Friday night's homecoming basketball games have just been canceled due to a winter storm warning calling for snow, sleet and ice. Colette yells from her room, "The games are canceled. My life has no meaning!" So far, plans for the homecoming dance on Saturday still stand. If they fall, teen disappointment could be catastrophic.
I have felt a quiet tension about the homecoming dance building throughout January. A few weeks ago, sixth-grade Adele turned to Colette to ask in the car, "So, do you know who you're going to homecoming with?"
"No."
"Are you going to ask someone?" she followed up in a bright tone.
"No."
"Why not?"
"I don't feel like talking!" Colette snapped.
I tried to ease the situation by explaining to Adele why this year might feel different to her sister: "I think in ninth grade," I said, "it's fun to go with your friends. Then in tenth grade, it's exciting to have a date. Maybe eleventh grade is different. Maybe they're stressed out, or--"
"I'm jaded," Colette cut me off, glum and firm.
A week later she mentioned friendship tensions at school, and I suggested that maybe they were related to homecoming.
"You're obsessed with homecoming," she accused me over her burrito.
"No. I'm just saying that it might be causing tension. Think about if you were a guy--you'd either have to get up the guts this week to ask someone, or you'd know you were letting the opportunity pass you by. And for girls, you either have to wait for someone to ask you--someone you might not even like--or you have to decide to ask someone yourself. It's stressful."
She got quiet. "Yeah, maybe," she said.
My own formal dances in high school caused tremendous feelings of dread, embarrassment and loneliness. At an all-girls school, I barely knew any boys. I lay on the twin bed in my room, dreaming of being loved and accepted by some boyfriend, but whom? When dances approached, I could think of no one to ask. I'd cry until my parents suggested I ask a friend of my little brother, three years my junior, and then I'd cry harder from the insult of their suggestion. It took all my bravery to invite any boy at all, let alone a boy I liked. At seventeen, the development of my self was in progress. Looking back, I didn't actually need a full-fledged boyfriend or a serious relationship at that time. Yet I pined, wondering, who would love me? It was too early to know.
Last week, Colette decided to ask a date to the homecoming dance. Now, everything is in place: the dress, the date, the dinner plans with friends from her team. She's excited and happy--not jaded after all. The world hasn't even opened up to her yet. Her small high school here at home is not the place where she's likely to meet an Othello.
But it is where she's bonded and grown with the girls on her team. Homecoming, I remind myself, is a celebration on a cold January night of the basketball team and their season. It's a chance for the girls to dress up together, go out to dinner and meet up at school to link arms and take pictures. The whole school is invited to the celebration. With or without dates, they have no need for dread or loneliness. They have each other, and it's quite enough to be young and strong, laughing raucously and dancing with classmates and teammates. At this point, the roads just need to remain clear enough to get there.
1/28/10
1/20/10
Xtreme Girls' Weekend
I'm scheduled to fly to Texas this weekend to meet a friend from California for a so-called girls' weekend. By my count, this will be my ninth short solo trip since I gave birth to my first child seventeen years ago. That makes roughly one weekend on my own every other year.
Occasionally I point my finger at Steve, but the truth is that this low number is no one's fault but my own. It's been overly hard for me to leave my offspring. For one thing, it's hard to extricate myself logistically. But more than that, leaving them triggers in me acute maternal anxiety. I want to be their home base, the nucleus around which the electrons continually orbit.
As the day of a solo trip approaches, I find myself psychically squirming, trying to find a way out of the plan. I don't want to ask anybody else to take over my responsibilities. I don't want to miss basketball games--or rides, plans, meals. Making arrangements to leave, I feel how critical my role is in the family, and my anxiety skyrockets. What if something happens to me? What if I don't make it back? I don't want to leave my life. The girls need their mother!
Just over a year ago, I met this same California friend in Arizona for our first girls' weekend. There was nothing particularly risky about that long weekend away. During our seventy-two hours together, she and I talked and talked, wrinkling in a bubbling hot tub much of the time.
We visited a desert garden where I saw things I'd never seen before in a weird lunar landscape. I left my world and was awed by another. I saw an expanse of open sky and dry earth from which sprouted monstrous octopus cacti, their many thick tentacles reaching and writhing. The crucifixion thorn was forbidding, its long woody barbs jutting sharply from each branch. In contrast, whimsical, Dr. Seuss-like Boojum trees stood tall, their skinny, spiky trunks topped with frilly hairdos.
I entered the set of a science fiction movie in which a creeping devil cactus slithered up and among the branches of the Palo Brea, looping and draping itself, an unending fat snake. I saw the ocotillo, whose slender, friendly stems waved upward like an inverted cheerleader's pompom, and the prickly pear, whose plum-colored fruit sat perched atop cartoon-shaped paddles.
At the Mexican market, we washed down our visions with cool watermelon concoctions while taking in the sight of papayas and jicamas, and mounds of richly colored peppers.
It was a short trip to the moon, a chance to break away from the laundry basket to be reminded of what a wide world it is--how rich and varied, how strange and beautiful.
Occasionally I point my finger at Steve, but the truth is that this low number is no one's fault but my own. It's been overly hard for me to leave my offspring. For one thing, it's hard to extricate myself logistically. But more than that, leaving them triggers in me acute maternal anxiety. I want to be their home base, the nucleus around which the electrons continually orbit.
As the day of a solo trip approaches, I find myself psychically squirming, trying to find a way out of the plan. I don't want to ask anybody else to take over my responsibilities. I don't want to miss basketball games--or rides, plans, meals. Making arrangements to leave, I feel how critical my role is in the family, and my anxiety skyrockets. What if something happens to me? What if I don't make it back? I don't want to leave my life. The girls need their mother!
Just over a year ago, I met this same California friend in Arizona for our first girls' weekend. There was nothing particularly risky about that long weekend away. During our seventy-two hours together, she and I talked and talked, wrinkling in a bubbling hot tub much of the time.
We visited a desert garden where I saw things I'd never seen before in a weird lunar landscape. I left my world and was awed by another. I saw an expanse of open sky and dry earth from which sprouted monstrous octopus cacti, their many thick tentacles reaching and writhing. The crucifixion thorn was forbidding, its long woody barbs jutting sharply from each branch. In contrast, whimsical, Dr. Seuss-like Boojum trees stood tall, their skinny, spiky trunks topped with frilly hairdos.
I entered the set of a science fiction movie in which a creeping devil cactus slithered up and among the branches of the Palo Brea, looping and draping itself, an unending fat snake. I saw the ocotillo, whose slender, friendly stems waved upward like an inverted cheerleader's pompom, and the prickly pear, whose plum-colored fruit sat perched atop cartoon-shaped paddles.
At the Mexican market, we washed down our visions with cool watermelon concoctions while taking in the sight of papayas and jicamas, and mounds of richly colored peppers.
It was a short trip to the moon, a chance to break away from the laundry basket to be reminded of what a wide world it is--how rich and varied, how strange and beautiful.
1/14/10
Planet Breast Milk
In the recovery room after the C-section, a nurse carried calm newborn Colette to me, and right away she latched on to my breast and began to suck, naturally and easily. In those early minutes with her, I memorized her small face, her fine silvery hair and her rich sweet smell. I had worried about everything in the days leading up to her birth. Now, here she was, healthy and alert, and the fears cleared gently like fog, leaving in their absence a lovely baby girl, nursing peacefully.
I have had the good fortune to nurse two beautiful babies, five years apart, and, in the arc of my life so far, these have been the sweetest times, like falling in love. I nursed each of them every two to three hours from their birth, a process I'm grateful to have experienced. I surrendered completely, and for many surreal months nursing is all I accomplished.
Through nursing, I learned of their temperaments. Colette was a slurper, relaxed and perceptive. For her, my milk was as fattening as milkshakes, and she conked out drunk after nursing, milk dribbling down her chin. Serene and fast-growing, she seemed to have an inner agenda to grow, to mature as quickly as possible so she could explore the interesting world around her.
Adele, on the other hand, was dark red from screaming when she first nursed, and she latched on to my breast instinctively to soothe herself. High-strung, she nursed around the clock, rarely sleeping for more than two hours. For her, my milk changed inexplicably to the nonfat variety. She was smaller--chipper and birdlike--and also jumpy and distractible, unable to nurse with people or noises in the room. During her first year, she and I spent hundreds of hours together in my quiet bedroom, the nursing relaxing her.
During these months of nursing each child, I felt no existential angst or worries about my purpose or place in the universe. My only concerns were to eat, sleep, feed the baby and keep the milk ducts free of clogs. I was in a Zen-like state of oneness with the cosmos, and my purpose was clear. There was at those junctures just one small infant, a beauty with a perfect soft head gazing up at me. I lost myself in each of them. Their tiny faces were maps of the world, their moving, growing bodies complex planets, endlessly fascinating. I rested, produced milk, gazed and beheld.
Since those days, my role as a mother has shifted, requiring that I nurture their separate, developing identities and, in the process, continue to reshape my own. Now we have four distinct selves in our house and a fair amount of existential angst. We are four celestial bodies trying to find our places in the universe. Even as the girls grow and are weaned from their dependence on me, I want to be there for them, tethered loosely and in connection. Together we are a moving constellation, four bright stars, like the outline of Orion's strong form in the sky, creating a reliable pattern of happiness for one another and reference points for love.
I have had the good fortune to nurse two beautiful babies, five years apart, and, in the arc of my life so far, these have been the sweetest times, like falling in love. I nursed each of them every two to three hours from their birth, a process I'm grateful to have experienced. I surrendered completely, and for many surreal months nursing is all I accomplished.
Through nursing, I learned of their temperaments. Colette was a slurper, relaxed and perceptive. For her, my milk was as fattening as milkshakes, and she conked out drunk after nursing, milk dribbling down her chin. Serene and fast-growing, she seemed to have an inner agenda to grow, to mature as quickly as possible so she could explore the interesting world around her.
Adele, on the other hand, was dark red from screaming when she first nursed, and she latched on to my breast instinctively to soothe herself. High-strung, she nursed around the clock, rarely sleeping for more than two hours. For her, my milk changed inexplicably to the nonfat variety. She was smaller--chipper and birdlike--and also jumpy and distractible, unable to nurse with people or noises in the room. During her first year, she and I spent hundreds of hours together in my quiet bedroom, the nursing relaxing her.
During these months of nursing each child, I felt no existential angst or worries about my purpose or place in the universe. My only concerns were to eat, sleep, feed the baby and keep the milk ducts free of clogs. I was in a Zen-like state of oneness with the cosmos, and my purpose was clear. There was at those junctures just one small infant, a beauty with a perfect soft head gazing up at me. I lost myself in each of them. Their tiny faces were maps of the world, their moving, growing bodies complex planets, endlessly fascinating. I rested, produced milk, gazed and beheld.
Since those days, my role as a mother has shifted, requiring that I nurture their separate, developing identities and, in the process, continue to reshape my own. Now we have four distinct selves in our house and a fair amount of existential angst. We are four celestial bodies trying to find our places in the universe. Even as the girls grow and are weaned from their dependence on me, I want to be there for them, tethered loosely and in connection. Together we are a moving constellation, four bright stars, like the outline of Orion's strong form in the sky, creating a reliable pattern of happiness for one another and reference points for love.
1/6/10
Snow Dance
At 46, I'm beginning to understand the term midlife crisis. I've been at this a long time--this childrearing, grocery shopping and running of a household--and I'm beginning to fantasize about a long stay in Martinique, strolling in my sarong beside the Caribbean, drenching myself in Creole, African and French cultures, perhaps learning banana farming. I'd like to escape for a time the endless responsibilities of raising a family, a relentlessness that sometimes clouds my vision and my sense of possibility.
At the very least, I could use a major snow storm this winter. The last time we had significant snow accumulation in our Tennessee town was on Steve's fortieth birthday in January, 2003. The week prior, Steve had mentioned that he wanted a dog, and so five-year-old Adele and I drove to the downtown library on his birthday to research dogs and to borrow a stack of books on breeds and their personalities. Adele, my constant companion, so affectionate and expressive, was eager to help with the mission.
At the library, we studied in the stacks, checked out our books and then headed to the French bakery adjacent to the library. With a coffee, hot chocolate and croissants, we sat at a little round table for two. Outside, it had started to snow, big fluffy flakes already sticking to the sidewalk and street. There by the window, we could feel the chilly air just beyond the glass. As we sipped our frothy drinks, the snow began to fall more heavily, and our view of the somewhat dingy downtown changed magically before our eyes. Everything became elegant, beautifully draped in snow. Big flakes, falling thickly, transported us to another time and place. Our outing was now in Paris. It was 1900, and our carriage driver was to meet us outside, our horses ready to clippity clop home across the snowy thoroughfares.
There's no one I would have rather spent that afternoon with than Adele, the girl who reflects back to me so much love and joy, who serves as a magic mirror to my better self. For a long time, we watched the snow come down. We skimmed dog encyclopedias and pulled apart flaky croissants until the lampposts and park benches in the scene outside were iced with a thick white frosting.
We didn't want to leave, but to stay in the beauty of that moment, to enjoy the day, my husband's fortieth birthday, and the dog we dreamed of choosing with him, the hour of snowfall and the elegant curves of the backs of our chairs.
At the very least, I could use a major snow storm this winter. The last time we had significant snow accumulation in our Tennessee town was on Steve's fortieth birthday in January, 2003. The week prior, Steve had mentioned that he wanted a dog, and so five-year-old Adele and I drove to the downtown library on his birthday to research dogs and to borrow a stack of books on breeds and their personalities. Adele, my constant companion, so affectionate and expressive, was eager to help with the mission.
At the library, we studied in the stacks, checked out our books and then headed to the French bakery adjacent to the library. With a coffee, hot chocolate and croissants, we sat at a little round table for two. Outside, it had started to snow, big fluffy flakes already sticking to the sidewalk and street. There by the window, we could feel the chilly air just beyond the glass. As we sipped our frothy drinks, the snow began to fall more heavily, and our view of the somewhat dingy downtown changed magically before our eyes. Everything became elegant, beautifully draped in snow. Big flakes, falling thickly, transported us to another time and place. Our outing was now in Paris. It was 1900, and our carriage driver was to meet us outside, our horses ready to clippity clop home across the snowy thoroughfares.
There's no one I would have rather spent that afternoon with than Adele, the girl who reflects back to me so much love and joy, who serves as a magic mirror to my better self. For a long time, we watched the snow come down. We skimmed dog encyclopedias and pulled apart flaky croissants until the lampposts and park benches in the scene outside were iced with a thick white frosting.
We didn't want to leave, but to stay in the beauty of that moment, to enjoy the day, my husband's fortieth birthday, and the dog we dreamed of choosing with him, the hour of snowfall and the elegant curves of the backs of our chairs.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)