Spring in our house means flowers blooming, a mad rush to turn over
the garden and seeds bought on the hope that this summer our tomatoes
might outshine our sisters’.
My husband, being of a somewhat competitve nature, likes to talk a
little trash and each year one of our sisters seems to outshine him.
One year my sister’s carrots came in large and sweet, while ours were
so scrawny the rabbits didn’t even bother to dig them up.
My husband’s sister has a large garden, that is not only full of all
things yummy like asparagus, Swiss chard, onions and beets but it is
also a visual delight. Perennials surround the outer edge dotting the
area with blues and greens, violet and yellow. I would tell you what is
in her garden but sadly I cannot recall.
My thumb is not exactly green. It is not gangrenous, there is some
circulation and a pulse is palpable, but what I have learned so far
about gardening is I am best at planting and that is where my talent
ends. I love to dig in the dirt. I love to chop up the grass and pull
up mounds of fresh sweet-smelling earth. I enjoy pulling at the roots
of a plant and setting it in the ground, covering it, watering it and
letting it take its time to do what it is meant to do; grow and be
beautiful.
I do not like to weed. I am not a good planner. Both my sister and
my sister-in-law have a talent for seeing the way a garden can look and
implementing it. They have a connection to the mound of grass that
allows them to pull away and create something that draws your eye from
color to color. They also have the ability to name all the things they
have planted and for that matter all the things I have planted.
Last spring my sister came to visit on a Sunday and I came home from
work to find her and my husband happily weeding and pulling old leaves
away from all the plants trying desparately to reach for the sun. We
walked about my yard and, even though I had planted many of the
perenials the year before I could not tell her what they were. There
wasn’t enough of them visible for me to recognize them, even if I did
happen to remember.
She knew. She knew even by the small amount of foliage. The size of
the leaf, the color, the markings on the leaves all made perfect sense
to her. To be honest, I nearly weeded a perenial because it looked like
a weed. It wasn’t and thanks to my sister, the perenial’s life was
spared.
For awhile, I thought there wasn’t much to gardening. I thought you
could read the labels and plant stuff in the ground and then sit back
and watch it grow. I understand I need to water but often forget and I
do not enjoy weeding. I thought I could create the beautiful English
garden like my sister or the pristine landscape like the one my
sister-in-law has planted around her home.
But I do not have that talent. Last summer, I dug a large area out
in our front yard, thinking how fabulous it would be to create another
perenial garden. Three weeks later, my husband planted grass.
I do not have the vision or the understanding of the extensive array
of annuals, perenials and shrubbery. I do not know when one thing will
bloom and another will be done with that process. It is a gift, one I
admire in both my sister and my sister-in-law.
It is a fact of life that we are not all good at everything. It
would be absurd if we were. We would have no need for one another. We
could teach ourselves to read and write and do math. We would nurse
ourselves back to health. If we wanted a beautiful painting we would
paint one.
If we wanted to read a book, we would write it. And sometimes even
when you share the same interest with someone else, your talent within
that will also be different.
My sister-in-law can build a landscape plan that blooms and blossoms
for all seasons. My sister can grow sweet, beautiful carrots and her
English-style garden is serene. I am glad I can look to them both for
advice and seedlings when I want them.
And while I do enjoy digging up my yard, this year I will keep it to
a patio project. We will put down bricks that won’t need to be weeded
or watered. I will leave the true gift of gardening to my sisters and
bask in their talent. And they can come sip wine on my patio.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Mother's Day
Mother's Day
Mother’s Day is fast approaching. When I spoke with my sister this week she asked if we had special plans. The truth is no, since I am usually the planner of most things around our house it would be up to me to plan Mother’s Day.
If I did plan the day, it would consist of a drive and stops at various garden centers and shops and bookstores along the beautiful Connecticut River Valley. Three kids on such an adventure does not spell relaxation. It rather sets up all three for a day of complaining which would in turn make me wonder what had ever taken hold of me enough to have these kids in the first place. So my response was, ”nothing special.”
When my mother passed away six years ago, it took some of the steam out of Mother’s Day. There are times during the year her loss is felt more acutely and Mother's Day is one of them. After my mother had died, my cousin had described her father's death feeling like a hole left in her heart that gets smaller but never completely goes away. I understood exactly what she meant and on Mother's Day that hole expands.
My mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis before I was born. It was a fact in our house and nothing I had to adjust myself to. For my mother, I am sure it was much more than that. I am sure her life at times seemed daunting, that as a mother she wasn't quite living up to the expectation.
But as her daughter, my mother was just who she was, nothing more, nothing less. In the fourth grade, my sister, my mother and I were at my school for a parent/ teacher night. We walked down the hall, my sister pushing my mother’s wheelchair and I was walking along beside her, holding the arm rest of her chair. We passed one of my classmates.
He slowed down, smiled at me and kept walking, glancing back once as if he wasn’t sure if he was seeing straight. The next day he approached me and said, "Your mom can’t walk?” And I answered as any self-respecting fourth-grader would, "yeah, so?”
This encounter did not change how I saw my mother but it did make me realize that others saw her differently. That perhaps others felt sorry for her or our family. But those who knew her best did not waste their time on pity.
My mother was kind and organized, sweet and stern and she seemed to have a special part of her brain made out of a reinforced steel just for remembering things. She could recall phone numbers, dates and what I had said on the phone three years earlier to a friend about a cute guy who happened to — three years later — call me; and two years later marry me. I cannot remember to pick up milk without a reminder from my 3-year-old. Apparently, memory skips a generation.
My mother was gullible and fun and even as a teenager I often preferred her company over that of my peers. It never mattered to me that she couldn’t walk across a room, she was always present. She never missed a concert, play, banquet, graduation, wedding or baby shower. She always remembered birthdays and anniversaries. She was happy when we were happy. She worried when we were not. She tried to fix what she could and when she couldn’t she would tell us how wonderful we were and that things would get better.
I don’t remember from one Mother’s Day to the next what I gave her. I am sure in my early years there were homemade gifts, as my children bestow upon me each year. And I know in kindergarten I gave her anxiety when the gerbils I brought home from school for the weekend decided to practice some cannibalism.
And again in seventh grade when the pet rat I brought home from science class managed to escape his cage overnight. I am pretty sure I gave her some gray hair when I announced I preferred to not go to college but rather head to California like a free-loving hippie. But like all good mothers the small moments of anxiety and trauma never eclipsed the greater feelings of love and awe.
This year, I will love my homemade gifts and bask in the few moments that my children sing my praises before they move on to more important things like video games and fighting with one another. I will be thankful for the beautiful women in my life who help me steer the obstacle ridden pathway of motherhood.
I will remember my own mother who promised she would never leave me because she knew she would always be near in my children's laughter and my sister’s smile and my father's hug. I will know what a blessing motherhood is and what really matters is not what you offer physically but what you offer from your spirit.
Because that will travel with our children forever
Mother’s Day is fast approaching. When I spoke with my sister this week she asked if we had special plans. The truth is no, since I am usually the planner of most things around our house it would be up to me to plan Mother’s Day.
If I did plan the day, it would consist of a drive and stops at various garden centers and shops and bookstores along the beautiful Connecticut River Valley. Three kids on such an adventure does not spell relaxation. It rather sets up all three for a day of complaining which would in turn make me wonder what had ever taken hold of me enough to have these kids in the first place. So my response was, ”nothing special.”
When my mother passed away six years ago, it took some of the steam out of Mother’s Day. There are times during the year her loss is felt more acutely and Mother's Day is one of them. After my mother had died, my cousin had described her father's death feeling like a hole left in her heart that gets smaller but never completely goes away. I understood exactly what she meant and on Mother's Day that hole expands.
My mother was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis before I was born. It was a fact in our house and nothing I had to adjust myself to. For my mother, I am sure it was much more than that. I am sure her life at times seemed daunting, that as a mother she wasn't quite living up to the expectation.
But as her daughter, my mother was just who she was, nothing more, nothing less. In the fourth grade, my sister, my mother and I were at my school for a parent/ teacher night. We walked down the hall, my sister pushing my mother’s wheelchair and I was walking along beside her, holding the arm rest of her chair. We passed one of my classmates.
He slowed down, smiled at me and kept walking, glancing back once as if he wasn’t sure if he was seeing straight. The next day he approached me and said, "Your mom can’t walk?” And I answered as any self-respecting fourth-grader would, "yeah, so?”
This encounter did not change how I saw my mother but it did make me realize that others saw her differently. That perhaps others felt sorry for her or our family. But those who knew her best did not waste their time on pity.
My mother was kind and organized, sweet and stern and she seemed to have a special part of her brain made out of a reinforced steel just for remembering things. She could recall phone numbers, dates and what I had said on the phone three years earlier to a friend about a cute guy who happened to — three years later — call me; and two years later marry me. I cannot remember to pick up milk without a reminder from my 3-year-old. Apparently, memory skips a generation.
My mother was gullible and fun and even as a teenager I often preferred her company over that of my peers. It never mattered to me that she couldn’t walk across a room, she was always present. She never missed a concert, play, banquet, graduation, wedding or baby shower. She always remembered birthdays and anniversaries. She was happy when we were happy. She worried when we were not. She tried to fix what she could and when she couldn’t she would tell us how wonderful we were and that things would get better.
I don’t remember from one Mother’s Day to the next what I gave her. I am sure in my early years there were homemade gifts, as my children bestow upon me each year. And I know in kindergarten I gave her anxiety when the gerbils I brought home from school for the weekend decided to practice some cannibalism.
And again in seventh grade when the pet rat I brought home from science class managed to escape his cage overnight. I am pretty sure I gave her some gray hair when I announced I preferred to not go to college but rather head to California like a free-loving hippie. But like all good mothers the small moments of anxiety and trauma never eclipsed the greater feelings of love and awe.
This year, I will love my homemade gifts and bask in the few moments that my children sing my praises before they move on to more important things like video games and fighting with one another. I will be thankful for the beautiful women in my life who help me steer the obstacle ridden pathway of motherhood.
I will remember my own mother who promised she would never leave me because she knew she would always be near in my children's laughter and my sister’s smile and my father's hug. I will know what a blessing motherhood is and what really matters is not what you offer physically but what you offer from your spirit.
Because that will travel with our children forever
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Time After Time
I have a dishwasher to empty, laundry to fold, four kids to feed, bags to pack and a race waiting for me tomorrow morning. I am not even close to getting any of that done. In fact if these kids were smart they would ask right now for lollipops for breakfast because they would get 'em!
I spent yesterday with my sister systematically going through our childhood home sorting,chucking, taking and musing over all the things my mother held dear. The items we stored away in the attic. The items packed away when something new came along to replace them. We found crystal and glassware and strange "knickknack " items . Some things neither of us want and some things we gave to one another. Some items we looked at and wondered why our mother had them in the first place. There is a pile big enough to fill Good Will in the garage. Clothes, stuffed animals,records with the funky 60's and 70's kaleidoscope of fashion and colors. My mother's hymns and gospel records. These fascincate me. They were played on a piece of furniture we had in our living room for years when I was growing up. It was practically the size of a couch and had knobs for dialing in all kinds of fuzzy radio stations and ear splitting whines when you hit a "non station". It was half record player and half radio. And it was probably all the rage in 1970. For many years I had to stretch up on my toes just to peer inside and make the record player move. It was during this time that the room was decorated in orange and vivid green and gold. The couch and small chair had the same pattern of orange and gold flowers with green for the viney stems and the loveseat was gold. This was the "good" room. The room that was used for company, parties, special occasions. It is where the Christmas tree was for most of my childhood, sitting poised in the large Bay Window so it could be seen from the sidewalk. Where our Easter baskets were left by the Easter Bunny.
As we are moving from room to room and picking out things we would like or taking photos off the walls, I can hear this symphony of voices swelling around me. I hear the adult laughter of my parent's friends during their parties and gatherings. I hear my Uncle telling yet another story from the childhood he shared with my mother and the way it made us all laugh even if we had heard that story just months ago at our last family gathering. I can hear my mother's voice calling me when she needed me or my father's stern voice calling out for me to turn out a light or TV from the last room I was in. I feel pummeled by nearly 20 years of memories.
My father kept busy with his grandchildren and keeping them out of our way. I am sure the distraction was welcome. Who could possibly watch 40 years of their life flash before them in the crystal stem ware and Christmas decorations. To me everything held a memory, or many at once. My sister was more pragmatic about it. One of us had to be. I get very caught up in the passage of time. I am not crazy about change. I like to return to things and have them be as I remembered and not as they are now. And going through so many things from my childhood and my mother's life and realizing how much time has moved like a swift current in a flooding river just set my teeth on edge.
As the cacophony of memories continued in my head and moments of complete meltdown over came me, there also came an understanding. A realization that time moves on because it is supposed to and change is good. That life is not meant to sit still. That we are not meant to sit still and stay the same. My mother loved her stuff and as hard as it was to say no to many things that I know she held dear. I came to understand that it was her stuff and she had her own reasons for loving it. I did take a few things that I loved about my childhood home. Things I can use now or things that remind me of growing up.
I think this is why I love photography. It takes a moment and freezes it. This works out very well for folks like me who need to grasp the past in order to understand the present. To be able to see into the eyes of someone who may not be here any longer and see life as they might have seen it. Because that's the thing about time no matter how hard we try to measure it,hold it and tie it down it keeps moving. It only moves forward with no repeats.
The closets are almost cleared in my father's house. The walls are almost bare but the wonderful thing about my life is the memories I can pull out at any moment no matter where I am.
"Hey,Time I am Mom Enough"
So Time magazine has stirred the mommy war pot and the millions of moms who are doing their best and probably suffer from feelings of inadequacy on a good day can now look at the Time magazine cover while they place groceries on the belt, amid children screaming can now wonder if they have done something else wrong by not breastfeeding their child for three or four years.
It plays into the insecurities of moms everywhere. Moms are under enough pressure these days not to have to face a magazine cover screaming out, “Are you Mom Enough?”
I will say with all honesty I do not judge the woman on the cover. If she wants a child attached to her for that many years, good for her. And I would think it might take a bit of courage to put your face, and other body parts, to the theory of “attachment parenting.”
It is more her child I feel sorry for. If that boy child can make it through his college days without someone finding out he is that kid and blowing that photo up to a 20x30 and hanging it in a common area of his dorm, then he can count his blessings. Of course if this child were older, as I was told before seeing the article myself that he was four or five, then it might seem more offensive to some and just plain crazy to others.
Attachment parenting isn’t new. I read about it when I was pregnant more than 10 years ago and it wasn't new then. The phrase itself was penned by Dr. William Sears and what he basically states is that the more sensitive and emotionally available a parent is the better the child will develop into a socio-emotionally stable adult. The idea is to always be available for your children, handle them with kindness and compassion and a gentle hand. Most of the parents I know do this on a regular basis.
The website for Attachment Parenting International states eight components for attachment parenting. They seem like common sense to me: preparation for pregnancy, birth and parenting, feed with love and respect, respond with sensitivity, to name a few. But anyone could take any of the eight components, twist and turn and reorganize them until they look like the woman on the Time cover — extreme.
Women have enough coming at us on a daily basis. Magazine covers scream at us constantly. We shouldn’t have wrinkles or sagging skin, we shouldn’t gain weight. We should be home with our children, we should be feeding them home-cooked, organic, healthy meals three times a day. We should be teaching our children to read, write and add before they reach kindergarten all while keeping our houses organized and our marriages exciting and spontaneous.
Just thinking about all that is expected of me makes me want to crawl into bed and emerge when my kids go to college, which apparently they won’t if I don’t read to them 20 minutes a day, seven days a week beginning in utero.
If you had asked me 15 or 20 years ago what kind of mother I would be, I would have gleefully exclaimed, ”The Martha Stewart of all Mothers!” The baking, playing, cooking, smiling queen of motherhood. That was pre-sleep deprivation, pre-sore nipples, pre-baby fat (mine, not theirs) and definitely pre- “not tonight honey because it could result in another baby.”
I am not an “attachment mother” nor am I a Tiger Mom. I am not even sure I completely understand that whole concept. My own parenting style could probably be dubbed “bubble parenting.” I have decided the best way to handle motherhood is to do what works for us in our house. I no longer read articles about fabulously organized, PTO fundraising women who seem to not require any sleep at all.
I do not compare what I am doing, for better or worse, with other moms. I don’t ask about bedtime routines or feeding schedules or video game rules. I don’t read articles on how I could do what I am doing better. The information is too overwhelming and sometimes it just isn’t the right fit for our family.
We have tried some attachment parenting, mostly by accident, like letting our kids sleep in our bed, hoping just to get them to sleep only to have a terrible night ourselves being kicked or snored at. My father never let me sleep in my parents bed when I was scared or couldn't sleep. I do remind him of this particular flaw in his parenting quite regularly but despite that, I turned out pretty well-adjusted and he got plenty of sleep.
My husband and I have tried approaching our children gently when reprimanding but until they know that behind the gentleness is a parent who means business, your authority goes nowhere fast.
The truth of motherhood is it is a messy business. It is exhuasting and exhilarating and when you scrape it down to the very marrow, it is as individual as each person. No two women will come at it the same way. Some of us are shaped by what we had growing up and others by what they didn’t have. Some women have trouble letting go and some are fine with the progress of their kids and hardly look back beyond a wistful moment or two.
In the end, we all hope to raise happy, healthy children who grow into happy well-adjusted adults. So if you are wondering if I have read the Time magazine article the answer is no.
My children are way beyond being breastfed. And if you might be wondering if I consider myself “mom enough,” the answer is yes, I am mom enough on most days. And for now ignorance is bliss and I plan to stay in my parenting “bubble” and let the controversy swirl around me.
Because let’s face it, controversy sells and Time hit the motherload.
So Time magazine has stirred the mommy war pot and the millions of moms who are doing their best and probably suffer from feelings of inadequacy on a good day can now look at the Time magazine cover while they place groceries on the belt, amid children screaming can now wonder if they have done something else wrong by not breastfeeding their child for three or four years.
It plays into the insecurities of moms everywhere. Moms are under enough pressure these days not to have to face a magazine cover screaming out, “Are you Mom Enough?”
I will say with all honesty I do not judge the woman on the cover. If she wants a child attached to her for that many years, good for her. And I would think it might take a bit of courage to put your face, and other body parts, to the theory of “attachment parenting.”
It is more her child I feel sorry for. If that boy child can make it through his college days without someone finding out he is that kid and blowing that photo up to a 20x30 and hanging it in a common area of his dorm, then he can count his blessings. Of course if this child were older, as I was told before seeing the article myself that he was four or five, then it might seem more offensive to some and just plain crazy to others.
Attachment parenting isn’t new. I read about it when I was pregnant more than 10 years ago and it wasn't new then. The phrase itself was penned by Dr. William Sears and what he basically states is that the more sensitive and emotionally available a parent is the better the child will develop into a socio-emotionally stable adult. The idea is to always be available for your children, handle them with kindness and compassion and a gentle hand. Most of the parents I know do this on a regular basis.
The website for Attachment Parenting International states eight components for attachment parenting. They seem like common sense to me: preparation for pregnancy, birth and parenting, feed with love and respect, respond with sensitivity, to name a few. But anyone could take any of the eight components, twist and turn and reorganize them until they look like the woman on the Time cover — extreme.
Women have enough coming at us on a daily basis. Magazine covers scream at us constantly. We shouldn’t have wrinkles or sagging skin, we shouldn’t gain weight. We should be home with our children, we should be feeding them home-cooked, organic, healthy meals three times a day. We should be teaching our children to read, write and add before they reach kindergarten all while keeping our houses organized and our marriages exciting and spontaneous.
Just thinking about all that is expected of me makes me want to crawl into bed and emerge when my kids go to college, which apparently they won’t if I don’t read to them 20 minutes a day, seven days a week beginning in utero.
If you had asked me 15 or 20 years ago what kind of mother I would be, I would have gleefully exclaimed, ”The Martha Stewart of all Mothers!” The baking, playing, cooking, smiling queen of motherhood. That was pre-sleep deprivation, pre-sore nipples, pre-baby fat (mine, not theirs) and definitely pre- “not tonight honey because it could result in another baby.”
I am not an “attachment mother” nor am I a Tiger Mom. I am not even sure I completely understand that whole concept. My own parenting style could probably be dubbed “bubble parenting.” I have decided the best way to handle motherhood is to do what works for us in our house. I no longer read articles about fabulously organized, PTO fundraising women who seem to not require any sleep at all.
I do not compare what I am doing, for better or worse, with other moms. I don’t ask about bedtime routines or feeding schedules or video game rules. I don’t read articles on how I could do what I am doing better. The information is too overwhelming and sometimes it just isn’t the right fit for our family.
We have tried some attachment parenting, mostly by accident, like letting our kids sleep in our bed, hoping just to get them to sleep only to have a terrible night ourselves being kicked or snored at. My father never let me sleep in my parents bed when I was scared or couldn't sleep. I do remind him of this particular flaw in his parenting quite regularly but despite that, I turned out pretty well-adjusted and he got plenty of sleep.
My husband and I have tried approaching our children gently when reprimanding but until they know that behind the gentleness is a parent who means business, your authority goes nowhere fast.
The truth of motherhood is it is a messy business. It is exhuasting and exhilarating and when you scrape it down to the very marrow, it is as individual as each person. No two women will come at it the same way. Some of us are shaped by what we had growing up and others by what they didn’t have. Some women have trouble letting go and some are fine with the progress of their kids and hardly look back beyond a wistful moment or two.
In the end, we all hope to raise happy, healthy children who grow into happy well-adjusted adults. So if you are wondering if I have read the Time magazine article the answer is no.
My children are way beyond being breastfed. And if you might be wondering if I consider myself “mom enough,” the answer is yes, I am mom enough on most days. And for now ignorance is bliss and I plan to stay in my parenting “bubble” and let the controversy swirl around me.
Because let’s face it, controversy sells and Time hit the motherload.
My husband loves boats. He loves boats the way other men love
football or golf. I didn’t know when we first started dating exactly
how deep his love of boating went, although it became clear pretty
quickly when we went to our first boat show together. I was ready to
call it a day after an hour or two but my husband couldn’t get enough.
He would point excitedly to a boat and describe how that bow sits just a
little higher.
I would squint and try to make my eyes see what he was seeing. I couldn’t but I would nod and smile and he would smile back, confident he had found the perfect woman to share his passion.
My next clue came almost a year later when we spent Memorial Day cleaning up his boat and getting her ready for the summer. It was a lot of washing and waxing and painting. It was hot that weekend. Record heat and there we were in a boat yard, sun pounding on the tops of our heads. We talked and laughed and he occasionally corrected my somewhat misguided attempts at proper washing and waxing technique. I am hoping we drank some cold beer but truthfully I don’t remember.
Since we got married, a few boats have come and gone. That first boat was sold and a slightly larger, newer model took her place. He brought her home from New Jersey, one chilly October evening when I was eight months pregnant with our first child. Apparently October is the best time to buy a boat. I won't pretend that went over well with me but I think I'll blame it on the hormones.
We had that boat for a couple years and when we took our first born out on it he was about 20 months old and wanted no part of the life jacket. He screamed for the entire tour of the Connecticut River. He cried himself into exhaustion and my husband into despair. He thought now he would not have a fishing buddy.
That boat was sold after child number two came along. We were without a boat for a summer. I htink my husband might have cried himself to sleep a couple nights but search was on. Internet had taken hold and he could search all kinds of web sites. Ebay was a favorite but I think he also found a site called, “your wife will love this boat.com.”
He searched and found another boat that suited his needs for fishing since taking our young children out for an adventure wasn’t in my plan just yet. No one liked the life jacket and in our house no one sets off on a boating adventure without one. So a smaller boat came to live with us for awhile.
After that boat came another one that was larger and better for our growing family of five and made me happier because the sides were high enough to keep our small children from falling overboard.
While I was on that boat last summer, I commented on how it would be better to have a "potty." That is all I needed to say. The hunt was on. He looked long and hard and a few weeks ago our boat was pulled out of our driveway off to a new home and plans were made to bring home a slightly larger model with a “potty.”
Now it would seem we would have the perfect boat. It has been a bit of a journey but when someone has a passion for something it is best to give them some room.
We all have something that makes us tick. That gives us something beyond what our career may offer us and sometimes even what friends or family offer. It is important, I believe to have a passion. My husband has lived with my passion for books and writing all these years.
He has patiently wandered through bookstores and libraries. He has listened to my endless campaigns to get to one writer retreat or another. There is one that advertised in a writing magazine for a week in Tuscany, writing and retreating while eating and drinking. I have revisted that web site many times, thoughts of delicious food and wine pushing away daily chores of laundry and cleaning. It’s exciting just thinking about such an adventure.
I hunt out used book stores and library book sales. I go to writing workshops and author readings. He waves happily as I drive off to these various activities that mean little to him. He has also occasionally taken a back seat to a book I just couldn’t put down. He becomes a book widower and takes that in stride.
Last week when he and a good friend of ours pulled the new boat into her place in the driveway, both men stood looking at her as though she were the 8th Wonder of the World. These men share words like transom and horsepower.
They buy lures and have tackle boxes chock full of things that just look dangerous to me. These men come alive when the sun beats warm and the fish are plenty. And I will become a boat widow for the summer.
After our friend had left I went out to the driveway to find my husband and our 3-year-old sitting together in the boat, the orange sun setting over the bow, the music playing from the stereo and two faces glowing in pure bliss. Perhaps my husband has found the perfect boat and a fisherman to share his passion.
And perhaps for me there is a trip to Tuscany in my future.
I would squint and try to make my eyes see what he was seeing. I couldn’t but I would nod and smile and he would smile back, confident he had found the perfect woman to share his passion.
My next clue came almost a year later when we spent Memorial Day cleaning up his boat and getting her ready for the summer. It was a lot of washing and waxing and painting. It was hot that weekend. Record heat and there we were in a boat yard, sun pounding on the tops of our heads. We talked and laughed and he occasionally corrected my somewhat misguided attempts at proper washing and waxing technique. I am hoping we drank some cold beer but truthfully I don’t remember.
Since we got married, a few boats have come and gone. That first boat was sold and a slightly larger, newer model took her place. He brought her home from New Jersey, one chilly October evening when I was eight months pregnant with our first child. Apparently October is the best time to buy a boat. I won't pretend that went over well with me but I think I'll blame it on the hormones.
We had that boat for a couple years and when we took our first born out on it he was about 20 months old and wanted no part of the life jacket. He screamed for the entire tour of the Connecticut River. He cried himself into exhaustion and my husband into despair. He thought now he would not have a fishing buddy.
That boat was sold after child number two came along. We were without a boat for a summer. I htink my husband might have cried himself to sleep a couple nights but search was on. Internet had taken hold and he could search all kinds of web sites. Ebay was a favorite but I think he also found a site called, “your wife will love this boat.com.”
He searched and found another boat that suited his needs for fishing since taking our young children out for an adventure wasn’t in my plan just yet. No one liked the life jacket and in our house no one sets off on a boating adventure without one. So a smaller boat came to live with us for awhile.
After that boat came another one that was larger and better for our growing family of five and made me happier because the sides were high enough to keep our small children from falling overboard.
While I was on that boat last summer, I commented on how it would be better to have a "potty." That is all I needed to say. The hunt was on. He looked long and hard and a few weeks ago our boat was pulled out of our driveway off to a new home and plans were made to bring home a slightly larger model with a “potty.”
Now it would seem we would have the perfect boat. It has been a bit of a journey but when someone has a passion for something it is best to give them some room.
We all have something that makes us tick. That gives us something beyond what our career may offer us and sometimes even what friends or family offer. It is important, I believe to have a passion. My husband has lived with my passion for books and writing all these years.
He has patiently wandered through bookstores and libraries. He has listened to my endless campaigns to get to one writer retreat or another. There is one that advertised in a writing magazine for a week in Tuscany, writing and retreating while eating and drinking. I have revisted that web site many times, thoughts of delicious food and wine pushing away daily chores of laundry and cleaning. It’s exciting just thinking about such an adventure.
I hunt out used book stores and library book sales. I go to writing workshops and author readings. He waves happily as I drive off to these various activities that mean little to him. He has also occasionally taken a back seat to a book I just couldn’t put down. He becomes a book widower and takes that in stride.
Last week when he and a good friend of ours pulled the new boat into her place in the driveway, both men stood looking at her as though she were the 8th Wonder of the World. These men share words like transom and horsepower.
They buy lures and have tackle boxes chock full of things that just look dangerous to me. These men come alive when the sun beats warm and the fish are plenty. And I will become a boat widow for the summer.
After our friend had left I went out to the driveway to find my husband and our 3-year-old sitting together in the boat, the orange sun setting over the bow, the music playing from the stereo and two faces glowing in pure bliss. Perhaps my husband has found the perfect boat and a fisherman to share his passion.
And perhaps for me there is a trip to Tuscany in my future.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day
For my 40th birthday my sister gave me a trip with her to a very nice spot in the carribean. My husband was left to his own devices for five days. The morning I left, I got up at 5 am for a 7 am flight. No one was up when I left. I had left notes and detailed "reports" for my husband with everyone's weekday routine written down. Not that any of it was all unfamiliar since he is in charge each weekend when I go to work but having three kids by yourself for five days can feel a bit overwhelming when you haven't done it before.
I needn't have worried. He handled it like he handles just about everything else with some humor and a big grin. There is something about a guy who can just take on a challenge, no matter how big or small and just meet it with a smile. I am not sure how many husbands would smile and say," Sure go to a nice island in March for a week and leave me with three kids and have fun." And really mean it. Of course there were a few phone calls early the morning I left as I sat in the airport waiting for my flight. "What can I feed the baby for breakfast? What time does the bus come? Where is all the clean underwear?" I wrote it all down but who can blame him for not wanting to read it all. A woman sitting near me smiled after the third phone call and asked how many children he was alone with. I was tempted to say one just to see her reaction but I couldn't sell him out like that. I said three and gave their ages. Her face looked rather impressed.
A friend told me once she had read an article that women tend to find a husband who somehow mirrors the personality of their father. I am not sure how true that is. In the case of finances my husband and father couldn't be any more opposite. My father was not nicknamed "Dollar Bill" because he is a big spender. More so for the way he tightly clenches a dollar in his fist. My husband has no idea how to hold onto a dollar or even loose change. My dad likes a quiet day spent lounging, reading playing a little golf. My husband can hardly sit still. Over the years he has calmed his pace a bit but when we first started dating I had to beg for mercy, give me a day without something BIG planned or scheduled. To my husband a day that does not have three or more activities in it has been a lounging kind of day. My father might find that excessive.
So I had to give it more thought.
They both enjoy boating and fishing. A good glass of beer. But that is all superficial stuff. Most guys love a good cold beer and some version of fishing, trout , tuna. So I needed to dig deeper.
I thought back to my childhood and my father spending hours on the beach wtih me and my sister. Taking me out in the Sailfish around the Point. Trips to Watch Hill. I remembered the way our house morphed to suit the needs of my mother's disability and how it was jsut what it was adn then it came to me.
Devotion.
I managed to find a man who mirrored my father's devotion, committment to the words "I do". Both men are devoted fathers, caring and unyielding in their interest and support. My father loved my mother with a genuine heart and never let her down when she needed him most. My husband, although his challenge is keeping up with me mentally, still keeps pace and remains a devoted husband even at the most trying of times. They both give with a generosity of spirit that fills your soul and makes you realize they are paying attention and they love you.
I am not sure that we women try to find a man who resembles our fathers. That might just be too Freudian but if you find someone who loves you unconditionally, who navigates the bad with humor and finds the good at the end of each day then consider yourself fortunate. If you grew up with that same devotion then consider yourself blessed.
I needn't have worried. He handled it like he handles just about everything else with some humor and a big grin. There is something about a guy who can just take on a challenge, no matter how big or small and just meet it with a smile. I am not sure how many husbands would smile and say," Sure go to a nice island in March for a week and leave me with three kids and have fun." And really mean it. Of course there were a few phone calls early the morning I left as I sat in the airport waiting for my flight. "What can I feed the baby for breakfast? What time does the bus come? Where is all the clean underwear?" I wrote it all down but who can blame him for not wanting to read it all. A woman sitting near me smiled after the third phone call and asked how many children he was alone with. I was tempted to say one just to see her reaction but I couldn't sell him out like that. I said three and gave their ages. Her face looked rather impressed.
A friend told me once she had read an article that women tend to find a husband who somehow mirrors the personality of their father. I am not sure how true that is. In the case of finances my husband and father couldn't be any more opposite. My father was not nicknamed "Dollar Bill" because he is a big spender. More so for the way he tightly clenches a dollar in his fist. My husband has no idea how to hold onto a dollar or even loose change. My dad likes a quiet day spent lounging, reading playing a little golf. My husband can hardly sit still. Over the years he has calmed his pace a bit but when we first started dating I had to beg for mercy, give me a day without something BIG planned or scheduled. To my husband a day that does not have three or more activities in it has been a lounging kind of day. My father might find that excessive.
So I had to give it more thought.
They both enjoy boating and fishing. A good glass of beer. But that is all superficial stuff. Most guys love a good cold beer and some version of fishing, trout , tuna. So I needed to dig deeper.
I thought back to my childhood and my father spending hours on the beach wtih me and my sister. Taking me out in the Sailfish around the Point. Trips to Watch Hill. I remembered the way our house morphed to suit the needs of my mother's disability and how it was jsut what it was adn then it came to me.
Devotion.
I managed to find a man who mirrored my father's devotion, committment to the words "I do". Both men are devoted fathers, caring and unyielding in their interest and support. My father loved my mother with a genuine heart and never let her down when she needed him most. My husband, although his challenge is keeping up with me mentally, still keeps pace and remains a devoted husband even at the most trying of times. They both give with a generosity of spirit that fills your soul and makes you realize they are paying attention and they love you.
I am not sure that we women try to find a man who resembles our fathers. That might just be too Freudian but if you find someone who loves you unconditionally, who navigates the bad with humor and finds the good at the end of each day then consider yourself fortunate. If you grew up with that same devotion then consider yourself blessed.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Reward System
A friend sent an article from The New York Times via email this morning. I read it and then went to another one written by the same journalist on happiness and kindness in our children. I found that one even more interesting. It talked about building self esteem in our children and how that is eclipsing creating kindness in our children. Forget about generation Z. Our children's generation will be known as the "all about me" generation. Our meals are planned around our children, as is our waking, our sleeping, our time alone or with our spouse. Our kids pout and we cave in, thinking we have just made some horrible mistake in a parenting choice and now our child will be ruined.
Sometimes saying no feels awful and, at least around here is it certainly repetitious. But there is a virtue to saying no. There is a silver lining to not caving in to everything. To not saying "okay sure you can have that toy for no other reason then to shut you up while I am in this store." It is just easier to take the easy way out but the more I see in my own children the
"give me" attitude the harder I am working to not give what is not necessary and to not use toys or treats as some kind of reward for things my kids should just be doing.
I recently had a meeting at my son's school. I meet once every couple months with his teacher, principal and some others involved in helping him improve his reading. It amazed me as I sat in this meeting and it went from academic discussion to discussion of his "fixation" on getting a "Good Choice Award". I had all I could do to not ask whose brilliant idea is the "Good Choice Award"? Because really you are rewarding children for being good people by giving them some treat from the dollar store. It only sets some kids up for disaster. My son received two good choice awards in one day and was so thrilled at his luck of getting two items from the principal's box of treats he talked about if for days at home. So I can understand why the teachers might have been a little frustrated if he was fixated but they have managed to create their own problem.
It is not that I think we shouldn't recognize our kids for the good things they do, but do they really need a trophy for participating in Saturday morning rec basketball? Will they be awarded when they are out in the workforce each time they do what their job description expects of them? Are we teaching them to be good citizens by rewarding them with dollar store goods or are we teaching them that being good brings rewards other than the feeling of satisfaction that they have done something good for another person.
As a kid I had chores and just did what I was told because, well I was told to do it. I did try to get out of doing those chores but once they were done there was no treat waiting for me or a trip to the store to pick out a toy. I was kind because it was expected of me adn because I watched my own parents and they way they treated people around them. We are our children's best teachers and if we teach them to do good things so they get a reward from it then we are not doing our job and our kids are really missing the greatest lesson.
My kids are completely wired for treats and rewards. They walk around the house with their hands held out in gleeful expectation. It is going to take a lot of work but I think we can change the way we do things at home and give our children the lesson that hard work and being kind has an internal reward that never stops giving.
Sometimes saying no feels awful and, at least around here is it certainly repetitious. But there is a virtue to saying no. There is a silver lining to not caving in to everything. To not saying "okay sure you can have that toy for no other reason then to shut you up while I am in this store." It is just easier to take the easy way out but the more I see in my own children the
"give me" attitude the harder I am working to not give what is not necessary and to not use toys or treats as some kind of reward for things my kids should just be doing.
I recently had a meeting at my son's school. I meet once every couple months with his teacher, principal and some others involved in helping him improve his reading. It amazed me as I sat in this meeting and it went from academic discussion to discussion of his "fixation" on getting a "Good Choice Award". I had all I could do to not ask whose brilliant idea is the "Good Choice Award"? Because really you are rewarding children for being good people by giving them some treat from the dollar store. It only sets some kids up for disaster. My son received two good choice awards in one day and was so thrilled at his luck of getting two items from the principal's box of treats he talked about if for days at home. So I can understand why the teachers might have been a little frustrated if he was fixated but they have managed to create their own problem.
It is not that I think we shouldn't recognize our kids for the good things they do, but do they really need a trophy for participating in Saturday morning rec basketball? Will they be awarded when they are out in the workforce each time they do what their job description expects of them? Are we teaching them to be good citizens by rewarding them with dollar store goods or are we teaching them that being good brings rewards other than the feeling of satisfaction that they have done something good for another person.
As a kid I had chores and just did what I was told because, well I was told to do it. I did try to get out of doing those chores but once they were done there was no treat waiting for me or a trip to the store to pick out a toy. I was kind because it was expected of me adn because I watched my own parents and they way they treated people around them. We are our children's best teachers and if we teach them to do good things so they get a reward from it then we are not doing our job and our kids are really missing the greatest lesson.
My kids are completely wired for treats and rewards. They walk around the house with their hands held out in gleeful expectation. It is going to take a lot of work but I think we can change the way we do things at home and give our children the lesson that hard work and being kind has an internal reward that never stops giving.
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