Lessons in the Desert

Day 3 - June 28, 2008 (Exactly one year ago today)

When we woke up, the wind was still blowing, hard. Holding the door of the pop-up against the wind, I looked out over an incredible landscape. We had camped inside of Badlands National Park. Beyond the lush prairie of wildflowers lay the unique desert formations that can only be the Badlands. Wow. We’re here.

We decided that I would drop my husband, Andrew, and Gladys off at the Castle trailhead. Two hours later I would pick them up on the other side. It was so windy when I dropped them off that we could only manage to open one door of the van at a time. Yes, he was sure he wanted to go with the kids. Yes, he had water for each of them. I took pictures of them heading off, then drove back to the main road.

What do you do with a toddler in the desert on a windy day? Hmm, two hours.

I stopped at an overlook, then another. I took in the beautiful scenery. At one pull-off, I took pictures of the wildflowers. I was lying on the desert floor trying to get the best shot, when another car pulled in ahead of me. A girl jumped out of the side door and ran into the desert toward a rock formation. A split second later, an older man (in his early 70’s??) leapt from the car with a camera. I saw him run down a little hill, and then immediately disappear.

I craned my neck.

Finally, the man stood back up, brushing himself off. Not seeing anyone else in the car, I stood in my door to ask him if he was okay. He laughed.

“Yes, I’m fine, just dirtied my trousers a bit. I was trying to get a picture of her on that rock.”

He smiled broadly. I smiled and scolded.

“Well, serves you right for gallivanting through the desert like that.”

He laughed again. “My wife and I used to come through here with our kids when they were little. I’m finally able to show my granddaughter. She’s never been here.”

I looked. The girl was about seven or so. “It is a priority for us to travel with our children too, there is so much to see and learn.”

He looked over my shoulder, by now George was asleep between two empty car seats.

“My 5 and 3 year old are hiking with their dad.” He nodded approvingly.

“How old is your granddaughter?” I asked looking again at the young girl.

“Oh, my granddaughter is in the car, that’s my great-granddaughter.”

My jaw dropped so suddenly, no one could have interpreted it as anything but an honest reaction. He took it as the compliment that it was.

“I’m 88 years old,” he said with pride.

I shook my head and smiled. “I guess we should all spend more time gallivanting through the desert.”

After two hours, and still contemplating my youthfulness, I headed back to pick up my husband and kids. I knew they wouldn’t be there yet, but I would spend time at the fossil trail across the street. As I drove up, I saw a bouncy, curly-headed Gladys coming through the rocks with big brother and dad at her heels. I took George out of the car and let him walk across the desert towards them. He loved the rocks. “Mommy! Mommy!” they finally saw us “we saw all sorts of rocks, and cactuses, and a snake and, and, and . . . it was SO cool!!“

I guess we all learned something in the desert.

I wrote this last year after our vacation. I did not have a public blog at the time. I am posting this on a timer before I leave. - MIT Mommy

The Wrinkled Truth

About a year ago, in weeks preceding my birthday, I discovered something. Perhaps it was the time passing, wobbly but swift like a child newly freed of his training wheels. Perhaps it was the arctic temperatures, the air dry from a thermostat set higher than my otherwise green conscience should have allowed. Perhaps it was that extra cup of coffee, (grabbed in haste by a woman deprived of sleep, devoted to family), persistently and insidiously squeezing every last molecule of moisture from a soul who nearly worshipped her water in days gone by. In the end, it was that old lady smiling, squinting from the bright snow, gazing back at me through the salt encrusted windows of my own minivan who told me the truth.

I discovered a skin care emergency: wrinkles, carved by joy, but beyond my years.

I did what any logical woman would do: research. I considered my options. Since I have two very good friends in the skin care industry, I consulted them each at length. I heard about chemistry, derm layers, pores, moisture barriers and moisture absorption and departed my friends with samples of each of their products (bless their hearts). Both friends ensured me that in just three or four weeks, I would certainly be pleased with the improvements.

Since both of those friends have integrity beyond question, I had to assume both made excellent recommendations. Both products would certainly work. One was more expensive than the other, and that was certainly a consideration. But, I wanted to know which one was right for ME. After all, everyone’s skin is certainly different. How would I know? Which do I use first? Would using the first one make my skin so nice that the effect of the second one would not be noticed?

I had a plan.

On the left side of my countertop, I placed Jane's cream. On the right side I kept a sample of Jill's. Every morning and evening for four weeks I put Jane’s cream on the left side of my face and Jill’s on the right. Yes, I really did that.

After about a week, I noticed a difference on both sides of my face. I happened to run into Jane at preschool and mentioned my experiment.

“You aren’t really doing that.”

“Of course I am really doing it. How else will I know for sure? If they are both the same, then the less expensive one wins.”

“That’s, well, unique. Let me know how that works out. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” she hurried off, seeking shelter both from the snow and her crazy friend.

Right. Well, as it turned out, Jane's won. I could really tell a difference. And, in the end, I was willing to pay a little extra for the product I preferred.

Of course, I’m not suggesting that you should buy something simply because of my test, but if you have been wondering, try your own experiment.

Just try it. Really.

Oh, but don’t tell anyone in the preschool parking lot. They will think you are as nutty as their friend MIT Mommy.

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.’