“There she goes again. The martyr.” Marilyn sneered. She met everyone’s eyes for confirmation, only to find herself alone in her opinion. Their sympathetic attempt at understanding unnerved me—I felt the threads come loose as everything I tried to hide overflowed.
Unlike Marilyn, each one of my family could see in their own way how much her accusation was unfounded. It was clear to Claire in my vacant eyes that held no hope; Jack couldn’t get past the rail thin bones of my wrists. Gordy heard my unintentional calls of distress clearly—I could see his vow to help me in the determined squint of his eye.
Simon was the only one who could give first hand testament to the meanings behind my behavior. He understood that I was no claimless victim vying for attention. It was clear to him in the most obvious way; in the way that he ignored because it frightened his pragmatic nature, causing him to question everything he ever believed.
He saw the frightening truth behind my sorrow in the way I yearned to die.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
One Year.
I want to be happy; I should be cursed for crying. My baby is one. One year old.
So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.
I never thought I'd feel this way; the bittersweet division of two wants. I want him to grow, flourish, develop. Yet.
I want him to stay one forever.
I keep telling myself the best is yet to come. That I have 4 more years of 'baby' (6 is my cut-off point; that is when they stop being cute and start being annoying).
We went for a walk yesterday. It was the first time the weather has been nice enough to go out since Oliver became a pro at walking in shoes. I set him down at the top of the driveway and encouraged him to follow me. He took one wide-eyed look at the 'big, outside place' and immediately whined.
But, being the trooper that he is, he reluctantly walked down the driveway, clutching one of my fingers with his fat little hand. Then he saw his Daddy at the bottom of the driveway and he was a little braver.
We walked a small section of our little street. When he had Mommy on one side and Daddy on the other, clutching each of our fingers, he was brave, stomping and humming, so proud of himself, excited to be out in the sunshine.
But as soon as we let him go, he was a leach around my leg.
I'm not going to say I didn't enjoy this show of dependency; Oliver is the type of boy who would rather be free than cuddle. I take what I can get from him.
In moments like these, I'm sad knowing that one day he'll be too big to grab my legs and hide. Even though I'm just in the beginning of his life, I can't stop myself from thinking about him as an adult. Some people miss their lives by rushing through them; I think I miss mine by thinking too hard about it. I try to enjoy the moment too much--and I end up feeling sad.
We had a nice weekend--it is utterly heartwarming to see a community of people gather to celebrate the life of my son, to honor him. I see genuine smiles and laughter from people that aren't his biological family when he dances with one shoulder and my heart is warm and full; to know that people love him who don't have to love him is my own secret victory.
I often tell Ollie that he is perhaps the most loved boy in the world. It's been my mission this year to build for Oliver a community of family; so that he will never be able to question whether he was loved or not. His biological family alone adores him, worships him in a way I hope isn't reserved for the first born.
But, that love is something familiar to me. I am special to my family and therefore my children are special.
There is nothing that stitches up the wounds of a family like a new child. I've seen it first hand. The love of a child cleanses the bitterness; heals old, festering wounds; unites us in a way that before would have been impossible. I, too, have been changed. I can't help but love the people who love my child.
So as we sang happy birthday to my sweet little boy, I couldn't help but be taken back a year. 365 days before, I was lying in a hospital bed, ripped open and stitched up; sore and exhausted; about 65lbs heavier with a tiny, squirming newborn to call my own. He was sturdy and advanced--that certainly hasn't changed--in fact, it's been his defining characteristic.Now he can call the dogs and ask for Dada and dance to the opening music to the 'Office'. He can walk across the room to give you a kiss when you ask for one and throw his bottle out of the highchair on purpose; he can do wrong and know he's doing wrong; he can miss you when you leave; he is happy when you return.
One year.
By the end of our walk, we stood at the open mouth of our driveway. Oliver relaxed as soon as we were in our yard, his yard. I remember the first time we tried to play outside--he could barely stand in the grass with shoes on. Now he can navigate over the uneven stones of the path with ease; pulling himself up when he stumbles.
We watched with amused and amazed eyes as Oliver caught a glance of his kitties. He rounded the corner of the house and went out of view. We waited to hear his cry when he realized he was alone. After a few moments of silence, we peeked around the house. We laughed at our one year old chasing the cats up the driveway, completely alone, without a care in the world.
When we finally snuck up behind him, he was shaking the fence and saying his hello to Boo on the other side. He didn't even acknowledge that we suddenly appeared; maybe he knew we were near the entire time. Or maybe he considers the cats the comfort equivalent of his parents.
Either way, it was so Oliver we couldn't help but beam with pride.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
What we leave behind.
There is a plaid Tommy Hilfiger dress that I wore once on the day I graduated from high school. It is stored in an air-tight bag taking up much needed space on the rack of my tiny closet. Why do I even bother to keep it?
My initial response is that I hope to some day wear it again; I hold on to some foolish dream that I will one day be able to get it past my thighs. The reality is I’m still carrying the freshman 15 (and then some) from college; my body stretched and changed from carrying a child; my hips are wider, my stomach round and soft. I don’t mourn for the firmer, thinner body of my youth—the body that was never loved by a man or delighted from the kick of a child from very deep inside. To hold on to it for vanity’s sake is such a waste— of time, of energy and of closet space.
Part of me clings to the dress simply as a token of my youth; to be able to marvel at how thin I used to be—a piece of evidence that I really existed. I loved that dress—it represents so much to me. Graduation, beauty, heartbreak, renewal, becoming a woman. To be able to feel the fabric between my thumb and forefinger is physical evidence that I truly existed. That wonderful time in my life—the end of one thing, on the verge of another, anticipation so sweet and thick in the air—with nothing but success and dreams in your future—was so brief, so short; I often wonder if I truly lived it.
So much meaning stored in that tiny bit of picnic plaid fabric.
I was talking about this very concept the other night with a group of women in my family; all of whom have clothes they keep with hope and wistfulness. One has already given up the ghost and tossed them; another can still wear hers from middle school. The last, my cousin, still clings feverishly to hers with hope as I do. The words came out of my mouth, speaking out of turn as I usually do, declaring that I hoped my daughter would one day want to wear the clothes I kept.
The reason took me off guard even as I uttered the words. I realized then that this dress was just one of the many relics I’ve saved and stored away with hopes that my kids will want them one day—or at least get a kick out of.
There are many times when I am flipping through the pages of my own Mother’s life—I see an outfit that I wish she had saved for me. She is full of regret of her wastefulness, describing wistfully in full detail each item in her wardrobe that she loved; some relic from her youth that made it real. I wished she had saved them for me—so that I too could relive a part of her life with her—while sporting a ‘vintage’ outfit.
The regret my Mother feels has been passed down to me, turning me into a pack rat of remnants of my own life that will inevitably be pushed on to my children. I looked around my bedroom, through my jewelry box and on the shelves in my home; counting the things I have collected to pass on.
This is all her—my Mother’s—fault, you know. My name is even a hand-me-down (Mollie is my Mema’s name and Elizabeth “Libby” is her Mother’s name; I can’t help the insanity—it runs through my blood like rabies).
My Mom and I talk—we talk about this all the time—about the accumulated clutter she’ll leave behind and most importantly, who will get what. My husband, Anthony, always tunes us out when the subject of our deaths becomes the topic of conversation—as it inevitably does. My brother calls me greedy as I walk about with post-it notes declaring that everything is mine, mine and mine (I can’t bare to imagine parting with the objects that are the sentimental background of my childhood). My Mother and I defend our stance with practicality. Death is such a chore; besides being devastated, you have to deal with the funeral, the burial and the house-full of stuff you’re supposed to divvy out amongst your siblings. So won’t it make it that much easier if we already have dibs on what will be ours to keep and cherish? My brother says no, my Dad frowns and my husband turns up the television.
What is it about these sentimental relics that provide me with so much comfort? When my Mother dies, she will no longer be here, yet I feel as though I will be closer to her when clutching the feathered necklace that she adores and never wears. I worry that I will turn into a junkyard dog, pacing the length of her house, growling at whomever tries to move a piece of Gouda to sell (which I hate by the way…). I fear I may become one of those emotional hoarders, living in my own filth, surrounded by a tower of boxes full of things I will never use or even look at again.
And if at 25 I have already accumulated a houseful of things to pass on to my children, not to mention the boxes and boxes of things from my parents—how will my children have room for a life of their own? The photo albums alone will need their own designated storage building.
And doesn’t an over-accumulation of things diminish the value of those few pieces that are truly significant?
How do you even begin to pick what to save as a physical, immortal relic of yourself for your children to figuratively hold on to when you pass?
OK—so I know I’m being a little dramatic here—but I truly believe that the possessions of my loved ones will help keep them alive in my heart. I can’t possibly know this—as I have been fortunate enough to have never lost someone near and dear—but it seems logical to me.
I suppose it will be up to my children to decide. The Tommy Hilfiger dress is completely out of fashion even now and my daughter (I only have one child, a son by the way) will most likely hate it and mock me mercilessly for ever donning it. I will be seven hundred pounds by then (it’s hard to exercise when you’re living in your own filth behind a tower of boxes…) and the dress won’t even fit over my leg, if moths haven’t eaten it to pieces by then.
My children probably won’t be capable of deciding as I will have emotionally crippled them as my parents have done me—instilling life and memories in objects that will hardly stand up to the test of time (things aren’t made as well anymore—that alone will solve part of my problem…). I can hear my Dad’s sad voice in my head as he carefully replaces the maudlin, Christmas ornaments back in their perfectly preserved boxes, “I can’t stand the thought of the kids selling the Hallmark ornaments for $.25 at a yard sale…we’ve collected them for years”
You don’t even want to know how many of my closets will be taken-over by boxes of ornaments I don’t even like…all because I can’t stand the thought of hurting their already-dead feelings…
And to a degree, I understand how my Dad feels. I, too, can’t imagine the objects that are my parents selling for pennies at a garage sell; the apron my Mom used to wear as a little girl growing moldy in someone’s garage; my Grandmother’s white hutch being sold for nothing at an auction, only to be stripped and painted some god-awful version of fuchsia!
These are our heirlooms, for crying out loud! These things are my family! These things are our history!
I’ll be the first to tell you I need to take a step back, calm it down a bit and look at this personal crisis from a more objective point. I know I should let go of my possessions and not feel the need to be immortalized in the box of outdated clothes and jewelry I pass down to my children.
Like this crazy obsession, there are pieces and traits of me and Anthony that will trickle down into our children, grand-children and great-grand-children—we all live through those who come after us, who would never be if it wasn’t for us.
Shouldn't that be enough?
I myself have characteristics whose origins I wonder about: what great-great relative is living through me now—right now—as I peck away on my computer? Whoever it was, I thank them—the delight and pleasure of gifted gab is much more useful than a feathered necklace or a piece of pottery I don’t even like.
I’m not saying I’m going to throw away everything tomorrow; but I am going to start the general process of distancing myself from the things I have deep, meaningful connections with and concentrate more on the people in my life; not the objects that remind me of them. I am going to strive to save less for the long run—at least for my children’s sake—letting them choose what they want to remember me by.
The necklace that I have replicated on my foot, I believe, is timeless—and it’s one of things I hope will be passed on one day as it is now literally a part of me. I suppose whatever survives the test of time will really be worth saving—like my wedding band, the photographs, scrapbooks and journals as well as the videos of our son giggling and cooing into the camera. And I hope, sincerely hope, that my children have enough happy memories of their parents, with tons of wacky, off-the-wall stories and remarkable pictures to capture us through time—that they will be secure enough in their own hearts to let go of the physical possessions that are meaningless without the stories behind them…
But I have to say the only truly amazing piece of my self that I’ve contributed to this world is my son, Oliver; with my smile and his Daddy’s profile—he is the best possible thing we could ever leave behind…in the end, he’s the only thing we leave behind…
…that and a dozen boxes of junk that his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping…
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong; perhaps I shouldn't be concentrating on the things we abscond. Instead, I should focus on what we take with us. The memories, the love, the friendships—the truly good stuff in life. I believe those things leave with us and are the fabric of our very souls.
I’ll leave everything else for our kids to sort out. Anthony and I will only take the good stuff with us; the only thing really worth cherishing in the end.
The rest of the stuff—a dozen boxes of junk his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping will hopefully be offset by a good chunk of inheritance to pay for the storage complex large enough to amass several generations worth of crap his vain, pack-rat of a family found meaningful enough to leave behind.
Oliver can dump my ashes in with my Mom’s—in that ancient piece of Gouda she will inevitably force me to store her remains in.
I may hate the atrocious brown and green patterned pottery, but at least it’ll free up a little space on his mantel for his own personal relics…or even maybe a picture of his dear old Mother?
I’m nothing if not practical, right?
My initial response is that I hope to some day wear it again; I hold on to some foolish dream that I will one day be able to get it past my thighs. The reality is I’m still carrying the freshman 15 (and then some) from college; my body stretched and changed from carrying a child; my hips are wider, my stomach round and soft. I don’t mourn for the firmer, thinner body of my youth—the body that was never loved by a man or delighted from the kick of a child from very deep inside. To hold on to it for vanity’s sake is such a waste— of time, of energy and of closet space.
Part of me clings to the dress simply as a token of my youth; to be able to marvel at how thin I used to be—a piece of evidence that I really existed. I loved that dress—it represents so much to me. Graduation, beauty, heartbreak, renewal, becoming a woman. To be able to feel the fabric between my thumb and forefinger is physical evidence that I truly existed. That wonderful time in my life—the end of one thing, on the verge of another, anticipation so sweet and thick in the air—with nothing but success and dreams in your future—was so brief, so short; I often wonder if I truly lived it.
So much meaning stored in that tiny bit of picnic plaid fabric.
I was talking about this very concept the other night with a group of women in my family; all of whom have clothes they keep with hope and wistfulness. One has already given up the ghost and tossed them; another can still wear hers from middle school. The last, my cousin, still clings feverishly to hers with hope as I do. The words came out of my mouth, speaking out of turn as I usually do, declaring that I hoped my daughter would one day want to wear the clothes I kept.
The reason took me off guard even as I uttered the words. I realized then that this dress was just one of the many relics I’ve saved and stored away with hopes that my kids will want them one day—or at least get a kick out of.
There are many times when I am flipping through the pages of my own Mother’s life—I see an outfit that I wish she had saved for me. She is full of regret of her wastefulness, describing wistfully in full detail each item in her wardrobe that she loved; some relic from her youth that made it real. I wished she had saved them for me—so that I too could relive a part of her life with her—while sporting a ‘vintage’ outfit.
The regret my Mother feels has been passed down to me, turning me into a pack rat of remnants of my own life that will inevitably be pushed on to my children. I looked around my bedroom, through my jewelry box and on the shelves in my home; counting the things I have collected to pass on.
This is all her—my Mother’s—fault, you know. My name is even a hand-me-down (Mollie is my Mema’s name and Elizabeth “Libby” is her Mother’s name; I can’t help the insanity—it runs through my blood like rabies).
My Mom and I talk—we talk about this all the time—about the accumulated clutter she’ll leave behind and most importantly, who will get what. My husband, Anthony, always tunes us out when the subject of our deaths becomes the topic of conversation—as it inevitably does. My brother calls me greedy as I walk about with post-it notes declaring that everything is mine, mine and mine (I can’t bare to imagine parting with the objects that are the sentimental background of my childhood). My Mother and I defend our stance with practicality. Death is such a chore; besides being devastated, you have to deal with the funeral, the burial and the house-full of stuff you’re supposed to divvy out amongst your siblings. So won’t it make it that much easier if we already have dibs on what will be ours to keep and cherish? My brother says no, my Dad frowns and my husband turns up the television.
What is it about these sentimental relics that provide me with so much comfort? When my Mother dies, she will no longer be here, yet I feel as though I will be closer to her when clutching the feathered necklace that she adores and never wears. I worry that I will turn into a junkyard dog, pacing the length of her house, growling at whomever tries to move a piece of Gouda to sell (which I hate by the way…). I fear I may become one of those emotional hoarders, living in my own filth, surrounded by a tower of boxes full of things I will never use or even look at again.
And if at 25 I have already accumulated a houseful of things to pass on to my children, not to mention the boxes and boxes of things from my parents—how will my children have room for a life of their own? The photo albums alone will need their own designated storage building.
And doesn’t an over-accumulation of things diminish the value of those few pieces that are truly significant?
How do you even begin to pick what to save as a physical, immortal relic of yourself for your children to figuratively hold on to when you pass?
OK—so I know I’m being a little dramatic here—but I truly believe that the possessions of my loved ones will help keep them alive in my heart. I can’t possibly know this—as I have been fortunate enough to have never lost someone near and dear—but it seems logical to me.
I suppose it will be up to my children to decide. The Tommy Hilfiger dress is completely out of fashion even now and my daughter (I only have one child, a son by the way) will most likely hate it and mock me mercilessly for ever donning it. I will be seven hundred pounds by then (it’s hard to exercise when you’re living in your own filth behind a tower of boxes…) and the dress won’t even fit over my leg, if moths haven’t eaten it to pieces by then.
My children probably won’t be capable of deciding as I will have emotionally crippled them as my parents have done me—instilling life and memories in objects that will hardly stand up to the test of time (things aren’t made as well anymore—that alone will solve part of my problem…). I can hear my Dad’s sad voice in my head as he carefully replaces the maudlin, Christmas ornaments back in their perfectly preserved boxes, “I can’t stand the thought of the kids selling the Hallmark ornaments for $.25 at a yard sale…we’ve collected them for years”
You don’t even want to know how many of my closets will be taken-over by boxes of ornaments I don’t even like…all because I can’t stand the thought of hurting their already-dead feelings…
And to a degree, I understand how my Dad feels. I, too, can’t imagine the objects that are my parents selling for pennies at a garage sell; the apron my Mom used to wear as a little girl growing moldy in someone’s garage; my Grandmother’s white hutch being sold for nothing at an auction, only to be stripped and painted some god-awful version of fuchsia!
These are our heirlooms, for crying out loud! These things are my family! These things are our history!
I’ll be the first to tell you I need to take a step back, calm it down a bit and look at this personal crisis from a more objective point. I know I should let go of my possessions and not feel the need to be immortalized in the box of outdated clothes and jewelry I pass down to my children.
Like this crazy obsession, there are pieces and traits of me and Anthony that will trickle down into our children, grand-children and great-grand-children—we all live through those who come after us, who would never be if it wasn’t for us.
Shouldn't that be enough?
I myself have characteristics whose origins I wonder about: what great-great relative is living through me now—right now—as I peck away on my computer? Whoever it was, I thank them—the delight and pleasure of gifted gab is much more useful than a feathered necklace or a piece of pottery I don’t even like.
I’m not saying I’m going to throw away everything tomorrow; but I am going to start the general process of distancing myself from the things I have deep, meaningful connections with and concentrate more on the people in my life; not the objects that remind me of them. I am going to strive to save less for the long run—at least for my children’s sake—letting them choose what they want to remember me by.
The necklace that I have replicated on my foot, I believe, is timeless—and it’s one of things I hope will be passed on one day as it is now literally a part of me. I suppose whatever survives the test of time will really be worth saving—like my wedding band, the photographs, scrapbooks and journals as well as the videos of our son giggling and cooing into the camera. And I hope, sincerely hope, that my children have enough happy memories of their parents, with tons of wacky, off-the-wall stories and remarkable pictures to capture us through time—that they will be secure enough in their own hearts to let go of the physical possessions that are meaningless without the stories behind them…
But I have to say the only truly amazing piece of my self that I’ve contributed to this world is my son, Oliver; with my smile and his Daddy’s profile—he is the best possible thing we could ever leave behind…in the end, he’s the only thing we leave behind…
…that and a dozen boxes of junk that his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping…
Maybe I’ve been looking at this all wrong; perhaps I shouldn't be concentrating on the things we abscond. Instead, I should focus on what we take with us. The memories, the love, the friendships—the truly good stuff in life. I believe those things leave with us and are the fabric of our very souls.
I’ll leave everything else for our kids to sort out. Anthony and I will only take the good stuff with us; the only thing really worth cherishing in the end.
The rest of the stuff—a dozen boxes of junk his crazy Mother will guilt him into keeping will hopefully be offset by a good chunk of inheritance to pay for the storage complex large enough to amass several generations worth of crap his vain, pack-rat of a family found meaningful enough to leave behind.
Oliver can dump my ashes in with my Mom’s—in that ancient piece of Gouda she will inevitably force me to store her remains in.
I may hate the atrocious brown and green patterned pottery, but at least it’ll free up a little space on his mantel for his own personal relics…or even maybe a picture of his dear old Mother?
I’m nothing if not practical, right?
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