Perfectly Imperfect

Whenever I drive past Coe School, a part of me is in that playground, watching my children play foursquare or dangle on the rings as I chat with my mom friends. The eleven years that my family spent as a part of that elementary school community were sweet on so many levels, many of which I did not realize until years later.

On the last day of my younger daughter’s fifth grade year, she and I held hands and ceremoniously stepped across the threshold on our way out of the building and out of that chapter of our lives. I was unable to speak for the lump in my throat. I knew that this was a significant moment, but I didn’t know, fully, how significant. And she, certainly, had no idea. She just went along with me, trusting, accepting my explanation that once we step over that line, we will never, in the same way, come back.

My children, now 22 and 27, are hardly “children” any more. They are old enough to be the moms in the picture I painted above. Old enough to pronounce what they will do differently when they raise their own children.

It is a shock when, somewhere between leaving the sanctuary that is elementary school and sending your child off to college and beyond, you see yourself reflected in your child’s face – and what you see is not the loving, perfect, wise parent of your imaginings, the one who had righted all the wrongs your mother allegedly did to you, but a tired, cranky, conservative bore who just doesn’t get it. Ouch.

I am here to say, if this has happened to you then you have done your job and done it well. I am not a psychologist, or a parenting expert (that is debatable after 27 years in the field) but I am very clear on this point: for our kids to move on to be successful, independent adults, they have to see us for the novices we are – at least for a while. 

We are programmed from the start to protect, nurture, hold, and guide our babies. But from the moment they are born, our real job is to push them away. To sever the connection as we move them towards independence. It is counter-intuitive but absolutely essential that we do so. We wean them, teach them to walk, to tie their own shoes, to use the bathroom, to dress themselves.

And, if we have done our job right, as they gain independence, our children will slowly begin to realize how imperfect we are. It hurts because we don’t want our children to leave us, to think ill of us. But mostly it hurts because it’s true. We are oh so flawed and oh so busted. When they become clever enough to argue our points, disagree, disobey, it throws our world into chaos. How do I do this? Where is the guidebook?

Perhaps a better question to ask at this point is why do I want to appear perfect in the eyes of my children (or siblings, or co-workers, or peers)? Why am I afraid to let my flaws in all their real and raw beauty shine? To shout, “CHECK ME OUT! I AM FLAWED! I AM OFTEN WRONG! I HAVE REGRETS AND I AM NOT PROUD OF SO MANY THINGS! But here I am. Here I still am…” 

Why do we try to hide our imperfections when they connect us so much more deeply, richly to one another? We can learn more from them than we ever will from perfection. And we relate more easily to one another when we are telling the truth.

It’s difficult today with Facebook and Social Media, for people to know what the truth is. The vast majority of people post only the most glowing, glamorous versions of themselves. And so we seek a false perfection – one that simply doesn’t exist.

When our children begin to see us as – well – as we once saw our parents – dorky, annoying, even stupid – take heart! We have, albeit inadvertently, done our job well. Because at this point, nature takes over and we no longer have to worry about letting go. We are exasperated and as ready as they are to part ways.

And then, just as incredibly, once the final piece of Velcro has ripped apart, we fall in love with them again. And, with a little bit of luck, they with us.

Confessions of a Nerd

The picnic was in full swing.  A fifth grade graduation celebration where the guests of honor were not little kids any more, but not quite teenagers either.  They were learning, though, by practicing, playing at being older.  Girls were admiring each other’s jewelry, cooing over the latest clothing fads and the aps on their smart phones -- tools of the pre-teen trade. Mid-conversation with a group of parents, one mother realized that she hadn’t seen her daughter for a while. She did a quick scan of the party. Where was she?  Not with the girls huddled together whispering. Not with the group around the food table.  Not with the flirty girls being chased by the boys.  And then – ah -- there she was. Sitting at a distant picnic table, facing away from the crowd, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, gazing down as she ate her hot dog.   Her heart seized at the sight of her daughter, alone, ignored, unnoticed.

My heart went out to this woman, a work mate, because I have been through similar times with my daughters.  And I have personal experience to draw from.  Flashbacks to the times when I felt like a no-count nobody because I was excluded from social events or teased and publicly humiliated. I still get mad – 40 years later -- just thinking about it.  

SUPERHERO IN THE HOUSE

Superman fights Lex Luther.  Batman fights Joker.  Spiderman fights the Green Goblin.  Superheroes are in constant battle with their enemies who, while they never triumph, never completely disappear either. Well, move over, boys, because there’s a new super hero in town.  Meet Clean Irene, or as she is known to her family, OCD Woman.

Like my male counterparts, I have been fighting a monster who has tried for years to invade and overtake my home; banging on the doors, climbing through the windows, creeping in the cracks.  Ever on guard, I fend it off; beat it back -- sometimes with weapons and sometimes with pure, determined, brute strength.  This monster, this thing that threatens my sanity, my peace, is a shape–shifter.  One day it is a sink full of dirty dishes, another it is dust, and another it is a trail of socks and cast off shoes.  In other words, it is the detritus of the people with whom I live. People who, although endearing and skilled in many areas, have not mastered my sense of organization or the skills for keeping that order…  in order.  Were it not for my vigilance, this monster might just huff and puff and blow the house down, forcing my three little pigs to go wee wee wee all the way to oblivion.

SOMETHING FOR NOTHING

With any luck, by the time you are reading this, we will have had a glorious weekend of warm sunshine, long walks, bike rides, kayak paddles, barbeques and all the things people do when the sun comes out in Seattle. 

What did you do last weekend? Did you clean your house?  Pay bills?  Do yard work?  Accomplish something so you didn’t feel like you wasted the weekend away?  Or did you enjoy the onset (finally) of summer, by leaving all that behind to play?

Here’s the thing. We are conditioned that we must always be achieving, working towards a goal.  Planning, scheduling, keeping busy.  Filling that calendar with more and more. No blank pages!  No wasted time!

What would happen if you decided to spend an entire weekend doing nothing? Actually scheduled it as your weekend plan.  Wrote it on the calendar? 

Saturday:  Nothing. 

Sunday:    Nothing. 

Of course, you’d have to prepare food and clean up and walk the dog and take the garbage out.  But what if you let all but the essential chores go? 

Changing Places - Sort of...

I have heard that this day would come. The role-reversal. The day when we, as adult children, would care for our aging parents. But I could not imagine my parents ever needing help from me. Not my strong, funny, surgeon father, unwavering in his convictions, his intelligence, his “dad-ness.” And certainly not my beautiful, smart, energetic mother who ran a family of nine with a firm and loving hand, who had all the answers and who invented the phrase, “my way or the highway.”  My parents would just keep going until they dropped.  If they dropped.  It seemed to me that they could live forever. I hoped so.

But here I am, on a plane, on my way to DC.  My father is housebound with Parkinson’s syndrome and dementia. He needs to be fed, dressed, and much to his horror if he were fully conscious of it, occasionally changed and cleaned. 

My mother, recovering from leg surgery, cannot be on her feet for long periods of time. She can’t cook or clean or care for Dad as she has, amazingly, done for years. So my sisters and I are rotating in to help out for a week at a time, along with aids (who have become like family members) who come in to do the moving and lifting and the really hard stuff. 

My job will be to shop, cook, clean, feed Dad, help my mother bathe and take her to doctor appointments and church. When was the last time I helped someone bathe? Fed someone? Did laundry for anyone other than myself? Drove anyone to a doctor appointment?  That’s right – when my children were…children. So, yes, the time has come. I just didn’t know it would feel like this.

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.   

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.

The Ghost of Christmas Past... and Christmas yet to come...

Christmas is over.  Well, not completely over.  The day is over but the feeling lingers...   For me,  Christmas happens more fully once the day itself has passed.  Once the pressure has lifted and the work is done.  Then comes the real holiday -- a time to reflect and relax and enjoy the fruits of all the planning and hard work.  If only we could do more of that ahead of the holiday so that the anticipation could be more joyful and holy and sweet.  I have been working on that for a while now, and try to remember each year to savor the pre-Christmas as much as the post.

When the kids were little, I struggled so with this holiday which consists largely of mercantile madness.  I felt so underneath all the lists and the self-imposed intensity and the need to buy for everyone the perfect gift.

The bitter irony is that we women have taken a beautiful time of year and turned it into a frenzy.  We women created this insanity. I mean, really, do you see men freaking out about lists and home-made jam and what to buy nieces and nephews they never see and whose names they don't even remember?  I confess that in years past, I secretly strove for a picture perfect Edwardian Christmas with the smell of delicious foods and mulled cider wafting through the house, my children dressed in lovely clothes, stringing garlands of popcorn and cranberries for the tree (we actually did that one year), delivering hand-made gifts to neighbors and friends (yes - we've made homemade marmalade and cookies), our gingerbread house made from scratch sitting proudly on the dining table (done it -- more than once).  But, unlike the Edwardian days, we don't have servants to help, we work part- or full-time jobs and we are blinking exhausted from just the normal wear and tear of our lives.  However, most women I know push Christmas and push it hard and we drive our men and everyone else crazy with it all.


What if we didn't do it?  What if we just let it happen and unfold on its own?

The Last Day of School

I talked briefly with my daughter, Sarah, today.  "I can't talk long, Mom," she explained.  She was working away on her final paper and studying for exams, and making arrangements for graduation on Saturday.  Just before we said goodbye she said, "Mom...  this is my last day of my undergraduate education."   I was stopped in my verbal tracks, took it in for a moment, and then felt hot tears welling in my eyes.  "Wow," I said so very eloquently.  And then my throat closed up and I started to cry - just a little, and silently - with the realization of how momentous this is.  Her LAST DAY of school.  We've been at this since Kindergarten and here it is her last day.  I have written much about the first day of school, but never really thought about what the last day would feel like. This time tomorrow, she will be finished with classes and papers and books and deadlines and presentations and exams and homework.  17 years of school.  I am so proud and so happy and so amazed that this moment has arrived.  Wow.

What will it be like to have a child FINISHED with school?  At least for now.  (She plans to go on to graduate studies.)  I imagine much the same in terms of finding out how things are going at work, trials and triumphs of life in the world, relationship ups and down.  It will all continue.  But, tonight, I am standing on a threshold, and when I step across that line, I will have one child out of school, independent of me, on her way to the adult world.

Julia had her last soccer game this week.  Her last!  She's been playing with this team since they were too small to fit into the shirts and we had to wash them in very hot water so that they would sort of fit.  And now that they are 18, this is it.  They are officially too old to play next year - not to mention that they will all be off to college.  We all got a little misty at the end of the game.  One last "Hey!  Whose water bottle is this?"  "Pick up your orange peels!"  But largely missing was the "See you at practice."  Or, "Have a great winter - see you next fall!"  It felt final - but right.  It's time.  The girls are ready to be finished.  But then again, not...  you know how it goes.

We are all walking through this door together.  Our family is growing up.

Wow.

Thanksgiving Sunrise and Rutabagas

Thanksgiving has come and gone.  Again.  Our second since moving out of the house and on board our sailboat.

One of the challenges of moving onto the boat was how to do the holidays.  Our oven doesn't hold the usual 20 lb turkey and I'm not ready to "just get a small turkey breast" as my mother suggested.  Someday, yes, someday.  But not yet.  Last year we borrowed a friend's beach cabin on Anderson Island and went there with my sister and her new Brazilian husband.  Sarah was in France so it was Dan, Julia and I.  It was nice, yes, but it felt really odd to me.  Not my house, not my stuff, nothing familiar, nothing that felt ritualistic.  My sister was happy because she was back in the states after nearly 3 years in Brazil.  And she had spent quite a bit of time at this cabin in years past and had many memories of happy gatherings.  So for her it was a homecoming of sorts - but for me it was baffling.  I missed Sarah and kept tripping over myself trying not to run the show, as I am wont to do, or complain, as I am also known to do on occasion...   C'mon, Irene - positive attitude!  It's not the place, it's not even the food, it's the gathering, the people, the attitude of gratitude.

Our tradition for over 20 years was that Dan would wake early, make the stuffing, stuff the turkey and put it in the oven.  At some point, one or both girls would wake and make their way down to the kitchen to keep him company and comfort the poor turkey who Dan would make dance and talk back to them as they assured him that it was okay that we were eating him today.  They called it "turkey psychology" and they did it every Thanksgiving.  At least that's what they told me because I wasn't there.  Thanksgiving morning was my turn to sleep late - a well-earned sleep - my reward for nights on end cooking cranberry sauce, rutabaga, pies, extra stuffing...  after shopping and cleaning and inviting and planning.   I would wake up to the smell of turkey just starting to brown, smile, roll over, and go back to sleep until it was seared to perfection.

Goodbye and Hello/A New Job Description

This time that is described as "change of life" is so much more than hot flashes and changing bodies.  Our lives are truly changing. My mother-in-law is declining as a result of congestive heart failure.  My father is suffering from Parkinsons.  A friend just died of cancer.  My children are flapping their wings harder and harder and getting ready to leave the nest for good.  It's as though my job description is being rewritten, but no one has shown it to me yet and I'm not sure what to do.  How do I function in a world where I am no longer a daughter?  Where I no longer buy my mother-in-law a Christmas present? Where I am no longer a mother in the way I have been for 22 years?  How will it be in the office without our friend and co-worker?

I met a woman on the beach last week -- both of us walking our dogs on a fresh, sunny fall morning --  and, remarkably for the fact that we were strangers to one another, we had this very conversation.  She lost her husband when she was in her mid-40's, raised their two children and for 30 years carved out a life of her own.  She has lived in France, California and lots of places in between. She teaches yoga to seniors.  She is a landlady of a property she bought recently.  When we met, she was recovering from a broken back, suffered on a bike trip in Italy.   When I told her what was going on in my life, she said, "Wonderful, Irene!" Without minimizing or dismissing what I was experiencing, she said, "Irene, life is changing for you and you are heading in a new direction - -and it is wonderful.  I promise you, it will be okay."

It's hard to see it that way at this moment, but I think she is right.  I am going to make sure that she is.

Falling in Love with the Sun

One of our staff members at work is dying.  Her cancer was in remission when she was hired 10 years ago.  Last year in early fall, it reared its ugly head again and this time it was tenacious, vicious, aggressive -- and bullied her until it became clear that it would win its evil battle.  Today, a few of us from the office went to visit her - to say goodbye.  This woman with whom we have shared work, staff meetings, lunches, coffee breaks, and plenty of laughter....  this woman with a heart of gold who always had a positive word and a compliment for everyone...  this woman for whom work and co-workers gave her life purpose, second only to her daughter and grandchildren...  this woman who does not want to die....  is dying.  Four of us stood around her bed in her condo, with her daughter nearby, as she gasped for breath, and became alternately agitated and then so quiet that at one point I thought she was gone.  We held her hands and rubbed her legs and arms, and spoke to her.  She knew we were there.  She tried to speak.  But it was unintelligible -- kind of like she was reciting the vowels.  I think she was saying I love you.  We told her we loved her and that we would miss her.  We cried.  We said goodbye.  And when we left we knew we had seen her for the last time.

On the way back to the office, from my vantage point in the back seat of my co-worker's car, I looked at the orange and red leaves starting to fall from the trees.  I watched children playing at recess in a school yard.  I felt the warmth of the sun through the window and everything was vivid and clear and I thought about Janet who would never see the sun again, never feel its warmth, never see the sights I was taking in as we drove.   I looked up at the sky and remembered the way it felt to be in the back seat as a kid when my parents were driving and tried to remember what it felt like to not even know how to drive and to just be lost in my own thoughts, watching the world go past, totally at the mercy of my parents' wishes and schedule.  Not in charge, not in control, no responsibility, just following.  That seems like a long time ago - it was a long time ago.  Then again, how in heaven's name, I wondered, has it come to this?  To be a woman in her early 50's saying goodbye to a dying friend in her early 60's, and feeling like it is just too darn soon.  I fell in love with the sun at that moment which was shining brilliantly on a perfect fall day. 


When we got back to the parking lot at work we hugged each other goodbye, knowing we had just shared a profound moment.  As I jumped into my car, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket.  I reached in, flipped it open and saw a text from my daughter, Julia.  "Mom - do u want 2 meet for sushi at 2?  My treat?"  "U bet!" I texted back immediately.  We sat together in a warm, Japanese restaurant, sun streaming in through the window,  drank green tea, talked about her boyfriend and school and  - you know, stuff - and ate sushi.  She picked up the tab and we walked arm in arm back to our cars.  I fell in love with the sun for the second time that day.

The Laundromat gave me Hope

For a year and a half, I have resided at Shilshole Bay Marina in Seattle.  On a boat.  A sailboat.   Some people, upon hearing what we have done, say "Cool!" or "I've always wanted to do that!"  Others say, "Sooooo...   are you homeschooling your daughter?  Do you have heat?  Do you have running water? Does the boat rock at night?" (No, Yes, Yes, No.)  All legitimate questions.   But, living on a boat is really not as primitive as it may sound.  It is merely an alternative lifestyle and one that we share with about 30 others on our dock.  10% of the boats at this huge marina are "liveaboards."  So it's not as strange as it may seem.