Invisibility, darkness, and fucks or the lack of

I said to him, "You played the wrong note. So what. What do you do now? Do you quit or do you play it again? Do you quit or do you practice? What happens if you quit? What happens if you stay in the seat and erect your spine and reshape your embouchure and steady your fingers and blow?"

He looked down at his feet, and mumbled, "I don't get better, or I do."

"So, which is it? What do you want?" I asked the options kindly, but I asked them.

He turned back to the music stand, centered his horn, and blew out the first chords of the Imperial March. No squeaks this time.

***

This morning, I had a meeting. "He saw Mrs. L and turned in on himself," she said. "He turned down a snack!"

He loves Mrs. L. He loves food. What?

***

We have a tradition: Thursday night deep talks. Sometimes these happen on Thursday, but as often they happen on Friday or Monday. It really just depends on when said deepness needs to be talked out.

Tonight, Friday, I initiated a Thursday night deep talk as he packed his instrument away until tomorrow.

"Have you ever heard the expression 'Fake it until you make it?'"

"No."

"Well, Misse used to tell me to do that when I was nervous."

"What were you nervous about, Mama?" with a definite emphasis on 'you'.

"All sorts of things, honey. Being liked. Being smart. Making the dance line..."

He snapped the case latches shut and moseyed to my lap.

"What did it mean, what Misse said?"

"It meant that sometimes you have to pretend to be comfortable or confident or capable or ready. And ultimately, do you know what that sort of pretending is?"

"No."

"What did I ask you earlier, when you slapped your head and said, 'This song is too hard'? What could you do?"

"I could quit or practice."

"And what might faking it until I made it be like?"

"Practicing."

"Bingo."

***

I see the way he turns in on himself when he's nervous. When he doubts himself. When he doesn't feel up to snuff. It is a behavior I am all too familiar with. The turning in to the darkness, to the false feeling of invisibility. The hiding behind 'can't' versus shakily bucking up before 'faking and making.' Sometimes, but not always.

"Honey, let me tell you. It is scary for me to write so openly about politics and social justice. I was not raised in a place that championed the questioning of the status quo. But I do it anyway because it feels to me right and just. I am scared, but I make myself do it. What do you think that making myself do it is?"

"Practicing?" he murmured.

"Yes! And do you know what happened to me today? I left my meeting and as I walked through the school parking lot I saw a lovely acquaintance sitting alone in her car. It was an odd time for a mom to be parked in the overflow carpool line, and as I approached her, I saw that her eyes were shining.

“Are you OK?"

"Oh, I'm OK." and we exchanged deeper-than-pleasantries catch up talk. But soon enough, I was in her car skipping Pilates, and she was crying, and I was nodding.

"And at one point she said, I sort of hate Facebook but it's allowed me to see that you are an amazing person."

"And I blushed and said thank you, and still I am so moved, honey, because I was practicing speaking my truth even when it was scary, even when it meant pretending not to feel dark and worried, even when it meant being decidedly NOT invisible, and someone essentially said thank you for that."

"The only way I know how to be more like the people I admire -strong, brave, vocal women- is to fake giving no fucks until I don't. It is scary but it's the only way I know. And I want you to see in yourself all the absolute wonder and magic I see. Does that make sense, hon?"

"It does, Mama." His lip quivered, and we snuggled tight, and I said, "Sweet pea, what is it to ask for help?"

"It's practice," he said.

Indeed.

Storms and memories

I'm on my couch, legs out long across it, Percy snoring at my knees. The back door is open, and I've propped the screen door ajar in case Nutmeg wants to come back in. Through a wall of windows, I see my neighbor's dogwood leaning over the corner of my deck luxuriously. It is pregnant with blooms and is most welcome.

There is a rustling in the air, a fuzzy sound that carries with it a hint of breeze. The leaves of my jalapeño plant are waving ever so slightly while the cooked-noodle arms of the next-door willow tremble on a different current. 

Though the skies are the gray blues and whites of dusk, the thinnest veil of rain started staining the deck a darker hue. Now, it's stopped, and the wood looks splotchy. Faintly, far, far in the distance, thunder rumbles inconsistently. 

I hope it comes our way. I hope the skies open and release their watery savings. I hope the thunder roars until it's hoarse. I hope the lightning strikes again and again and again, like so many exclamation points.

The ricotta on the stove hisses just a bit, reminding me that it's almost past time to remove the pot from the heat below it. I take leave from Percy and hurry to run a knife around the rim where cheese meets steel, loosing the curds, before putting things on a back burner to rest and come together. 

I wish I'd made it earlier, so that I could stir some into hot pasta with fresh sorrel and a grate of nutmeg. That's a dish that wouldn't excite Tom, and since he's in Boston, now's the time. Tomorrow. The kids and I watched Jurassic Park (well, Jack played Stack the States and Operation Math; bless his heart.), and I made them ice cream sundaes, so the ricotta had to wait. 

Earlier, I saw two toddlers in a doublewide stroller. They watched, mouths agape, eyes wide, at some construction being done on Mass Ave. Behind them, a caregiver waited patiently. How many times did I take my boys to watch dump trucks and dozers and cranes? How many times did I glance around furtively before letting them climb atop the giant bucket of a parked digger?

I smiled, and drove on, heading to school to take pictures for J's class. End-of-year headshots, for a "look how much they've grown" perspective. I arrived a bit early, during math, and waited happily on the sidelines.

Twenty-two kids sat on the rug staring up at one of their teachers as she, a million months pregnant and amazing, made math come alive. Hands shot up, guesses were proffered, the differences between a prism and pyramid made simply clear. 

One girl pulled her mane of hair into a ponytail, wrapping it with a band in a practiced way. When did she learn to do that? 'Vertices' and 'congruent' and 'pentagonal' flew confidently from the kids' mouths. When did they master this sort of language? Weren't these children just in doublewides staring at construction sites and zoo animals as doting adults pushed and paused and explained?

J turned around briefly and gave me a smile. "I love you," I knew he was thinking. "I love you, too," I thought back. "When did you get so big?" 

His neck is starting to slope into young-man shoulders, his legs are sturdy and dense even though he is so slender. It's as if the baby vanishes from the outside in, and these new solid-state limbs confirm my suspicion that J is a tot no more. In any way.

It's dark outside now, and the storm I'd hoped for remains nothing but a whisper in the wind. I need to drain the ricotta and eat some dinner and get to bed. And I will. But I'll keep listening, should the skies part, and attempting to sear into my brain memories of the boys, as they were and are.

Feeling better, feeling grateful

Round about 4:30 this afternoon, I started to feel quite on the mend. My babysitter had arrived several hours before, and I'd immediately jumped into bed and fallen asleep as she and O started playing. After I woke, I looked around my room which was in some sort of terrifying state and then organized what I could while in a seated position: folding not a few loads of laundry, finally (successfully!) throwing away half the publications that were taunting me from their "will you ever read me?" piles. I swear y'all, there is some power in writing things down. It's like the universe now holds you accountable. As you might recall, just last night I pondered to you about my complete inability to winnow through my stacks. And then today, done! Pow! I've heard this directive from two people now: my friend, Caroline, and acclaimed cultural/food/cookbook writer, Monica Bhide (whom I was lucky to hear speak and inspire at last weekend's Eat, Write Retreat). Write down your goals, what you hope and want to accomplish, and in doing so, you keep tabs on, inspire and challenge yourself. When Caroline suggested last fall that I do this on behalf of Em-i-lis, I wrote down 4 goals that seemed of various shades of possibility. Right before my family and I left for Italy in late March, I crossed #4 off the list. Did it feel good? It felt better than that, and I'm looking forward to thinking about what might constitute my next list of aspirations.

Last weekend, Monica took it a step further and pushed us to distill down to a single word, the voice/identity/sense-of-self we want to best define our work, and then assess whether or not our work and our word were complementary or missing one another. As the conference was geared towards bloggers, we were, unsurprisingly, focused on our blogs, but you could easily apply this exercise to any facet of life. My word is authentic which is what I feel (hope!) resonates throughout Em-i-lis. No bullshit, no fakiness, just honest thoughts on motherhood, things political, and loads of good food.

You might already know how much I value openness and honesty, and perhaps this is why it didn't take me too terribly long to decide on my word. It did take me years to really get to know myself, years more to pare away the layers of identity I'd accrued but no longer wanted or which never or no longer fit. The result has been a real sense-of-self, an honest appraisal and knowledge of who I am at my innermost core. As is most all serious growth, this introduction to ME was painful at times, with loss and failure and disappointment and rejection all swirling around just daring me to stay strong and true to what I felt I believed and wanted. Other moments were blissful or terrifying or thrilling- aha! Finally! Yes! And today, that I can say I think I really know myself -with all the weaknesses and foibles and strengths and hopes and still-to-dos therein- is one of the things about which I feel most grateful. It wouldn't have been possible without asking and answering difficult questions and it won't continue to be thus unless I keep challenging myself.

Which brings up another sense of gratitude I feel today: a profound sense of fortune for the children I am privileged to be raising. Some of my greatest growth has come in the crucible of parenthood; its challenges bring most of us to our knees on a regular basis. It is damn difficult to base your plan for facilitating the growth of totally dependent, relatively uncivilized beings into functional, happy, productive adults on your gut instincts and some reading you might have done while pregnant. Raising kids is like trying to play Quidditch while blind, deaf and mute. Good luck catching the golden snitch, folks.

Yet for those of us lucky enough to get through each day with no major injury, insult or issue, you realize that as much as you might be teaching your little ones, they are even more so teaching you. The unconditional love a child has for his mother regardless of how bad her (my) hair looks and breath smells and how sorry she (I) is at making up stories on the fly, takes my breath away at times. We could all learn from this utter lack of care about another's appearance, the generosity towards our weaknesses they often extend. If you weren't already, you will probably become infinitely more patient (or need to jump aboard the anti-anxiety medication train) and totally inured to poop/pee/boogers and so forth. You'll become an ace negotiator (or a complete pushover; I opt for the former, thank you!) and creative at all manner of distraction. Your thoughts about a good night of sleep will change dramatically and you might, during all this, become infinitely kinder to yourself even if it doesn't always feel that way.

About 5p, I felt like my nausea was at bay enough that I just might take myself out for a pedicure (another thing for which I am enormously grateful today). Traffic was the pits on the way home, and when I got here, both boys were fast asleep. When they sleep, they sleep like mummified trees, so going in and hugging, kissing, cooing over them and fixing their blankets is not a risk. That really makes the whole experience even more enjoyable! Anyway, Jack was in his regular position: white polar bear (once named Princess; now named Polar Bear) laying atop him, face to face, quilt pulled up chest-high (this seems claustrophobic to me, but who am I to judge). And Oliver in his: tucked into the corner of his crib he calls "my special sleep spot" and from which he rarely moves, fingers often wrapped around "my ties", the ties clasping the bumper to the crib rails.

And I just felt my heart pound with pride and joy and love for these precious little boys who often make me nuts but who just as often make me laugh and smile. Through them and my dear husband (huge feeling of gratitude for that guy), I have come into my own, a late bloomer who long sought the kind of confidence that comes through self-knowledge and who now has a real sense of what gets me up in the morning; I'm lucky to have the latter in spades!

Thanks for reading.