Sometimes It's Easier to Wait It Out

Sometimes I think that I cannot possibly wait another moment to get into the doctor's office.  I am positive that I cannot possibly wait in another line anywhere, children crying -- not mine, for a change.  Mine are stuffed under the cart between the toilet paper and dog food.

I used to try the whole "Zen" thing -- the breathing out thing.  But mostly it got me out of breath and confused as to where I was.  Perhaps I was breathing too deeply, huh?

I used to try the going to bed early.  At first it was 9:00 just after the girls went to bed because that's when I was tired.  In the morning I realized I hadn't had a moment to myself.  So, I tried staying up later, but again, I was alone, not wanting to watch hours of mindless tv, I'd retreat to my bedroom with a stupid book.  Then after a while sometimes I'd go to bed at 5:00 hoping someone would help.  They did help, but it was the children themselves.  So now I just wait it out, put the wee one to bed and see what happens.  Tonight the littlest and I listened to Five Children and It and in just a few moments she was sound asleep.  I cuddled, kissed her, whispered "I love you.", hoping she was just enough awake to respond back.  She wasn't, she was off in her dream world.

There are commitments that you made a while ago that you were sure would go quickly, smoothly, with no hiccups.  There would be no slides, no slippery slopes.  A bump comes along.   You wait it out because, well, hell, you've been waiting it out for all these years why not wait out one more bump.  Still, the kids are screaming, and life is happening.

Then that other bump that you kind of sensed was on the horizon was fast approaching, and before you know it, you're half way up that hill, with no way down, kids in tow -- no seat belts around.  Crash.  After a bit, you assemble yourself, kind of back to the way you were.  A bit more ragged for the wear.  Someone is hurt a bit.  Take her to that doc you didn't really like waiting for, but in a few months she's back to new and even better.  We're all a bit tired, but fine.

Life goes on.  It does.  Sometimes it goes on without the people we loved the most in this world.  Sometimes it goes on with the people we're not sure we even like all that much.  But, if we're lucky, it continues.  There's a bit of sunshine over that next hump, but I think at this point, it's just easier to wait it out.

This Thing Called Aging

I watch my daughter, at 6, run arm and arm with her cousin across the field.  My fourteen year old, arms linked with her 10 year old cousin as they watch the owl demonstration.  My emotions are all over the place.  I remember with such clear vision my sisters and I running across pastures, deep in the woods, filled with tall grass and I'm sure varying snakes hiding from our quick feet.  We ran and laughed, not sure why we were running, but laughing as we went.

My father and youngest sister are with us today on this raptor demonstration, as they show us how quickly and swiftly these birds dive down for their food.  I never thought I'd quite be here, as a mother, with very gray hair, watching my own children, in essence do with the same that I did as a child.  The younger ones have no filter.  They say what they feel, and feel what they say.

I try to explain to my husband how I feel like I'm going round and round trying to find my way in this part of my life that is enjoyable, but so confusing.  Am I coming?  Am I going?  Reality, I'm halfway between.  Not quite there, with the knowledge of those who have passed before me.  Knowing my mother is physically not present, I still ask the questions to her out loud and listen quietly for that voice that I know is hers and will come from within.  It's a matter of time.  She answers, or the answer appears clear.

I have a unique situation concerning children as the age difference is so varied.  I have my four amazing daughters, aged 20, 17, 14, and 6 1/2.  Each individually at their own passages in life, trying to find their own way.  So here we are, all in one house, facing different aspects of aging and rites of passages.  We meander throughout our days, passing each other in the hall, or at the table.

Yet, still I find myself remember those summers with my sister, canoeing to the small island in the little pond across from our cabin.  Once we pretended it was Christmas and we had to make presents only from what was on the island.  We set up "house".  We dragged some logs over and made a kitchen.  We spent the entire day there, until we heard my mother call from the cabin atop a small hill the it was time to come in for supper.

I look around, how did I get from here to there?  How did I go from twelve to menopause, confused on whether I'm coming or going.  My husband is more confused, not knowing what he'll come home to -- will I be calm, on the couch in front of fire, dinner in the oven, knitting and calm, or more likely a ranging manic, not knowing how to stop myself from spinning and spinning to stop all this.  To bring those four daughters back to that island with those same three young girls, my sisters, and I so that we can do the same thing and have the same memories.  I know my childhood was wonderful.  Will they say the same theirs?

I publish this without rereading (probably a mistake) wondering if those who may read it - -have answers. Answers how to make their childhood perfect, as I make my own aging bearable, and still have a husband who loves me as dearly as I love him.

Middle of the Night Glimmer

Until I went to college, and probably for many years after, the "rule" in our home for my sisters and I was that we were to be in our bedrooms at nine o'clock, regardless of what was going on.  Of course, there were exceptions like holidays, proms, our own weddings.  You know, things of a more personal nature where our lack of presence would have been noticed.  My parents were very kind about this rule, there was no maliciousness in it.  It was really because my father worked all day, my mother was tired at the end of a long day and they wanted to watch television together alone, or just spend time without children. I can certainly appreciate this and until my eldest daughter was about nine my children were in bed at 7:30 pm, with absolutely no exception.  It wasn't until my sister, who is a teacher and far more reasonable than I in many ways, suggested that really, at nine, she was a bit too old to be going to bed when the kids on the street were still all riding their bikes in the slowing summer sun.  So, I acquiesced and for the summer months, we went a little later.

As I grew older, in high school and college my sisters and I would go out with our friends my father discovered this system with index cards.  On the table were three cards with one of our names on one of the three cards.  When we returned home that evening we would turn our card over, indicating that we were home.  Last one home, locked up the house and turned off all the lights.  I mean, all the lights.  The only light that was left on was the florescent light that was above the sink, and I believe he only left this one on so that my mother, who was disabled, didn't trip over the dog trying to find her way to the kitchen in the middle of the night for her pills or coffee while she waited for the pain to subside.

Many nights as I child I would lay in bed and listen to the noises downstairs and know that she was awake, moving around, making coffee, or maybe just getting some pills and going back to bed.  I was comforted by the movement, knowing she was there, and mostly would roll over and fall back asleep.  Yet as I got older, and less of sure of myself, either in social situations, or over school, or even just a bad dream, I would tiptoe (with no light, of course) to the top of the stairs where my sisters and I shared a room -- yes, three of us in one very large room!  I would peer down the stairs, and through the darkness of the living room, the dining room, and into the family room I could often see the glimmer of the television, playing, no doubt, an old movie.  I would creep down the stairs, hoping not to wake anyone else, for this was purely private time I treasured with my mother.  I took the route through the kitchen because with the help of the florescent light I could find the path through the dark dining room.

There she sat, Sanka by her side, watching tv.  Sometimes she would be rubbing her thighs, rocking back and forth and moaning a little.  Mostly she would be sitting quietly.  I would come around the corner and quickly whisper a greeting so not to startle her.  She was never, not once, in all those years of my interrupting her time, angry, short, surprised, or anything less than pleased to see me.

"What's the matter, baby?  Couldn't sleep?", she would reach for hand, giving it a strong squeeze as I passed to sit down.

How could I tell her I woke up and was suddenly struck with the reality that she would not always be with me.  That someday, probably years from that moment, we wouldn't have that few minutes.  But she knew.  We'd watch a bit of tv, and sometimes I shared what was going on in school.  If I tried to complain about my sisters, she would throw up her hand and say that she was not going to get between sisters,  She never, ever did, and my sisters and I remain close to this day, though my mothers been gone 10 1/2 years.

Years later when I would visit with my own children, and one of them would wake up crying, I'd peer down the steps praying that my mother would be there.  She was, and together we would soothe my daughters.  But even after I became a mother I would come down with a sleeping baby, laying her on the blanket on the couch. Sometimes I would lay my head on my mother's lap, cry and tell her I would miss her, that I couldn't imagine my life without her.  How was I going to raise my daughters to be strong, young women without her?  She would rub my hair with a strong, but gentle hand, and assure me with a quiet voice that I was a fine mother, a wonderful mother.  That she would always be with me, every single time my daughters smiled, I would know she was there.  After a little while, I would wipe my eyes, pick my sleeping babe off the couch hoist her into my arms, and lean her over so my mother could rub their hair with the same strong and gentle hand.  I could tell her kiss had the length of forever behind it.  That hers were meant to last a lifetime for them, not just a few moments as mine had, but we understood that and made peace with it long before she died.

Now when I find myself, tossing and turning in the middle of the night, not because I'm in pain any more, thanks to my fancy, dancy new hip, but because the dishes were left in the sink or I could not possibly face the laundry earlier during the craziness of the day, I sneak upstairs with a bit more light than I had as a child.  I straighten the kitchen, knowing that my eldest who has baked some amazing creation for the family but was too tired to clean will appreciate the cleanliness of the kitchen.  I fold some laundry because with six in the family someone is always looking for something.  I find peace in my time, with a bit more than a glimmer of light, but perhaps I am sharing the same reflections my mother had.  That life is short.  That we must grasp the time we have -- whether it be in the middle of the night, or in the middle of the day at a traffic light.  Some how I hope that at the end of that glimmer my girls will always be able to follow it to me, and that I will always stroke their hair, with the same strength, knowledge and courage my own mother had, reminding them I will always believe in them and always be here -- either in person or in the smile of their child's faces.  I know my mother is here right now, as I write this, not even questioning my middle of the night awakening.

In All Her Beauty and Wisdom

First Day of School

Now I remember why our parents had us go to bed early so that we could get up early for school.  Because we're tired and don't want to get up.  So here I sit, dragging myself around, attached to my 1.25 liter of diet coke, my computer, and my daughter's iPad (which is, by the way, playing Gregorian chants, because although I consider myself Jewish, I find myself soothed by the solid tones and words that are not in my language).

I let the dog out this morning, and it was cooler than yesterday.  My big girls start their college classes today and Brett asked me to stay home to wish her well on her day.  (Not her words -- mine.)  I cannot imagine missing their first day of school, which is odd, since being homeschooled they've only had a few "first days of school" -- and they were all college classes.  I cannot imagine what it would be like to send them every year off on the bus, like millions of other parents, packed with lunch, backpacks packed for their day ahead.

I have decided to enter my youngest, Austen, into a lottery for the Montessori school.  It's a local charter school, part of the public school system here.  Montessori is so very close to homeschooling and she is the only one of the four girls that seems that she may benefit in this type of an environment.  I hope she gets in for a hundred reasons.  Mostly because I think she will excel in that environment, but I think I'm ready for it as well.

Hayden will have her first day of school perhaps this summer as she enters Trident Technical College, following her sisters into an early college entrance.  I know there are some "nay-sayers" on this (my father), wondering why high school isn't more appropriate.  Perhaps she will find, after a summer class at Tech, that Wando High School is truly where she wants to go, but I want to give her the option I gave her sisters.

So, I start my morning, waking up slowly, reading my Sacred Intentions, a Jewish inspirational book of devotions, and hoping my daughters have a good first day of school.  Ryan with her determination for her future surely will be excited to get to the next step in her life now that she has an idea of where she might want to land (social work), and Brett because it is the necessary of two evils -- stay at home and continued to be home schooled or go to college and move on in her education and be with her peers.  So, off she goes this morning.  Both girls taking a piece of my heart, hoping their day will go smoothly.  I'll worry all day, as they have fun with their friends, and get their books and schedules in  order, but I guess that's just what we parents do -- worry when we send them out into the world.  I know they'll have a great day.

Mom Jeans and Silverfish

A few months ago one of the major jean companies started marketing "Mom jeans".  You know the kind that keep those extra few pounds that you couldn't quite get off after the hundreds of children you've had.  Not quite duck tape, but close.  Not having jeans in many years because I have, indeed, had four daughters, I bought into this marketing and went to the local inexpensive "big box" and purchased two pair of them at a reasonable price, under $12!

Since we do have six people in this family and are fortunate enough to have a laundry room that is larger than the white house, the laundry simply produces more dirty laundry without the help of the family.  Into the room went both pair of jeans.  Out of the room came one pair of jeans.  Oh, I loved those jeans.  I really did.  They truly did make a difference.  They were tapered without a one inch zipper that sat below my c-section scar.  They let me sit down and allowed me to breath.  I adore them.  I became very possessive over them.  I wore them only when I knew I could actually wash them myself and fold them or actually carry them back to my room.  Suddenly one pair was gone.  It vanished.  All four girls denied seeing them.  They certainly could not wear them unless all four of them wore them at one time, so I knew it wasn't a case of stealing them.  I have been known to steal my sisters clothing in college and just take them to a different state where I went to school.  This was not the case.

I thought I searched the house.  But there was one place I hadn't gone.  There was one place I was truly scared to go.  One of my daughter has an incredibly fear of those little silver wiggly bugs and so her clothing is usually strewn about her room on furniture, except the ones that have some how made it into her closet.  This was the closet I feared entering.  Yet for the good of the team, and those darn perfect jeans, I went in, turning the light before I entered, of course.  I looked around.  There appeared to be no army of silver bugs -- we call them silver fish, though I think they are incorrectly named.  Wormy and fast little fellows, they crawl before your eyes, defying even the quickest of feet.

Slowly I began to pick up pieced of denim clothing.  Ha -- like a size "0" is going to fit -- still, I took a moment to gaze at them.  I worked on.  Pile after pile of clothing that were obviously not even close to denim.  But in the third laundry basket, I spied just a small sense of denim.  Just a tiny wisp.  I pulled it, and out came the jeans that I had been missing for three months.  I was ecstatic.   I felt like I had purchased another pair and it was for free this time!

I'll never under estimate the silverfish closet.  I know my daughter is not hiding clothing in there on purpose.   In truth, she did have some sorted to go to Goodwill.  Thankfully, my "Mom" jeans were not in that pile.  Today, just after I wore my other pair yesterday -- I wear another pair today!  Mom jeans unite!

The Smell of Rain, Pine and Childhood

I set my alarm for a half an hour earlier because my goal is to ultimately spring out of bed at 5 am, ready to face the world, meditate, write, and maybe just be.  But alas, so far it has been a challenge.  Thanks to my oldest daughter who wrestled, convinced and connived my youngest that she should sleep in her own bed, I was able to get a full nights sleep.  More than likely, Ryan used good parenting/babysitting skills and warned Austen with a time-out, something my husband and I are often too tired to do at the end of the day. However, she went to bed in her own bed for the entire night and I am grateful to Ryan for taking that task on.  It is just past 5:30 and I ready for the day.

I opened the door to let the dog out for his morning constitutions and was taken back by the smell in the air.  The dampness was there, but it was mixed with pine.  It was crisp, and fresh.  I was reminded of those early morning trips we'd take when I was a child with my family to their cabin in New Hampshire.  No matter how early we'd get up, my mother was always up earlier making everyone their favorite sandwich for the trip.  She'd pack it, one bag of chips, one large bottle of soda -- a great treat in those days -- and plastic cups.  We probably only got up at 6 am, but with the darkness of the sky and the stillness of the morning, it surely felt like the middle of the night.

Still to this day I don't know why after I was woken by my father, who used the flashing the light in the hallway upstairs as his wake up call, I felt I still had to come down the steps and peer around the corner to see that my mother truly was there.  Doing what she always did, doing what she did for years, and would do for years to come.  Then my two sisters and I could truly begin our day of packing what little we needed for a short weekend in a cabin.  We never really changed our jeans -- who needed to?  So, we'd pack underwear and socks, a few change of shirts, a heavy sweatshirt, and our boots.  We were building forts and having adventures.  Sometimes we'd pile in the car and go out on "an adventure" my mother called it.  Usually that meant antiquing of some sort, but almost always ended up with ice cream.  It helped to have a father with a sweet tooth.

The cabin was six hours away and we'd leave early to miss the New York City traffic.  Before long we were half way there, and unpacking our lunch at a rest stop by some beautiful mountain side.  Lunch was always especially good, no matter what she made.  You could still feel the crispness in the air, as we were heading North and it was going to be crisp most of the days, and much cooler into the evening and night.  I remember laughing with my sisters, fighting over chips, and then my father producing for each of us, one "trashy" teen magazine, and for each one of us, our favorite candy -- an entire bag each!   In the days of no mandatory seat belts, we'd all three lie on the back of the Surburban floor and lay on our sleeping bags with our pillows, satiated from lunch, but still will to stuff a sweet, chewy bit into our mouths as we caught up on Leif Garrett, Shaun Cassidy, or whatever version of Kim Kardashian there was.   Truly, it was heaven on wheels.

This morning when I opened that door, I expected nothing but the quick swift swish of my old Newfoundlands tail as he hurried by me.  Instead, I was drawn out onto the patio and immediately I had the urge to get dressed.  I wanted to run to my kitchen to see my mother there packing my sandwich.  I knew she wouldn't be there.  I knew my own daughters would be hard pressed to get up at this hour to appreciate the freshness in the smell.  The adventure of the soon to be wet pine.  Today we'll spend our day with laundry and some historical movies catching up on homeschooling, but I will go out and take some time to remember those special car trips.  The candy that I still love, the magazines I still find myself drawn to even though I don't know the actors or actresses.

I am so thankful that it was my husband who said, "Why is your alarm going off at 5?" and I woke up enough to roll out of bed and turn it off.  I have been given this moment of remembrance and thankfulness to start my day.  I am thankful for this day, today and everyday that I have forward.  May you all have the crisp brightness in your day!  

Something's Achangin', For the Better

It's been a slow, crawling change.  I've almost not noticed.  Many, many times i haven't noticed it.  I've been too involved in the unimportant, the "little" things -- like in twenty years, dirty dishes are going to matter.  I have four funny, silly, wonderful, bright daughters.  They, like myself, can be a handful.  We have, collectively 18 pets, and of course, enormous vet bills.  All in good time, all in good time.  Despite my wonderful husband's inherent uninterested in animals, when one of the guinea pigs got her leg caught in a hammock, it was he who said, "How can you put a price on a life -- even hers?" So, $750 later little Nellie's leg was amputated, only to have had the infection infiltrate her body, beyond what we could help and she passed away a week later.  She is buried in our yard, with quite a few other guinea pigs.  (May they never dig up a yard for anything!)  Did he say "I told you so"?  No.  For the spunky little pony, with penal cancer, it's chemo therapy periodically, so he's not in pain, though likely it has spread.  Again, no repercussions.

My writing, which was so much of my soul, for all of my life, took at back seat to anxiety, mental depression, alcohol, dirty laundry, dishes, and the silly mundane things.  Today I read the story of a girl, a wonderful girl, creative, vibrant who was born just two weeks prior to my Brett, and died just shortly after her 16th birthday of thyroid cancer.  Yet there are videos of her laughing with her favorite author.  Her Facebook page shows her joy in life.  This summer we lost a very dear friend who could no longer bear what pain she had, and took her life at 20 years old.  Kiki was a live wire, and one who is truly a part of our daily lives, certainly mine as I watch, get frustrated with, and ultimately, love my own four daughters.

So, it's time to get off my duff, and be thankful to my Higher Power that I have what I have.  That I'm sober, that I can see the sunlight today and feel the crisp air that the morning brought with it.  It truly is a time for changing my outlook in life, and for life, for that's all we have.  Today.  May you find peace and joy in your day!