On Books, Periods and Best Parts

I love to read a good book.  To dive in and stay under.  Hold my breath as the plot develops and the characters become flesh-and-blood company.  I prefer to stay under, floating in the ether of printed word, until the last page is turned, but rarely does a day or two present itself for such a pleasurable undertaking as devouring a novel from cover to cover.

In either case, when the story does end -- always before it should -- I hold the cover up for final inspection, returning to the jacket to again review the story outline, to peer at the author's photo and envision that writer's process: a decompression ceremony akin to watching the credits scroll at the conclusion of a movie, figuring out how to best reacquaint myself with my lungs.  How best to return to the surface and gulp the air of real life, of daily life as I absorb what has just been imparted to me.

But let's backtrack.

For the past day and a half, I've been sidelined with one of my infamous periods.  There.  I've said it.  The big dot-at-the-end-of-the-sentence word that makes our mothers cringe when we say it in public.  And I'm guessing MY mother would count this blog as a public place.  I know I do.  Anyhow, how could I ever have a real blog and NOT discuss my period from time to time.  It's a fixture.  It likes attention.  It gets attention.  One day, it will shut up.  And then it will be arthritic joints or impacted bowels or some such physical condition which competes with my regular life for attention.  (I'll just say right now that I'd prefer to NOT have the whole bowel issue if I have a choice in the matter.)

So, the thing about my periods is that they involve a significant amount of pain that I once endured without the benefit of medication.  Enduring said periods involved crawling on the floor, crying and praying, and afraid to take anything to alleviate the labor-like episodes.  Eventually, a smart doctor talked me through my irrational fear of medication.  I began to ingest ibuprofen in 800 mg doses, every 4 to 6 hours, for 3 to 5 days.  Despite researching alternate ways to handle this problem, and thus avoid developing resistance to, or stomach damage from, all those wee green-blue liqui-gels, I always end up back here.

When I don't adhere to this schedule, when I try alternate meds, I'm met with little or no success . . . and significant amounts of pain.  And that doesn't include the 'cloudy brain' syndrome which precludes thinking my way out of a paper bag.  The extreme sensitivity to noise and scents.  Irritability which makes me want to tape my mouth shut.  And an often heavy depression which feeds into my body image issues.  I try to rest, read, distract myself, pray, and apologize in equal measures during these times.  Some cycles are worse than others.  For awhile, when I was on the anti-depressant last year, my periods were more in keeping with the size of a grammatical period.  And after this weekend, I may return to that anti-depressant, despite the sound reasons I had for quitting last fall.  I've been trapped in a pattern whereby if I move, the pain rears its ugly head and puts up quite a fuss, and when I'm still the hormonal dark clouds fill my brain and mutter ugliness I know isn't true but feels quite potent in the moment. 

All of this to say that I used my distraction tools to keep my mind and body busy as much as possible.  Yesterday, I slept in, easier to do when doped up by the ibuprofen.  And then I moved my heating pad, pillow, ANSAID and iPhone to a docking station of sorts on the back patio where I was entertained by my family, including Ashley's boyfriend, for several hours with grill cleaning, meal preparation, jocularity, dog watching, and actual eating (which I also do in more dramatic fashion at this time).  Later, when the sun, sights and sounds got the better of me, I relocated to the recliner in the living room, where I remained planted until after 10PM.  I did, indeed, read post-film credits after admiring Michelle Williams' performance as an American icon in "My Week With Marilyn."

And in between all of this period subterfuge, I read a good book.  Anna Quindlen's "Every Last One" work of fiction, handed off to me from my mother earlier this month.  At 10:30 this morning, I found myself at the last page.  Crying one last time.  Scanning the dust jacket one last time.  Reacquainting myself with the lungs of regular life.  Once again.  Wanting to share with all of you.  Once again.

In a nutshell, an ordinary suburban mom must find a way to develop a new normal after a truly horrendous intimate tragedy shakes the foundations of her life and that of her family.  Fiction or no, any story worth the time it took to write affects the reader.  Parallels can be drawn.  Descriptions visualized.  Characters understood or misunderstood.  Sympathies and empathy elicited.  And I want to be affected.  Entertainment is not my primary goal when I crack open a book.  Betterment.  Growth.  Improvement.  Perspective.  They are on my short list of that which I hope will happen during my discourse with everything between prologue and epilogue.

I had tears in need of shedding.  There were thoughts in need of coalescing.  Painful though wide swathes of this book were, those same swathes served as catharsis for this suburban mom in the midst of transition.  That my present condition has opened several emotional conduits which might have otherwise stayed shut and dry is a given.  Truly, I believe this is one of the most useful functions of a period if it is exercised outside of stress and stereotyping.  Though I can, emphasis on CAN, be more volatile right about now, if those emotions on tap are allowed a healthy outlet as opposed to being exercised in a rough moment, there are benefits.  Because I'm slowed down and not able to busy myself, I can think and emote my way around an issue in its entirety and gain a bit of closure or deeper understanding.  That makes for better days ahead.

This time around the circumspect block, I needed to examine the whole issue of my Sarah now belonging to someone else.  Her new status as wife trumps her old status as daughter, though I'm well aware she exists as both.  I will miss everything about my relationship with her.  Mostly because mothering was not this natural sunny experience for me with any of my kids.  I grew into motherhood.  I learned from my mistakes.  Apologized for my shortcomings.  And eventually begin to give myself credit for those areas where I got it right.  Sarah and I have trampled through some pretty overgrown fields together to arrive at this lovely expanse of deep green meadow all around us.  Somehow, that frustrated and fiery little curly-headed girl who could NOT, would not, be swayed until she was ready, whose moods and motivations I did not always comprehend no matter how desperately I yearned to plumb those depths, somehow she came to know ME the best. Out of my children.  Out of my husband.  Even out of those with whom I was raised. 

Wherever those inner battles took her in her young life, however it was that my nights of holding her and coaxing her and waiting her out allowed balance to take root in her heart, whenever it was that the painful lessons of her choices became valid in her mind, these forward movements of her existence gifted her with a natural discernment of her mother's core.  How best to approach me.  How best to talk with me.  How best to pay attention.  How best to comfort.  How best to back off.  How best to pull me up by the short hairs.  And because she is a part of me, and vice-versa, and because such understanding is a rare gift, and because we are both bright lights in a dark world, there is this especially profound joy which wells up within me when she is around.  It is not that I love her any more.  Or that I consider her 'favorite.'  It is that somewhere in all of this she walked right into me and allowed me to have a rare glimpse at the best parts of herself . . . and they were, and are, also the best parts of myself.  As giving as I am, as much I am one who shares and imparts and gifts, I would not be human, nor honest, if I didn't say that I would love to keep her right here on terra firma America, attending UTC for another 3 years, allowing a bit more time for good ol' ma to adjust to her eventual grown-up life.

However, having seen those best parts, and knowing that two bright lights separated will push back more darkness than those same lights concentrated on one shadowed area together, the larger part of me is bursting with excitement for the life my daughter is soon to start abroad with her Pfc. Ekmanis.  As we have both played a part in revealing one another's hidden layers, it is only fitting that we branch out and find our independent ways in our interdependent lives.  We are alive.  And healthy.   And still living on the same planet.  And we no longer have to rely on the Pony Express for long-distance communication.  Before long, I'll be a Skype Master.  And have a few European stamps in my passport.

But as Sarah has reminded me, there's still the summer of 2012 -- or at least some part of it -- for us.  For ALL of us.  And then I join the ranks of parents everywhere, many of whom are my good friends and family members, who've had to wave and sigh from their empty, or emptying, nest.

Just remember that there will be two more similar entries in the years to come.  But no rush, Ashley and Zachary.  No rush.
  

A Mother's Promise

This entry is long overdue.  Part of a sincere promise made well over six months ago to my middle child.  My second daughter.  Sweet curly-haired Sarah Olivia of the dark chocolate-brown eyes.  Eyes that were wide and somber as they met mine when all 7 pounds and 8 ounces of vernix-covered newborn baby emerged from hips surprised by what a difference 2 pounds and some odd ounces could have on the birth canal.  Whereas her big sister practically whooshed into the world without nary a push or grunt -- her 5 pounds and 6 ounces entering the delivery room on a pseudo-waterslide -- Sarah made me work for my second round of motherhood.  And every second was a welcome labor of maternal love.

She's closing in on 19 years of earthly life this fall; she departs for her first year of college this week.  This past summer has been an enormously jam-packed time of transition and change and firsts as each of us, mother, daughter, brother, sister, father, comes to terms with the idea that one of our close-knit bunch is actually leaving the nest, abandoning the safety and security of our suburban roof, detaching from the familiar community of the past seven years, and bravely plunging headlong into personally uncharted territory.

Setting to words the wealth of images, memories, feelings and thoughts which have assailed my mind and heart for the past year of so seems almost an impossible task.  Even with my inclination toward thorough description.  Writers of song, poetry and prose have attempted to capture the complexity and purity of love for thousands of years, across hundreds of civilizations, in every conceivable and gorgeous tongue at their disposal.  They . . . WE . . . all fell, all fall, will fall . . . short of the goal.  And the silken thread of a mother's love for her child floats gently but solidly over immeasurable miles.  Stronger, deeper, higher, more intense than any romantic love.  At least for some of us.  For most of us.

But I promised my Sarah that I would stake out a blog entry specifically for her.  I also let her know that it would come when the time was right.  That just because I sat down at the computer with the intention of writing an ode to her magnificence, there was NO guarantee that what ended up posting would match my original intention.  Internally guided writing has a compass all its own.  Just walking up the stairs can cause the juices to stir and flow in other directions before my hands ever hit the keyboard.  However, as the entries and the months have dragged on, with Sarah faithfully visiting my Facebook fanpage and finding virtual picture stories on sundry random subjects, including more than a few about a certain white wonder pup, her faith in my promise began to wane.  "Wow, mom! You wrote about that DOG before you wrote about your own DAUGHTER!?"  Ouch.   

Perhaps -- and this is a rather sizable perhaps -- I was the tiniest bit afraid that I would not do her justice.  Perhaps I would fumble the ball and collapse right before reaching the end zone and claiming the touchdown which those wide eyes deserve to see, set in bright lights on the scoreboard of her life.  There's an indefinable something about this girl-woman which seems larger than life and, therefore, beyond the prowess of my pen.  Each of my children possess qualities unique to their own person.  In varying degrees, they are in touch with the power and promise of these qualities.  But at present, none more so than Sarah.

As a little one, she vacillated between sunny grinning skies and soaking teary storms.  There was often no in-between weather; no channel to which one could turn to determine a forecast.  Imagine a tornado hitting at top speed with no warning horn to batten down the hatches.  My mother called her 'Miss Rosebloom.'  And somewhere along the way, with no solid label to attach to her mercurial meanderings and their mysterious causes, we also adopted 'Miss Moody-Autism.'  (No insult intended to those who struggle with this rainbow disorder, either themselves or through their children or another loved one.)  Her grave silences were not attempts to procure a path to her wants and desires; they were the brooding moments of a youngster unsure how to gauge what she was feeling.  Her fits were not the snits of a pampered and spoiled child, like those we experienced with 'first grandchild-niece' big sister, but bouts of intense frustration which she could not manage or compartmentalize.  Instead, anger and other intense emotions too big for her psychological frame rode over her in tsunami-like waves.  

We tried everything.  Or thought we did.  Any actions which smacked of overt reverse-psychology or adult manipulation only irked her further.  Hugging, water in the face to snap her out of it, yelling, bribing, talking.  Nix, nix, nix.  Nix . . . a-a-and NIX.  A further NO to humor, snacks, TV or promises.  We punished her.  Disciplined her.  Loved her.  Tried to connect with her.  Leaving her alone in her bedroom -- often with reverse-locked door -- worked after a fashion.  Often, only time and a wearing out of the vocal and tear-making mechanisms seemed to do the trick.  Then, she would emerge, red-faced and sweaty, her halo of curls damp and heavy on the extra-curly, eyelashes dewy, little fists limp from the tension of long-term tightening.  One human appeared gifted with Sarah-taming super powers: my husband's first cousin, Annette, who innately grasped aspects of my mini-person's emerging personality, could reliably calm her.  One memorable night, she held a worked-up Sarah and walked the floor tirelessly and patiently to the croonings of Whitney Houston at 1AM while I lay on the couch, exhausted, and endeavored to NOT feel like a failure of a mother.

Now, to be absolutely fair and balanced, when she wasn't accidentally breaking a bedroom window by pounding at it in an attempt to make her mother pay attention to her from outside, or swinging a plastic bat at the door in an effort to release her inner demons, or racing up the stairs as a screaming "bitch" intended for MY ears trailed furiously after her, Sarah was a beautiful child.  From the beginning, she wore her clothes with a flair for self-style and expression.  She carried this attitude of "I am who I am" which was conveyed in her sturdy little walk and her sibilant-challenged talk (her S sounds were a bit tough to bite off, as they can be for many kids, and I can clearly see her face as she tried to exact a "Shhhh" with the familiar finger-to-lip form, only to have the most adorable of "Thhhhhhss" emerge instead).  When those tiny white teeth marched from one side of her mouth to the other for all to see, the sunshine of her joy was almost unbearable to behold.  My photo archives are bursting with hundreds, if not thousands when digital is considered, attempts to capture this lovely effect.  Often, a quiet curiosity surrounded her as she perched on a lap or chair, those observant liquid brown eyes capable of pulling in any unsuspecting adult within their sphere of influence.

Somewhere between Nebraska and Colorado, Colorado and Tennessee, middle school to high school, amongst the dismal wreckage following the tragic deaths of her cousins and the institutionalization of her aunt, and painful life drama within the boundaries of our own insular family, this butterfly began to break free of her cocoon.  My attempts to figure her out, my enduring patience toward her, were rewarded with revelation and conversation.  And, dare I say, appreciation.  She reached past her suspicion and climbed over her emotional walls to fully engage in dazzling fashion.  Through several hard life lessons of her own, she reached an understanding of herself and her mom and the life unfolding before her.  And whether it was, is, fully right or not, I began to lean on her.  To rely upon her solidity.  To trust in her sense of responsibility.  Not to mention my keen admiration for the speed at which she could fold several full loads of laundry.  

Today, there was a disconnect reminiscent of that little girl who tried so hard to handle all those big feelings and thoughts.  But she communicated it best she could.  She struggles with the understandable fear of heading off to college and leaving the familiar behind.  So, this afternoon when I tried to nail down the final list of necessities for her dorm, Sarah deflected every question with an irritable response.  Eventually, I gave up; she huffed to her room.  I soon joined her.  Sat in her chair and began to express how much I would miss her and that I was only hoping to make the move easier on her because I knew she was ambivalent about leaving me.  That I wasn't thrilled to be without her presence but was happy for her opportunity.  In her closet, she stood stock still, fighting back the tears that I now was not, and ordered me to stop.  I tried to explain.  Again.  And she grabbed her wallet and keys and left the building.  I let her go.  It was all simply too much for her.  Circuit overload.

For the past year, this dynamic young woman has been a source of comfort, understanding, empathy, support, admiration, friendship, advice, humor, attention and flat-out love in ways I never dared to dream possible in a mother-daughter relationship.  I certainly did not have such gifts when I was her age.  But whereas she has not yet fully embraced the reality here, I am dwelling in the full knowledge.  I have no choice.  I'm a grown-up.  I'm a mother.  I'm hopeful and full of faith but rooted in reality.  This child of mine, who sports a delicious top-knot when weather and sleep dictate, who manages to imbue the nickname 'Funk Toe' with such delight that I never think to take offense considering she's referring to the toe fungus I picked up last summer, who actually taught me a thing or two about confidence and relationships, who cares enough to visit her Grandma Sharon just to keep company, who made the road trip to South Carolina -- sharing half the expense -- to spend two hot and emotional days with her boyfriend and his family as he graduated from Army basic training, this child can not be hoarded.  The world needs her.  And it is incumbent upon me to widen my generous nature to include sharing her with this world.  She may certainly fly far away, spreading her wings wide, taking her life and possible grandchildren to far-flung corners of another continent at some fixed point ahead of us.  I would certainly miss her and immediately begin collecting frequent flier miles.  What I know is that there is nothing which can separate us . . . save for selfishness on my part.

And so this Thursday, her father and I will accompany Sarah to Chattanooga -- did I ever think this "Pardon me, Roy, is that the Chattanooga Choo-Choo?" town would figure prominently in her life? -- and aid in the setting up of her entrance into young adulthood.  In doing so, we join the ranks of parents who stumbled along in these shoes before us, including several close friends of mine.  To each of us, the common experience is yet unique.  Even as I rejoice and exude plentiful amounts of pride, I will most certainly cry.  Cry for what we've been most blessed to share.  Cry for where we've been and where we have yet to venture.  Cry to think there will be no more daily announcement of her entrance and exit to and from our family home.  Cry because I will miss my girl.  Cry because she will start out missing me but quickly adapt to her new life and possibly find me rather dull in comparison.  Cry because, darn it, even with a good anti-depressant in place, sometimes the tears just gotta fall!

This is my love letter.  Woefully incomplete.  Unable to fully encompass the spectrum of all which is Sarah to me.  I hesitate to close this out for fear I have not done enough to allow you the pleasure of fully appreciating her as I do.  But it is necessary to cease and desist as it will take time to train Zachary into the laundry-folding and dish-washing and second-guessing mind-reading that his big sister did for me, for all of us.  As for trusting him with his new driver's license on the 30th of this month, I guess I'll have to run my own last-minute errands for awhile.  

I promise, Sarah, that I will be all right without my right hand, my Gal Friday.  Only just, however.  You are released from your duties here.  We won't touch your room.  Yet.  You must promise to text, e-mail, call, Facebook . . . keep your ol' ma in the loop.

You are a worthy subject, Sarah Ami.  Hank is a pup . . . a Wonder Pup, for sure.  But you, dear thing, are my heart.

Don't you ever doubt that for a moment.