Let it Snow

We heard the sirens in the distance and knew exactly what to do. We had done it before. Many times.  You have, too.  It’s automatic.  My daughter was at the wheel and as the lights became visible, clearly heading our way, she signaled, slowed and pulled over, as did the cars sharing the road with us.  Everyone waited patiently as the fire truck and ambulance raced toward us, maneuvering through the path we had collectively created for them.  I covered my ears as they passed us and then we worked our way back onto the road and resumed our journey.

“I love this,” I said.  “What?” my daughters asked.  “I love that when we hear a siren, road rage and hurry are suspended and people start working together.”  The girls agreed that it was cool, but couldn’t resist teasing, asking me if wanted to stop at the store, get food and blankets and bring buckets of water.  We laughed.  They know me for what I am – a bit of a sap – a sentimental believer in human goodness.  But I do find it worth noting that people who, just minutes before were racing to pass us or flipping us off as we passed them (not that I ever do anything like that while driving…) were suddenly transformed by the fact that someone needed help.  In an instant, we switched from being isolated individuals with personal agendas to a unit, working together to help someone in serious trouble – someone we don’t even know.  No longer adversaries, vying for position on 23rd Street, we had become allies, united by a common goal.

The cynics (including myself on certain days) might argue that the hefty fine for not cooperating is the real motive for our behavior.   Perhaps.  But I’ve seen this sort of thing enough to believe that there is something else at work that compels us during times like these.  When something big happens, something that affects us all, we behave differently.

Take snow for instance.  Did you ever notice how peoples’ moods change when it’s snowing?  Last week, as soon as the snow began falling, I felt my mood lift. Walking down the dock, as the flakes became evident, everyone I passed greeted me with a smile and said, “Snow!”  Not “Hi,” but, “Snow!”  (Complete with exclamation mark.)  Who hasn’t stood in awe and delight at the window when the first snow of the season begins?

Bye Bye Stuff, Hello Time

When people hear that I live on a 42’ sailboat in Ballard, the most common reaction I get is, “You live on a sailboat?  Wow. That is SO cool!”  I suppose it is. But during the decision and then the transition process I felt anything but cool.  I didn’t just say, “Yeah, let’s do it!  Let’s sell our house and all our stuff and live simply and shrink our footprint.”  I cried and argued and worried and stressed and resisted – qualities and behavior not often associated with cool people. So while it may be “cool” to live on a boat, I feel like an imposter accepting this particular designation. 

When my husband first started talking about it, I didn’t take him too seriously. Dan had had so many schemes and plans to move us toward financial freedom over the years that I began calling him “Ralph” after Jackie Gleason’s character from the Honeymooners.  “OK, Ralph, sounds great,” I’d say when he presented me with another idea.

I was sure it couldn't happen because, well, what would we do with all our stuff? How would we ever find the time to sort through our things, decide what to keep, what to store and what to toss?  How could we stomach putting the house on the market and having strangers traipsing through every day?  What about actually moving - leaving our dear little house? Changing our mailing address?  It paralyzed me to think of adding such daunting work to all we were already juggling.

Truthfully, we had been toying with the idea for a while.  During our many summers cruising the west coast of Canada, we traveled deeply into the rainforest and even more deeply into ourselves. After a month or more on our floating home that provided everything we needed, I would dreamily say, “I would be happy if we lived on the boat full-time.  I could do this.” And I really believed I could.

But once Dan started getting serious about it, I learned pretty quickly what a faker I was. I panicked when I realized that this one wasn’t going away.  The universe has a bothersome way of calling you out when you start patting yourself on the back at how cool you are.  “Oh yeah?” it seems to say, “let’s see just how you deal with THIS.”  And suddenly you are looking in the mirror, stark naked, not an undergarment or hair-product or tube of mascara in sight to disguise the flaws, the raw truth of how far you still have to go to that perceived coolness to which so many of us aspire.  Grasping at straws, I demanded the impossible:  a boat with three dedicated sleeping rooms, a couch, and a master bed that could be gotten in and out of from either side.  “It won’t happen,” I secretly thought.  That way I would never be exposed.

Mid-Life? Bring it On!

            Has it happened yet? Have you been called “M’am” at the supermarket?  Have you woken up and looked in the mirror to find your mother staring back at you?  Do you perform an occasional strip-tease during a business meeting as a hot flash comes on? Or have you noticed men staring as you walk past them on the street – not at you as they once did – but at your daughter?

            Or how about this…

You’re out with your husband, enjoying cocktails with some work associates after a holiday party.  You feel pretty good in the outfit you bought for the occasion – it’s swishy, slimming, and youthful.  You’re chatting and laughing with the other wives and you notice that they pay close attention when you speak.  Ahhh!  I’m fascinating as well as gorgeous tonight, you think.  The other women are a bit younger than you; their children home with a babysitter while your teenagers are out with friends.  It seems like just yesterday that you were forced to keep glancing at your watch, as these women do, to be sure you wouldn’t be late for the babysitter.  The talk turns to the wear and tear motherhood puts on women’s looks.  “Wait until they’re teenagers,” you throw out casually but with an air of authority.  One of the women counters with “But you look great!”  Before you have time to take in the compliment she adds, “I hope I look as good as you when I’m your age.” 

           (SOUND OF TIRES SCREECHING ON PAVEMENT.) 


          When I’m your age?  When I’m YOUR age?  Suddenly the noise in the bar begins to fade, taken over by a weird humming sound as all the blood in your body rushes into your ears and your brain tries to sort out what this statement means.  How old do they think I am?  What do I look like from their perspective?  Were they paying such close attention to my comments because they see me as their elder, wiser counterpart – the Village Crone?  You do your best to appear engaged in the conversation but the internal dialogue is too loud and you find yourself wishing you had the excuse of a babysitter to hurry you out of the bar.  Your makeup feels like it’s melting and the bulge around your waistline feels suffocating.  The clock has struck midnight and Cinderella suddenly ain’t lookin’ so good anymore.

Scenarios like these are happening to me with increasing frequency.  I am often (too often to ignore it) mistaken for my younger sister’s mother.  I’m blown away when it’s time to get my driver’s license photo re-taken and I see the difference between the old picture and the new one.  And what about invisibility?  I always thought it would be cool to have a super-power, but I was thinking more about, say, flying... or x-ray vision... or time travel...    than becoming invisible to entire sidewalks full of people younger than I.

Let’s face it.  We live in a youth-worshipping culture where women (and men -- guys are not entirely exempt from this phenomenon) are pressured to dye their hair, lift their lids, nip and tuck chins, necks, breasts and butts.  In short, to do anything but allow the natural process of aging to occur.  There is a sense of something coming to an end, of being about to topple into the abyss of old age where society will view and treat you differently. 

So what do we do?  Do we just disappear?  Do we give up and resign ourselves to the end of life as a vibrant, worthy, physically beautiful person?  Or do we embrace the change, accept the results, and rejoice in the freedom that can come from letting go of the superficial?   We certainly would not be alone if we chose that approach – far from it. 

The New Normal

September....  Back to School time... An invigorating crispness in the morning air, leaves beginning to turn color and drop, satisfyingly crunchy underfoot.  Newly cut hair and freshly sharpened pencils.  Lunch boxes unsullied by the stink of half-eaten sandwiches.  Children flipping open the covers of brand new crayon boxes nad pressing their noses against the cool flat tips, inhaling deply the smell that, even as adults, transports us to Septembers so far in our past they seem another lifetime.


For parents, some Septembers are more dramatic than others.  There is always that sense of beginning, but some years simultaneously signal an end.  Kindergarten for example.  The very first day of school.  Such excitement!  Such anticipation!  Breakfast eaten hurriedly so there is time for photos and last minute outfit adjustments.  Parents' smiles and optimism hiding their secret dread of turning their children loose to a world where other adults will hold sway over their thinking and judgment.  Where they will be subjected to fickle friendships and owies with no Mom to kiss and make better.

I remember vividly the first day of my older daughter's kindergarten year.  I thought about the day so often with a mixture of excitement and dread, but nothing prepared me for the real thing.  "C'mon!  Finish your cheerios!  We can''t be late!"  The short walk over to school, her hand feeling suddenly oh-so-small in mine that I tightened my grip just a little.  The charged energy around the school yard as we entered the "big kid" world of teachers and books and new friendships.  The principal greeting everyone.  A few familiar faces.  And then, at last, the classroom.  Parents and siblings stood off to the side watching as the teacher introduced herself to the children and laid down a few ground rules.  Sarah looked small and angelic in her seat way in the back of the class.  I was in love with this moment.  But then the teacher's attention turned to us, breaking the spell.  "Thank you parents, brothers and sisters.  See you after school."  We shuffled out, our younger daughter in Dan's arms, all smiles and waves on the outside.   But inside was a different story.  Something major was changing.  I felt like I was outside my body, watching it happen.  Why wasn't I happy anymore?

New Studies Show Estrogen linked to Mothers' patience for teenage angst............ Warning: Some material may be unsuitable for pre-menopausal mothers

At 2:00 in the morning I have my most profound revelations.

Last night (or rather early this morning) I had an epiphany that could change the way we view menopause and mothering.  I fell asleep at the usual time, book on my chest, glasses askew on my face.  Shortly thereafter I came to the surface just enough to stash my book and glasses, turn off the light and adjust my pillow.   Ahhh....  But then, instead of sinking into REM sleep per usual, I was wide awake like someone had just screamed "FIRE!!"  And what was the first thing that popped into my mind?  My daughter.  My 18 year old, red-headed daughter, who is finishing high school (by the skin of her teeth) and figuring out what next year will bring.  Who has made some choices this year that, on paper sounded fine, grand even.  But in reality did not pan out as promised and have me really concerned.

So I lose sleep. But instead of merely fretting and worrying, I am angry.  Angry because at age 54, I am definitely ready for this to end.  After 23 years of nurturing, soothing, worrying, loving, commiserating, adjusting, psycholigizing, praying, hoping, crying, laughing...  I'm just about out of steam!  I still love my kids dearly.  Still want for them all the things I ever have.  Still rejoice when they are successful and happy and share the times that are disappointing.  But the difference is, when a problem arises that I know will need dissecting, counseling, working through, and loads of patience on my part, what I really want to say is, "GET OVER IT!" I just don't know how many more of these episodes I have left in me.   

Dad's Hands

I just spent a weekend with my parents.  My father has dementia related to his Parkinsons and the disease has progressed to the point where his words don't really make much sense any more.  There are rarely full sentences and never two sentences in a row that go together.  Conversation is non-existent because meaningful exchange is not possible.  The type of dementia he has eats away at his brain, leaving the equivalent of holes, robbing him of his ability to string coherent thoughts together.  That's the best lay explanation I can come up with.

However there are occasional moments of lucidity when he is grasping for words - when he is desperately trying to express something.  At one such point I said, "Dad, is it frustrating to want to say something and not be able to find the words?"  He looked at me with his eyes wide open and clear and said, "YES!"  He was there with me just for a moment. And then he returned to unrelated words, strange hallucinations, anxiety and mood swings.

Towards the end of my visit, as I was leaving in fact, I knelt down in front of his wheelchair, laid my hands over his which were crossed on his lap, and looked in his eyes.  "Dad, I'm leaving now.  I'm going back to Seattle to be with Dan, Sarah and Julia.  I love you, Dad.  I have enjoyed our visit and I'll miss you - but I'll be back...  I love you, Dad."  He looked at me hard as if he was trying to follow, trying to grasp the meaning of my words, trying to find this familiar place that is becoming more and more distant for him as his illness progresses.  He didn't say anything.  Just looked at me.  But I could see that he wanted to say something.  Wanted to participate in this exchange.

When was the last time I had a conversation with my Dad?  I can't remember.  This disease has been slowly taking his mind and I can't remember when we last spoke without the illness getting in the way.  There was a time in the kitchen, about a year and a half ago, during breakfast, before his meds kicked in, when we talked sweetly, and I reminded him that the reason he forgets and feels confused is because of the Parkinsons.  "Oh really?" he said.  "That's what it is?"  But what about the political sparring we used to do?  What about the long conversations we'd have about life and nature and my kids and growing older?  Once when I was in Canada on vacation on our boat, we talked for so long that I went over my long distance minutes.  I thought my husband was going to have a fit, but I didn't care.  I knew this was precious time.  But I didn't know just how precious.

Marion

5:30 a.m.  Just returned from the airport, dropping Dan off for a trip back east.  Yesterday at noon, Dan's mother, my mother-in-law, my children's beloved grandmother died.  She was 93 years old, but two days before she died had her nightly rum and lime, and this time last year she was in Scandinavia, judging and attending a dog show.  Marion Hopkins was the grande dame of the Irish Water Spaniel breeders and she, literally, wrote the book on the breed.  She was also the Grande Dame of everything she touched.  She was the most modern old-fashioned woman I know.  She held to the old ways (spare the rod, spoil the child and that sort of thing), but was very forward thinking when it came to politics, women's rights, and "just getting on with life."  The stories are stuff of legend and she has been -and will remain - iconic in our lives and our minds.

It's so hard to think about Dan arriving at her house - where she has lived since he was in high school - and her not being there.  It will feel as though she just went out to the store.  Everything will be as she left it.  93 years old and still living in her own house!  She was living proof that age is just a number.  Her steps and her life will echo through the house.  Her chair, her bed, her notes by the telephone - all signs of a life lived to the last moment.

It is little comfort, though, when well-meaning friends say "well - 93 - that's a good, long life."  Yes, it's true, but that doesn't help with the loss.  Doesn't take away the sorrow and the giant hole that her death has created in our existence.  Never to hear her voice.  Never to see her twinkling eyes.  Never to sit at her table and enjoy a meal with her (minding our manners the entire time....)!

When a person dies, the world changes - for a time.  I drove home from work yesterday after hearing the news.  It was early afternoon, and people were going about their business, walking, running, sipping coffee in to-go cups.  Life was continuing for all, but I felt a shade removed from it and wondered how someone this important to me could have passed from this world and still everyone out there was carrying on as though nothing had changed.  When I got home, Julia, my 18-year-old who has been struggling with death and issues surrounding it, her eyes red-rimmed and slightly wet, said, "I'm okay.  At first I felt numb, but then I forced myself to feel it.  And I noticed that everything is still happening.  People are still doing things and life is continuing.  But Grandma is gone and that's what is different."  Yes.  That's it.  Life does continue, both here and beyond in a way that we will not know until it's our turn. 

Sarah came home last night as well. A friend covered her shift so she could mourn and be with us.  It's good to know that my daughters have friends to care for them.  We all went to Dan's brother's apartment, raised a glass of rum and lime to Marion, Mom, Grandma - and toasted a great woman - strong, elegant, formidable - I only hope that my daughters are even a little bit like her as they grow older.  Keep her as a standard and reach for it, girls!  All will be well.

Chasing the Sun

When the sun set tonight I had an urge to run toward the horizon and peek over the edge to see where it had gone. 

As it sets and disappears from my sight, somewhere someone is turning toward the east and watching it come up over a hill and begin its journey across that sky.  I think of the book "A Little Prince" whose illustrations always show the main character, standing on the planet which is not much bigger than he is, and which he could walk around if he chose.  And I find myself wishing I could do that, too.  Chase the sun around the earth.  Watch it shine on other surfaces.  Until I end up back here.  And then let it go.

It's a crazy feeling to think that the reason the sun is sinking beneath the horizon, is actually that we are moving up and away from the sun.  The sun is staying perfectly still.  We are riding backwards on a giant ferris wheel.

All is calm, all is bright.

Yes, Christmas IS over.  I have been baffled as to why I feel it so acutely this year.  Why am I crying so much, grieving so much?  What is it?  Normally, I am relieved when all the madness has passed.  I love the post-Christmas time. 

I was pondering this, baffled and weepy, when it struck me.  This was the last Christmas when both my daughters will be living at home.  This time next year, Sarah will be living in her own apartment and Julia will have moved out to attend college.  Instead of waking up with them in the house, they will be coming home for Christmas - possibly sometime late morning!  Oh...  maybe they will come home for Christmas eve and spend the night.  But they might not.  It will be their choice.  I hope they will choose to be with us on Christmas Eve but I can no longer hang on to that expectation - especially for Sarah.

Here's the tricky part.  Accepting whatever it is they decide.  Not being disappointed.  Not taking it as a personal affront to the years I spent creating a sense of holiday in the house.  Not interpreting it as a rejection, but celebrating it as a graduation to a different phase of our family life.

On Christmas Day, I looked out the window of the boat and saw our neighbor's adult children walking down the dock towards their boat, arms laden with packages and smiles lighting up their faces.  That's nice, I thought.  I can get used to that.  Imagine the joy of hearing the knock on the door and knowing "they're here!"  Especially if their lives are productive and happy and independent.  Yes - that will be good.  Dan & I will spend the morning preparing a lovely brunch.  Gifts will have been wrapped - not in secret - but out in the open the night before.  It will be good.  It will....

To tell the truth, the last few years in the house, I found myself decorating the tree by myself, quite sad that the kids had better things to do and absolutely zero interest in oohing and aahhhing over the cherished ornaments.  It was winding down already, but I was holding on to it for dear life.  Especially as I knew the house sale was inevitable.

This year I asked, "does anyone want to bake Christmas cookies?"  (Both girls are trying to avoid wheat and both are working on maintaining a healthy weight - especially during the holidays.)  "Nah," came the reply.  I was not disappointed.  Not at all.  I was relieved.

I think I am going to like this.  I think I've been waiting for it for a long time.  A holiday where we are adults and we enjoy each other as such.  When the grandchildren come, I may steal them away for a  bit to resurrect some of the fun.  But for now - this is just fine.

Hold that thought.