and played ball for the same park. But then they moved on to different high schools and Pubescent One decided to take a break from baseball in favor of seeking gainful employment; the ultimate goal being...WHEELS.

I said hello to her and watched her struggle to figure out who I was. Then her jaw dropped.

I have to tell you in all honesty, that NEVER gets old.

She exclaimed over my transformation and then asked the question I've grown used to hearing over and over.

"But how did you do it?"

This is always an awkward moment for me. Because some people are genuinely interested. Some people are really looking for answers. But some people are just being polite. And some people? Some people want me to tell them that it was magic; a pill, a shake, a shot. Some people want to hear something, anything other than the unvarnished truth of the matter. So I never really quite know how to answer that question.

I noted that she had gained weight; quite a bit in fact. So I thought she might be one of those looking for a solution. I told her about Weight Watchers. I told her about Zumba. While I was speaking, I saw the hope in her eyes die. I had guessed wrong. She wasn't seeking answers, she was seeking salvation. She had her heart set on a magic elixir that would melt the very flesh from her bones and restore her body to it's formerly taut and youthful state.

I don't understand why people ask me when they don't really want to hear the answer.

The truth is this:

I ate less. I learned how to make healthy choices and control my portions. I made exercise a priority in my life (that's the one people really hate to hear). I learned to regard being strong and fit as it's own reward and not just the byproduct of burning calories. I stopped looking at eating healthy as a means to an end and began to look at it as a new and lasting lifestyle. And I kept going week after week, even when the scale didn't always seem to reflect the effort I was putting in. I celebrated small victories as though they were huge triumphs. I learned how to suffer setbacks gracefully and move on. I learned that it's all up to me. And and on the weeks that I faltered and that scale told the tale, I learned to lay the blame at my own doorstep. Accountability can be a real bitch, but it keeps you honest.

It's hard work. It's balance. It's perserverance. It's sacrifice. Sometimes it's denial. Sometimes it's being grumpy because you really want a damned cookie, but you've already exceeded your intake for the day. It's learning to live with the grumpy and understanding that you can't feed every negative thought or feeling away. It's figuring out that food is not your friend or your lover or your confidant or your shrink.

It's HARD, folks. Damned hard. One reason I became a Zumba instructor and that I plan to become a Weight Watchers leader is that I don't EVER want to have to do this again.

But has it been worth it?

God yes.

"Worth it" doesn't begin to express how I view the journey that I have experienced. I'm aware that describing it as a  "journey" is terribly hackneyed and hopelessly cliche, but it really and truly has been one. I  learned a lot more than how to lose weight. I learned that I can do anything I set my mind to. The victory over my body gave me the courage and the confidence to conquer a lot of other demons as well. I have grown as I have shrunk. And though it was a long and arduous road to get where I am today, I would have missed so, so much if I hadn't walked it.

So if you ask me how I did it, I'll tell you, with the caveat that you may not like the answer. I could lie to you...I lied to myself for long enough. But I wouldn't do you the same disservice that I did myself.

If you're fat, you're going to die a premature death from heart disease, diabetes, stroke or other obesity related illnesses. That's not hyperbole. That's not a scare tactic. It's plain truth.

But you can fix it. Right now. Today. I know it's a scary thing. I know it seems impossible. But you can.

"A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. " ~Lao Tzu

Click here for the magic potion.

Heroic

A long time ago, Husband and I had a forum type website that was centered mostly on parenting that was populated mostly by women. It went balls up in the face of some pretty nasty fighting. We closed it down and moved on without much regret. Though I was glad to be done with it all (too much work, too much stess, no money) I did and do miss some of the truly amazing women that I met there.

Oh there were psychos and shrews, make no mistake. In a community with thousands of women, you find an amazing variety of crazy. There was even one instance in which we were contacted by the FBI, because one of our members had faked cancer and received thousands of dollars in donations which she spent on various hedonistic pursuits. She used our site to cultivate friendships and garner trust and then defraud hundreds of people. I know, right?

There were political activists, peacemongers, ecowarriors, militant parenting proponents of every classification, perverts, poets, writers and artists. And did they all co-exist peacefully and respectfully in our little corner of cyberspace?

Hell no.

But in the midst of the back stabbing and rumor mongering and bitch fighting, there was some really awesome communication taking place, and true, deep, lasting friendships being formed. Even the superficial chit chat was gratifying because sometimes it just feels good to connect with other people on any level, especially for those of us who felt isolated and alone.

So although, as I said, I was not sad to put that behind me, I do miss some of the people.

Some of them I became real life friends with and remain in close contact with to this day. But there were over 1,000 women on that site and I lost touch with most of them. Sometimes I hear of one or another through mutual acquaintances, blog posts,  Facebook, etc.

Recently I was saddened to hear that one of those women passed away after a long, arduous bout with cancer. She's not the first person from that community who has died. One committed suicide. Another died of cancer. One was murdered by her husband. Those are just the ones that I know about.

I wasn't particularly close to her, but I do remember her, mostly because she had a peculiar screen name. And I don't like it when anybody I know in any capacity, dies. It freaks me out people. Badly. Because if they can die, I can die and you all know how I feel about dying.

But this woman....she faced her death with courage and grace and that truly awes me. I admire her so much for going into the unknown with faith that whatever lies beyond is better. She made a choice and her choice was to live as well as she could until her body could not sustain life anymore and then leave this world with a legacy of strength and wisdom and hope.

You have no idea how much I long for that kind of....CHRIST, what is that? What makes people able to surrender their fear and uncertainty and just believe that it will be okay. Whatever it is, I want it. But I don't know how to get it. Please don't say God. Please don't say Faith. Please don't say asking the Lord into my heart. There are plenty of people who face death every day without God. They die well. They die at peace.

That's what it is...peace. I don't know how to make peace with the whole idea of just not BEING any more.

It terrifies me. Truly.

I'm sad that she had to die. But I'm happy she was able to do it so heroically. Because it is heroic, in my opinion, to face death and not dissolve into a weeping, shrieking, hysterical mess, who begs for just one more day, hour, minute, second of life on this earth. I would. If ever you hear that I've committed suicide, don't you believe it. Somebody murdered me for sure. Because I would fight death tooth and nail and I would never, ever invite it. The very idea is absurd.

But I have to thank her. Reading about her last days and moments has brought me a kind of peace, knowing that people can die without fear. Maybe I'll get there one day. Heroes inspire us every day and I suppose then that she is my death hero. I aspire to be as fearless as she.

What do they bury heroes in? Whatever it is, I hope it's something that bears witness to her courage and grace.

A smile, perhaps.

Genus Saber Toothus

Last night I started a new Zumba class at a local ballet studio. When I arrived, class was in session for the two year olds. Yes, two. Two year olds taking ballet. Well, it wasn't so much "ballet" as it was "herding and constantly redirecting". Cute, but kind of silly, if you ask me.

Nevertheless, the mothers in the waiting area chatted excitedly as they watched their offspring through a windowed wall. The talk shocked me, frankly. They gushed about being the stewards of god given talent and they enthused over how much the tiny tots looooove their class, though the window revealed that one child was staging a coup by sitting cross legged on the floor and refusing to budge. Another child expressed her opinion of this behavior by delivering a swift kick to the slender shins of the malcontent. The teacher was unfazed though. She picked the child up off the floor, planted her firmly on her feet, and then calmly positioned her limbs into a fairly recognizable ballet posture.

People, there are not enough drugs or dollars in the world....

But anyway, the parents seemd unfazed as well and the talk continued with scarcely a pause. One older woman said, "My granddaughter is learning her sixth language and her not even THREE years old!" The other mothers were duly impressed but all I could think was...

"In God's name...WHY???"

Honestly, what need has an almost three year old of six languages? Or ballet, for that matter. I'm not disputing the value of either one, but at THREE? Three year olds should be blowing bubbles and coloring outside the lines and eating play-doh. They should be chasing rainbows, wishing on stars, blowing dandelion fluff into the wind. Their days should be filled with whimsy and magic and make-believe.

The thought of an almost three year old being drilled on verbs and tenses and the like makes me a little ill, frankly. A lot ill. It smacks of abuse if you want to know what I really think. It brings to mind a whole new classification of Tiger Mother. These women are SABER TOOTHED Tiger Mothers. I turn back to the windowed wall and watch the tiny twirling little forms with a new perspective. And I find that I am terribly, terribly sad for these little girls.

Their mothers would probably be surprised to know that. They would probably question the value of chasing rainbows if I explained my sorrow. They would probably wonder about my parenting skills and how my kids are faring in the excelling department.

It's not that I don't want great things for my boys. I do. Because I know they are capable of greatness; both of them, in different ways. But if you cultivate greatness with too much vigor, I think you end up with just the opposite. Because nobody wants to think they have no choice but to excel in life, especially not at three, or five, or nine or even sixteen. That's a lot of pressure and pressure, as we know, foments rebellion. And rebellion against being great means being mediocre.

Mediocrity has it's appeal and its benefits. Average isn't so bad. But unrealized potential is a real tragedy; one I hope to avoid with my boys.

There are some basic things I want for them. Anything above and beyond those things is a bonus; sort of like collecting $200 when you pass go in Monopoly. In the game of life you collect a lucrative career, professional esteem, a stellar reputation. And if a beach house or a sweet ride get thrown into the mix, well...so much the better.

So what are those things?

I want them to be happy. Whatever that means for them.

I want them to believe in themselves.

I want them to know that they can be whatever they want to be.

I want them to find somebody to share their lives. Someone who makes them as happy and whole as their father makes me. Someone who will be their best friend and their lover, forever.

I want them to thirst for knowledge, seek answers, question everything and never, ever stop learning.

I want them to understand that the world is a big place and everything in it is worth their attention. I want them to never be mired in the insular attitudes that keep people from ever wondering about other people. I want them to seek out new vistas with ever interested eyes, new tastes with an ever hungry palate, new ideas with an ever curious mind.

I want them to experience regret and failure, because without it, we do not grow.

I want them to grow up and think...You know, I had really awesome parents.

Okay, maybe that last one is more for me than them, but I had awesome parents and it wasn't until I was an adult that I realized just how lucky I was and just how many people don't have awesome parents. And I wonder about those little twirling girls, with the tiny tutus and the tidy little ballerina buns. Will they think they had awesome parents? Will they look back and think...Boy, I was really lucky.?

Class ends and the girls race to their mothers. The tearful coup stager is swept into her mother's arms and for a moment I think more kindly of the woman, as it appears that she is going to comfort the tired and clearly overwhelmed child. But then I hear the ummistakable sound of murmured scolding and my heart sinks. Two years old and already she has failed to live up to her mother's expectations.

The woman looks up and our eyes meet. Her expression is inscrutable, but I fear mine is not. Does she the sadness there? I can't tell, but I think so, because she turns her back on me abruptly, though we had spoken cordially enough moments ago. Now the child is facing me. Her bun has come undone and strands of gilded hair stick to her cheeks, glued by the tears that still trickle from her clear blue eyes.

I realize that I am being judgemental, but I am angry with that woman all the same. And I hope someday, somewhere, someone teaches that little girl how to blow dandelion fuzz into the wind.

Please God, let her learn from somebody.

Inconsequential

As you may have surmised, I was pretty tightly wound yesterday.

I tried not to think about the number on the calendar and the celebration that wasn't taking place. I didn't want to cry. Friends, I tell you, I am so very, very weary of tears. So I wrote yesterday's entry and then I tried to pretend it was just any other day. The funny thing about pretending...it's easy to pretend to other people; not so easy to pretend to yourself. And heartbreak doesn't go away just because you refuse to acknowledge it.

Later in the day, a friend called, needing a favor, which was a good distraction and allowed me to further distance myself from the pain of wanting of my Mommy.

Isn't it peculiar how that never leaves us? We bring babies into this world, battle sickness and banish darkness and brave ever new frontiers as parents and as people...and yet...when we are afraid and unsure and a little bit lost...it's our Mothers that we think of and long for. When I was giving birth to my first child, lost in a haze of pain nearly unbelievable and almost certainly unbearable, though my husband held my hand and bathed my brow and even held the basin as I vomited...it was my mother I wanted. Then, as now, I knew it was impossible, but it didn't stop the wanting. I don't think it will ever stop.

So though I went through my day dry eyed and efficient as always; chauffered my children, tended to my friend, taught my class...it was all a charade, and a fairly tenuous one at that.

I came home from my class exhausted and sweat soaked. Husband had prepared dinner while I was gone, which has become the custom on nights that I teach. The meal was delicious and the hour was late; we all ate heartily. Husband cautioned us to save some room, as he had bought a special treat for dessert. I sighed and ran a hand through my still damp hair, trying to summon the energy to drag myself upstairs to bathe. It was then that husband placed this in front of me with a small flourish:

Of course you know what happened then. Taken by surprise, I could do nothing but bury my face in my hands and sob. While I cried into my palms, Husband and the boys each shared with me their favorite memory of my Mother and vowed to celebrate her life instead of mourning her loss.

And so I ask you...how can I bitch about toothpaste splatters on the bathroom mirror when he does crap like this?????????

Do you SEE the problem here? The man leaves me with a woeful lack of ammunition for future marital battles.

Goddamn him.