An Oldie, A Goodie but Time to Move On

Just about eighteen years ago, my husband, with all his lack of music knowledge, purchased a lovely Yamaha U3 piano.  For those of you who are as unfamiliar with pianos as he was, this is the step before a baby grand.  It has the same string size but stands upright, so it doesn't take up the space of a grand piano. It was a lovely gesture, a beautiful gift on his part, and filled my hearts desire as I begin my second pregnancy, which turned out to be one of the most challenging emotionally, and physically, for me.  The piano brought me solace, and joy.  For my oldest daughter, who was two at the time, it brought her something to occasionally smash on, and sometimes gently "play", as she sat in my lap.  I babied that piano as I did my daughter.  I covered the keys with the red felt cloth, at one end heavily embroidered with "Yamaha" across it.  I had it tuned every six months as the weather changed so frequently in the South.  And, of course, I loved him that much more because this was what he wanted to give me.  A piece of me, that he didn't really understand, but knew meant so much.


One day, within the first few days of owning this lovely instrument, he exclaimed that he would like to learn to play it.  I sat down, the first few minutes explaining middle "C", etc.  Within five minutes he had given up in frustration, and said that it was mine, but he was not interested in playing it.  I understood.  Sometimes it peaks your interest, and sometimes it frustrates you for no reason.  That's the way it went with my own daughters. All four of them.  One would take to trying it, and give it up within days, and the next would show a bit more interest, yet still, after five days, would walk away, more interested in something else in her environment.  The third daughter taught herself to play, on her own, having a natural talent for music, and a built in sense of patience when the music and notes didn't come to her immediately.  Yet even she lost interest, or actually changed instruments.


So, as I watched this lovely beautiful instrument sit in my living room, doing not much else but hold up some candles, I knew it was time to pass it to someone who would truly love it and do it the justice that it deserved.  Playing doesn't come naturally to me.  Singing does.  Playing was a way to lead into my singing.  That worked for quite a while, until I discovered the guitar, which truly is an outlet for my singing, as it is portable, and much easier to learn new music on.  I made the decision to sell it, on my own, without the consultation of my family.  My husband is horrified, knowing that we may never have the resources to replace such a high quality instrument.  My daughters feel the same.


But I know that when I find the right home for it, it will be loved, and played and the notes will ring on through their house as they did in ours before I got busy, and truly, before the playing got to be too much for me to keep up with.  I will continue to sing to my hearts content with my guitar, learning new pieces daily, if I choose.  But my heart no longer lies with this lovely mahogany piece.  However, somewhere, I hear there is a little girl who is just dying to get her hands onto the lovely ivory keys that I've cared for so much with that maroon felt cover.  I am pleased to see it go to a home with love and excitement.  A bit sad, for all the memories, but I'll still have them.  How wonderful that someone else will love it with the same passion I had originally.  It got me through NICU babies, my grandfathers death, my mothers death, and now it will bring joy to someone else, not just endurance.  I am glad to pass on this legacy, truly glad.

Strong Enough to Be My "Man"

I was listening to the music as I typed and Sheryl Crow belted out "Are you strong enough to be my man?"  I was struck with the thought of my own daughters having their own "partners", their own people who should be strong enough?    What is strong enough?  Is it strong enough to make it through that first year when things are wonderful and your tears melt your partners heart?  Or is it strong enough to say no when they look at you and something that is out of your reach -- whether it be price range, emotional price range?  I remember the day I wanted so badly to adopt to a baby who was born with Down Syndrome's.  I called on the fly, to ask about the process, and they said they had a baby available to leave the next day from Texas -- was I interested?   He was so tiny, and innocent.  His future was so unsure.  My husband and I were so young, and we hadn't even thought about our own children much less adopting a child who had challenges that we may or may not be able to handle -- either monetarily or emotionally.

I said, sadly, with my heart breaking, to the lady on the phone that we were not quite ready to make the decision to adopt a child.  That we hadn't gone through the "right' procedures....  What were the right procedures?  Did we go to pray?  No.  Had we spoken quietly between us the truths, the doubts, the fears and and the realities.  The realities, that  one didn't want to adopt someone else's baby, much less one that was probably going to need much more than they themselves had in their own hearts.  We had the conversations after that phone call.  It hurt to hear the words, the truth.  It hurt to hear that the reality was that the one who I loved with all my heart was just not 100% sure, and because he were such a decent, complete person, if it wasn't 100% percent than it wasn't a chance he was a chance to take.  I had to respect that.  That at 26, he was unsure.  Now, at 48, would it be different?  Probably.  But I don't' know, because that boy, that sweet little boy is 21, almost.

Still, 21 years later, I wonder about that sweet boy.  That sweet little baby that must've smiled when someone grinned at him.  A baby that smelled so sweet, wrapped in a cotton blanket, cheap and from WalMart, but happily in someone's arms.  I adore my own wonderful, beautiful babies -- they are amazing gifts from God -- or Goddess.  But I don't forget about that little baby boy, as I stood in our office, saying to the social worker that we weren't ready.  I clearly remember the children playing outside that day.  I remember the sun shining that day through the blinds.

And I remember the doubt, hesitance, and ultimate resistance in my husband's eyes when he said, with all his heart being honest and loving, "No, I can't."

I never blamed him.  I never regretted.  But I never forgot.

The "F" word

I have four daughters all named with traditionally boys names so that when they applied for jobs their resume would speak for what it should -- their experience and education -- not their sex.  It was a very conscious decision and not one of them have ever complained, or even questioned it.  They range in age from 6 years old, all the way to almost twenty.  They have been homeschooled all their lives.  They are strong, bright, liberal, and feminist.  I am proud and amazed that I have these amazing young women in my lives.


When my fourth daughter was born my sister sent her a tiny little black t-shirt.  On it, in prominent white letters it said, "This is what a Feminist looks like".  It's about a size 18 months.  Naturally, being the outspoken, liberal mother and living in the quiet more conservative South I started putting it on her when she was able to walk at ten months.  It got more bang for it's buck when she was upright and toddling around in public, than laying in her car seat.  The initial reaction was to how adorable she was, and then they'd read the shirt.  From there it was a total guess on how the reaction would go from the people oggling my daughter's bald head, funky shoes, and outspoken t-shirt and smiling, to quite a few who walked away with obvious disgust on their faces.  (I pitied them, rather than throw something at them.  That seemed counterproductive.).  I was accused of pushing my beliefs on my children, though I see no wrong in raising them to think for themselves, I do admit to showing them the reality of what women face, and how we can change that in small and large ways.  I often challenged the older ones to speak their mind and talk of women's rights, perhaps a bit before they were ready.  Sometimes they did, sometimes they waited.  They understood clearly all the wonderful and challenging things that women have faced, and still do.  In this family, we're all still learning.


The t-shirt kept it's shape and was true to it's size, and so over the years she continued to wear it.  When someone questioned her at three what being a feminist was she replied that it meant that she could run as faster, or faster than boys.  They chuckled because it was the three year olds version, but obviously she was getting something from us.


When she was four, the t-shirt finally started to look a little tight on her arms, but despite my suggestions of making it a tank top or altering it in any other way, she refused and continued to wear her "feminist shirt".  While my first two daughters were girlie girls, from sequins and sparkly shoes at Walmart, my second two were horrified to even have it suggest it to them that something other than jeans, or shorts may be an option in their wardrobe.  I didn't care.  It's not my decision what they wear as long as it was weather appropriate and occasionally, appropriate for some type of more formal function.  (No feminist shirt to a formal wedding.)


Austen got her first pair of Converse high tops recently.  Proudly, like her sister just seven years older than her -- the closest one in age -- she choose black.  They were awesome, and went with her jeans.  But by now the Feminist shirt is really getting too small.  Her belly sticks out.  She still wears it out.  She absolutely loves it.  I have tried to find it online, but have yet to be successful.  It is apparent that this child is going to need a new one to replace the one that will eventually cut off the circulation in her body because there is no way I can take her beloved shirt from her. 


About two weeks ago we were at a playground.  I was sitting on the bench allowing her the freedom to find some playmates her own age.  She thinks she's 12 like her older sister, so her interactions with younger kids is a bit awkward, and she's a bit cynical, and not always age appropriate.  I overheard this little girl about her age talking to her as they climbed the big kid rope pyramid.  The girl quietly asked if she was a girl.  Austen looked at the girl with an obvious look of disgust and replied, "I'm a girl." Then she kept on climbing.  The girl then persisted to try and explain the wrong doings in the clothing my daughter had chosen -- black leggings, black high tops, a rust colored horse shirt and a black fedora hat she wears every day.  Her climbing friend was dressed all in pink, with ruffles and just a smattering of white.


"But you have black sneakers."  It seemed perfectly logical to this child that Austen simply must be a boy because she was wearing black.


I heard the tone of cynicism come in to Austen's voice, and held my breath.  Was this going to be the time she told the girl her opinions were "lame", as she has done at home when she is disagreeing with someone.  Or would she stand up for herself like I had taught her.  (At this point, I was holding myself down on the bench trying not to knock the kid off the equipment.  I was pretty sure that would fall under many inappropriate, as well as illegal reactions.)


"I like black.  What's wrong with that?" And on she climbed around the girl.


Little Miss Pink Frills looked back at my daughter who had now surpassed her on the climbing apparatus with a look of puzzlement in her eye.  Austen had a grin on her face, reached the top of this large roped off pyramid, and said, "Look, Mommy, I made it to the top."  I congratulated her, and she continued on to accomplish another piece of equipment, as I stood there like a ridiculously beaming.


I thought, yeah, she'll make it to the top because she too has the gumption and self-confidence she needs to stand out and up for what she knows is true.  Not only can she run faster than boys, but she can climb higher, and she can like and wear exactly what she wants, with pride.  Plus she knows the "F" word, the six year old meaning of it, and she's not afraid to use it!

His Arms Held Her Sweetly, Still

Following the footsteps of my eldest daughter, I recent began volunteering at a local respite care for people with a late-in-life onset disability.  Thinking I was merely going to spend one day a week, four hours that day helping out with the participants, I went with almost no expectations.  The first day I watched Ryan with the participants, all of us wearing name tags so that those who attended the program knew not who was volunteering and who was attending.  It was a brilliant and kind concept.  I watched her chat with people three, sometimes four times her young age.  She smiled, they all laughed together.  They colored, chatted, played a game of bingo.  Exercise time we all laughed as even Ryan, Brett and I struggled to do some of the most simplest activities, like raising our left hand over our head, not our right.


When I walked in I was determined to let Ryan have her space, and Brett and I would have our own paths in the room, our own friends to meet.  We were each guided to a table that had a little extra space for new people and more or less, we mingled with those who were there.


I met a woman, not much older than myself, maybe in her early fifties.  She was smiling, beautiful in her youth, blond hair, against my gray.  The kind of blond that was truly blond, not the out of the bottle kind. Her outfit was casually put together, classy and lovely.  She looked as though she was also someone who came every week to volunteer.  She wore lovely, expensive chocolate brown corduroys, a beautiful shirt, and on her left hand, her ring finger, a thin band of gold, worn over the years, as it was thinner in some places than others.  Obviously, she was married and had been for quite some time.  I asked her about children, but she was unsure at the moment I asked.


After speaking to her, and playing a bit of bingo with pictures instead of numbers.   After a while it was apparent her role there was a bit different than mine and my daughters.  I watched her struggle a bit to pick out the pictures -- it was between the canoe and the motorcycle.  She struggled with the differences.  There was a few moments I saw in her eyes that she was aware that she knew she was struggling.  She had been a therapist for many years, and just judging from the obvious intelligence of our previous conversation, she must have been successful because in the short time we talked, I could tell that she was so very caring or those around her.  She was much younger than the other participants at the table by twenty years or so, and perhaps that's what made her nervous.  The game was ridiculous in many ways -- there was a picture of an RV and then a picture of a motor home.  Honestly, how absurd?  Are they not practically the same things for those of us who don't struggle with memory problems?  Yet she, and the others, took it in stride, as my daughters and I played along side of the other participants.  We didn't' have chips to mark the squares so we used small pieces of puzzles.  Initially, we were going to use the side without the pictures on, using the underside of the puzzle pieces.  But this addition to the game made her apprehensive, perhaps because she was organized in her previous career and it didn't make sense that they shouldn't all face up, correctly as they were intended.  So we carefully turned them upward so the pictures on the puzzle were facing upward, then we went on with the game.


After bingo, we had lunch, and then to end the day there was a musician.  A folk singer who came with a guitar, and sang blue grass at the top of his lungs, his fingers moving on those strings quicker than I'd ever seen.  We all enjoyed it.  The coordinator even convinced a few to get up and dance with her, even those that were a bit shaky on their feet took the opportunity to show their dance steps with this tall, young, blond, sweet woman who not only loved them, but remembered everything about them from the entirety of their names, to their children's names, and their spouses names.  The rest of us clapped our hands and moved our feet in our chairs.  It was so much fun.  We had a couple of participants that would want to wander and someone would get up and go with them, ensuring their safety.  This was the end of their day, and they were ready to find their loved ones and go.


Then my friend's husband walked in.  I wasn't aware of who he was until he pulled up a chair behind her.  He rested his head on her right shoulder, kissed her head and then gently placed his arms around her shoulders so they draped over her like a sweater, keeping her warm.  She immediately kissed his forearm and held his hands.  They swayed to the music, enjoying the fast pace of the tempo.  They whispered to each other and then would laugh, sharing perhaps something from the past, or just enjoying the moment, watching the beautiful, laughing coordinator while her dancing partner shook her own hips about the room and she raised her hands, dancing with free abandonment.  The coordinator's dance partner was most likely closer to eighty and having the time of her life, as we all were.


I found myself gazing at my friend and her spouse intriguingly, wanting to know their secrets of the obvious love they still held so deeply for each other.  He kissed her on her head.  Her day there had come to end, and no doubt they had other things they had yet to accomplish, yet they never rushed out they door.  Enjoying the music, their affection, and as their joy was so obvious and continued to shine through.


Honestly, I had a hard time watching, after a few minutes.  I wondered how it would have been for my parents, had my mother lived past the 66 years that she did.  I questioned whether my own husband and I would hold each other in the loving way this couple did.  What was their secret?  Did he not get frustrated and emotional as she herself got frustrated, as I saw earlier in the day?  Did it not pain him to know that he would lose just a bit of her every day, until she no longer recognized him, nor those around her?


It was obvious they adored each other, and he held her, still, as the music ended.  Ultimately, I realized they lived for that moment, with his arms draped around her, her lips on his forearm, and then his hands.  I watched as they left, holding hands.  They laughed as they exited, and I hoped she would come back.  There was so much I could learn from her, so much joy she radiated.  I, jealously, hoped for that same unconditional love that I had been so very lucky to have had just a brief glimpse of that afternoon, as his arms held her so very sweetly, still.