Are We There Yet?

It was shocking really.

One of my best friends randomly met a college buddy. It was especially odd because I have moved out-of-state four times since college, and now live far enough away that my girlfriend has never met anyone else from my home state. In fact, that is why she mentioned meeting Sam at all.

Imagine the surprise when the only two people she knows from the whole state, know each other. What are the odds?

My girlfriend has gotten to know Sam better over the last few months. Therefore, she asked what I was like 20 years ago back in school. I have completely lost contact since college, so Sam asked about me now.

Intriguing isn’t it. Having two important people in my life – who knew me during different periods of my life – describe ME to each other. Narcissistic most definitely. But my ears were burning to hear more.

I would describe myself as being brought up in a small, rural part of mid-America. I learned wholesome values about family, hard work, and relating to people. Not much about fine arts, culture, fashion or style. We didn’t have much money. We didn’t go anywhere or have many things. That was OK. We were a content family. I had a happy childhood. I nearly stayed “there.” Then, half way through college something clicked for me. I was ready to move on. That is when I met Sam.

I agree with Sam. I was unusually self-driven. Mostly determined to make something of myself and have some money in the bank so I could do things my parents never did, like travel abroad.

I was a crazy, hard worker. Supported myself 100% from the day I left home for college. I held down 3 jobs at the same time to do it. NEVER went on a Spring Break trip, rushed a sorority, or even lived in the dorms, because my budget didn’t allow for it.

No leg up. No real anchor or direction, let alone a head start on life. I was an average student who started completely from scratch. Yet, I desperately wanted to know more about the world and understood that the only resource I could tap to do that was ME.

Paraphrasing, Sam described me as being uncomfortably driven and pretty much obnoxiously aggressive when it came to preparing for my future. That is fair. Looking back, I see now my actions and thought processes were over-the-top.

But it worked for me. I went places. I did things. I met interesting people.

Fast forward 15 years.

My best friend described me today. I am a stay-at-home mom who hasn’t worked professionally for over 8 years. Still chronically over scheduled managing my family and completely absorbed in the lives of my two wonderful children. Any free time is filled with various volunteer activities. That is the snapshot my life. Fair enough.

Sam was shocked….and so was I. Actually took the air right out of me. To be honest, it squashed my spirit. How did I get from there to here?

Is this it for me? All the hard work and all the years investing in my future, and I have nothing to show for it. I have left no mark on the vapor of those 15 years of my adult life.

I know. I know. Mothering is vital. Most important and meaningful job I will ever have. I will never regret the memories of being home with my children. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. I hear you, and get it. Feel the same way too. Deeply and passionately feel it. In fact, I am very happy as a SAHM. Love it! TRULY! Honestly, I aspire to no more.

Ah Haaaa!!!! There it is -- the most shocking part.
Did you miss it? Let me say it again.

I aspire to no more.

Shocking! Did I just go back “there?”
Is this the last, best description of me?

Are we there yet?

Just a mom

On Saturday night, someone told me that she wanted to be me for a day.

I laughed. I said ‘thank you.’

I imagined this friend running around my house like an over-caffeinated chicken with its head cut-off. I laughed again for a different reason.

Wouldn’t it be great to walk in someone else’s shoes for a day? Yes, you can read what I write, but I can only give you a small slice of my day. If I had that much time to write, I would have nothing to write about. Even so, my high school friend recently told me that, after reading my work, she felt assured that I haven’t changed.

She knows me well enough to not want to be me for a day, but only our children see anything close to the whole picture.

What does my day look like? I am just a mom. The details would bore you.

In the past few weeks, my agenda for next year has congealed into a thick and sticky plan. Without considering my writing on line, I have accepted four very different hats to wear. I should mention that I have rejected two others formally, and ducked and dodged other such responsibilities. Each year I hope to hang a few more hats on the hook, and each year I am thrown a few new ones, greater challenges, bigger honors, something new.

Swept away in the tide of possibilities and challenges to overcome, I don a few hats.

I comfort myself by knowing that I am a better person when I am engaged. The power to improve my world, even by the nose-nudge of a puppy, propels me forward. I imagine that by my example of achievements my children will thus achieve. As I strive to see the world through their eyes, the world they know best now is the one I bring to our doorstep.

And, then, I remember Ted. Once again I am humbled.

The other day, Gladys’ preschool asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up. On the paper I read: “When Gladys grows up, she wants to be a mom.”

At first I felt a little sadness well up in me. Life presents so many opportunities, and my daughter aspires to be a mom. If she had been in the room when I read the paper, I might have said something like:

“Dear, you know, you don’t have to be just a mom. You can be a mom and something else too.”

I am glad she wasn’t in the room. She knows that I used to get paid. She knows that women can do whatever they want (and should do it without hesitation). She knows what I do all day now. She even knows why I go to meetings, and how I try to make a positive impact on the world.

Somewhere along the way, I forgot to tell her that she shouldn’t be proud of being a mother. I probably even forgot to mention that it isn’t considered the most important job in the world. She probably doesn’t know that.

She sees more than a small slice of my life. I am her definition of ‘just a mom.’ I guess she wants to be like me for a day too, or maybe even longer.

Maybe I shouldn’t have laughed so easily.

It Seems to me

"Sometimes life isn’t as good as it seems."

At 6 ½ years old, when asked to use the word “some” in a sentence, that is what my son wrote.

It has been on my refrigerator since Monday.

As “mother” my job is to do precisely that - to make my children’s lives seem better than they really are, at least by some of societies measures.

There is a story of a mother in a refugee camp, spreading a burlap sack on the ground. She required her children to say prayers and use their manners at that new burlap dining table. You could interpret her actions many ways. By her breaking bread with loved ones, and her graceful ability to elevate that event, she succeeded in making her family’s life seem much better than society would have gauged. My job should not be hard.

I recall my family’s occasional vacations – the plush transport (a Dodge wagon), the fancy hotels (Holiday Inn – at the top end), and highbrow entertainment (a deck of cards on that queen bed). Dad would sneak out early and return with a donut for each of us. He knew our favorites. Life seemed perfect then.

In my 20’s, traveling internationally in business class, I could look out into the foggy clouds over the Pacific Ocean and know that, by so many measures, my family’s life wasn’t so good at all. It had just seemed good, seemed perfect. Even with fond memories, I was pleased to be free of such naïve notions.

In my 30’s, I became a mother and held my first-born in my arms. I remembered my mother telling me that the first newborn she ever held was my oldest sibling. For me, it was no different. I held my first newborn, my firstborn, and her story moved from my memory and lodged in my heart.

It became my turn to create a world for my family. With a little creativity, I could make that world whatever I wanted it to be. As the years go by, the fog lifts on my own childhood. Life was never as good as it seemed. By society’s measures, we are better off now. I reinterpret memories. I create a similar world for my own children, allowing them to accept certain illusions. I let them discover society’s measures in their own time.

Now that I am approaching 40, I see my children’s personalities blossom. I hope to give them the tools and the creativity to make their lives seem so much better than society will ever gauge. I want them to keep their feet on the ground and yet see through the clouds.

As the foggy edges of their experiences expand, I hope life always seems better than it really is, even as their ability to distinguish between what seems to be true and the truth sharpens into focus. The good life that seems true comes from the heart.

What of societies measures?

It seems they aren't so important.

Finding Myself in the Rain

I leaned against the spitting rain, the biting wind, forcing the double stroller ahead of me. George, six weeks old, and Gladys, almost 2 yrs snuggled beneath cozy blankets. Andrew, 4 yrs, held firmly to the side of the stroller, half running, feeling his mother’s tension veiled in her words.

“You’re doing great, Honey! Hold on tight . . . we’re just a few minutes late . . . I’m SO excited you are finally going to meet Mommy’s friends!”

My mind wandered from the details of the next hour, and back to how that particularly unlikely hour came to be.

In June 2002, seven months pregnant with my first-born, I decided to join the NE Ohio Chapter of MIT Alumni. I still knew fewer than a half dozen souls in the Cleveland area. The past year had changed me, as other years had I suppose, but in a much more personal way.

Only one year earlier, I had quit everything I had built up since graduating college. My last day of work in May 2001, I was confirmed pregnant. That was the plan – I had decided to take on the adventure of a lifetime (most people just call it motherhood, I suppose, but for me it was a very big decision). I decided to stay home: full-time. I would do it at least until the children were “old enough,” whatever that meant. I didn’t know. I felt blind, but excited, even adventurous.

At 11 weeks we lost the baby.

The event, dramatic as it unfolded, paled in comparison to the emotional turmoil. I recall the two days of recovery in a cheaply paneled motel room near Whitefish, Montana. But, I digress.

The following months were spent on relocation, fertility treatments, and various applications (Would I ever be a mom?). And, of course, rebuilding myself, reminding myself daily that even the most valid decisions, the best plans . . . some things, I learned, were just out of my control.

I wasn’t sure exactly who I was. Was I an ex-engineer? A mommy wanna-be? I settled on the term “lady of leisure,” which I would say with a half-smile, and a wink of confidence, followed by tears after I returned to my car.

So, in June 2002, seven months pregnant with my first-born, I attended my first meeting of the NE Ohio Chapter of MIT Alumni. I spent three days deciding what to wear, three hours brushing my hair, and 30 minutes looking in my mirror practicing how to say “I’m a stay at home mom” in the most convincingly proud manner.

I wasn’t even sure I was considered a ‘mom’ yet. The word stuck to me uncomfortably, like the sticky syrup in my hair would a few years later. I walked in, belly first, full of confidence. I fully expected no one would understand my decision to stay home. I steeled myself against the anticipated sideways looks. But, if I met only one person that day, I would consider it a success. If I found some way to contribute, to be part of the community, then I would celebrate all the way home.

The meeting was just a meeting, uneventful in a normal sort of way. I went home vaguely proud of myself; sheepishly realizing that my harshest critic looked back at me in the mirror every single morning.

(That “critical old lady” in the grocery store reflected the evil witch of my own conscience.)

Those successful men and women at the MIT meeting, comfortable in their own skin, never questioned the validity of my decisions. They accepted my successful life in MY definition of success.

Eventually, I met more than a few great people, and I had the honor of participating on a terrific committee.

At one particular meeting, I walked out of the restaurant with a gentleman with a cane. I felt honored to meet him, even more honored to know him as a fellow alumni. On our way out, we enjoyed a few minutes of private conversation. He leaned towards me.

“You know,” he said, “you are very sharp and ambitious. I am sure when you feel like it, you will have no problem enjoying any career you choose. But,” he continued, “you are doing the most important work right now. You are the most successful person.”

So, with the spitting rain drenching my hastily brushed hair, my three children and I entered one of the nicer restaurants in the Cleveland area. Still panting more than I prefer to admit, I answered the hostess.

“I’m with the MIT Alumni Club.”

She looked at me. She looked down at her list quizzically. Just then, I saw one of my friends waving me over from the table in the corner.

“You brought them! You finally brought them all. Oh, we are so delighted to see your new baby.”

A chair was pulled up, and I joined the group with honor, leaving my harshest critic back in the car, at least for now.

Ted

I looked at my calendar today and I thought about Ted. Of all the people with whom I shared my high school experience, I probably think of Ted more often than most. I doubt Ted thinks much about me.

He may not remember my name.

In the past month, I have been very “helpful” within my community. I organized a group to help with Habitat for Humanity. I made a pillow and wrote a poem for a friend fighting cancer. I am co-chairing a giving tree program. I helped to organize and execute a group of 15 or so women to make Christmas tree ornaments for a charity. I hosted a cub scout meeting. I hosted another family for Thanksgiving. My family shopped and cooked a meal for 50 folks we otherwise would have never met (one man even took our picture). I presided over a homeowners’ meeting. I attended a PTA Council meeting and spoke on behalf of my son’s school. I even attended a Board of Education meeting.

That was just November.

For every event or opportunity that I have the pleasure of promoting, I feel there are at least ten that fall to the sidelines. We all say ‘no.’ I try to say ‘no’ with no guilt, no apology, and very little explanation.

I remind myself of Ted.

When Ted and I were 15 years old, we worked together at a church camp. I cannot say we were good friends, but we had known each other since early elementary school. He passed every test he felt like passing. Naturally smart, he ran with a streak of menace about him. I knew him for too long to buy into the ‘tough guy’ routine, but we simply were not in the same circles, really. I saw him in a few ‘gifted’ classes and at church.

His mother was the original “church lady.” If something happened in our church, her name was on it.

Ted liked medieval weapons. You know, throwing stars, brass knuckles, num chucks and the like. He had taken num chucks to his father’s car a few days earlier. I heard his parents had him arrested, although I never confirmed that rumor. He was always frighteningly clever. That day, he was angry.

We were in charge of small children. This was a church day camp. The oldest person present was 21 years old (a week or so later that responsible 21 year old would be purposely dousing me with lighter fluid, but that is another story). Ted stormed off into the parking lot.

I walked after him. It went something like this.

“Ted!”

“What do you want?!”

“Ted, what’s going on?”

“I’m p$%ssed. Go away!”

Silence, save for his fist hitting his car.

“That D*mn B!T**ch!”

“Who?!”

“My @#$ mother.”

“She seems alright. I mean, she does a lot of stuff for the church . . . ”

“OH, YEAH, that’s right. She does a LOT of stuff for the stupid church. Yeah, she doesn’t give a CR#*P. She does a lot for the church to make HERSELF feel good and important, f*%g high and mighty, she doesn’t care about ANYONE else. F&%* B%&*%ch.”

More silence.

“So, fine, Ted. You are SO SMART. You can run circles around anyone in our school and you’re going to throw all that away, just because she’s stupid?!! That makes sense. You are WAY smarter than that, Ted. You can do anything you want if you don’t screw it up.”

He stopped hitting the car.

We walked back in silence, and never said another word about it.





I heard your message, Ted. I wonder if your mother ever knew how much her 'tough guy' missed her.

She said 'goodbye' this week. I didn't know it.

She’s gone. I got the phone call today. My eyes are puffy, teary. I’ve been sobbing. No, really sobbing. I didn’t think I would do that. I guess I didn’t really think about it. She was ready. She told me she would go sometime. I knew she would. She’s just gone. She died Wednesday. It’s Friday night. I just got the phone call.

I asked if there is a memorial service planned.

“No, no memorial, nothing like that. She donated herself to science.”

She would do that. She never did anything the expected way. She didn’t follow the rules. She would do that. She would just leave. She was done, so why wouldn’t she just leave? I want to call her and ask her why.

She would say, “Honey, its not so fun getting old. Its uncomfortable, and you end up spending a lot of time with old people.”

She always told me that old people talk too much about their aches and pains. She would tell me about hers, if I asked. Mostly she wanted to see the kids. She wanted to touch their hands and read to them. She wanted to see them smile. It made her smile too.

She told me once that there was no way she could be a mother today. It was just too hard. She saw what I did and she just couldn’t do it. She told me that when she was a young mom, kids just went out and played. There weren’t so many expectations. She told me not to worry about cleaning my house. She told me I was doing the right thing spending my time with my kids. She told me not to worry. She told me I am young.

She liked to write. I wish I had her writings. She gave me one of her stories once. It was one of her favorite stories, I think. In her early 20’s, right out of college (probably 1946) she and her girlfriend drove across country. They didn’t pack much. They washed their panties in the sink. In Wyoming, they almost ran out of gas. They rolled into a gas station. The gas station attendant said,

“Ladies, you were flirtin’ with walkin’.”

She loved that line. She liked breaking the rules, just enough to keep people thinking. She liked flirting with trouble, almost getting there, but never quite. She was an unusual woman to be born in 1925. I think she was a lot like my grandmother, except younger.

One time, she was telling me about college. Being born in 1925, she had the unfortunate luck to go to college during WWII: no men. She said the dating was just awful. She was proud that I went to MIT, even though she didn’t know me then. I told her the dating was just fine, and she was pleased to hear that too.

I asked her once why she hadn’t remarried, why she didn’t have a boyfriend now. She had had a boyfriend for a little while, but that was over. She told me she didn’t want the trouble of dating someone her age. They all have aches and pains: too much trouble. I hadn’t really thought about that so much. It was as if she was still in high school when all of her friends went to college. She wanted to play. She wanted her friends back. Those times were gone. She was ready to graduate too. Why am I not ready for this?

I’m crying again. Does she know I’m crying?

She was with me on the phone when my water broke with Andrew. I sat there and continued talking to her, denying that my water broke. She was a part of that story. She shared hers with me too. After my daughter was born, she was cradling her in her arms and we were talking about my daughter’s name. The name I knew her by was not her real name; it was a nickname. Her last name was her married name. My daughter and she had the same initials at birth. I had no way of knowing. We pretended that I named my daughter after her. We both knew that I didn’t. I couldn’t have done it.

There is something about motherhood that transcends generations. We are all mothers. We are all part of a chain, bits of wisdom, buckets of love, hints and hopes. There is an understanding. We are all trying. We all love our children. To blame our mothers is to blame ourselves. There is no perfect mother. We just try. You can’t even write it down, you can’t make a handbook. For every generation motherhood is a little different; our children are as different as we are. We learn from each other, but it is never a perfect lesson. What is success? How can you improve upon love? What could she say to me to help me through? (I know she wanted so dearly to help me, to tell me a few things that would make it easy where her path was rough.)

She told me about some of her rough spots. Not to win my sympathy. Not to shock me. Think of the stories as parables. She had rough spots. There is no memorial for her. She leaves two children and two grandchildren behind. She loved to write. She wouldn’t want a stone in the ground. Stones are heavy and cold. They have no use. They sit there and follow the rules. She didn’t like rules like that. She questioned everything. She left a trail of breadcrumbs on a windy day. I can’t follow her path; she wouldn’t want me to follow. Her path is not a path to follow. I see her breadcrumbs rise up like a tornado: strong.

She gave me the greatest compliment a mother can give. To everyone we saw, she introduced me as her daughter. Well, not her real daughter, her pretend daughter. She explained that part too. She liked explaining it, how we were pretend mother and daughter.

I wore black today. I am wearing a short, black dress. Today was the first day I wore it. I don’t often wear black. I wore it to the park today. I didn’t know that I would find out that she died. She would be glad that I wore a short, black dress to the park today. I’ll pretend that she helped me pick it out, somehow. Its okay, even if I’m pretending, it’s still okay. Isn’t that what faith looks like from the outside?

This week was probably the best week of the summer for me, well, the best week that my husband didn’t take vacation. That was a gift from her. She would never call me because she didn’t want me to be sad when she wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t want to distract me from my kids. She wouldn’t have wanted me mourning this week. She was sad that she didn’t have the energy she used to have. She always reminded me how young I was. If she was my fairy godmother, she would have waved her magic wand and granted me her wish: energy.

I had asked her many times after she couldn’t drive any more if I could take her out with me. I would ask her if I could pick her up and take her somewhere. I would get a wheelchair. Could I just bring you to my house, just to be in a house and not the nursing home?

“No, honey, I can’t really travel anywhere. It just isn’t a good idea. You are so sweet for suggesting it, but I really can’t.”

It wasn’t like her to follow the rules. She would break convention. She wasn’t willing to make me responsible for her, but at least she knew I wanted her to visit. I wish she could have visited me to say goodbye.

Oh my Lord and my God. She rang my doorbell.

Casey said ‘goodbye.’