It's Complicated

  "Mom, you're just weird!" The hostile sound of her voice pulled me out of my shopping induced coma. If it had been delivered by my child it would have included a couple of giggle at the end, one for each of us. The little drama that played out between the racks of clothing and the dressing room was painful to watch. As is my habit, I try to find someone in the story line with whom I can identify. This time it was both of them.

 "Oh," says mom helpfully, holding up a pair of white pants, "here they are in a size 6."

"What are you implying?" comes the sharp retort.

"Well, you don't want it too tight," Mom looks around at anything but her daughter when she speaks.

"I wear a 4 Mom." Mom stops for a minute. She can see the land mind, but she's not sure how to move her mouth without tripping the wire. Perhaps her choice of silence was the best.

"How about this color?" Mom holds up a fushia tank top.

"Where would I ever wear that Mom?"

"I would be nice under a black shirt or..." her daughter interrupts her.

"Why would I wear it under something?"

"You couldn't wear it by itself," Mom defends, "It's winter."

I head to the checkout with my own purchases and leave them there in their anger and misery. I want to tell the Mom that she has the strength to let go now, to trust that her job is mostly done. I want to tell the beautiful young lady that she has the power to be the bigger person. I don't of course, because I long ago learned the folly of unsolicited advice. I cannot help but think of my relationship with my own Mom. Out shopping trips together were our bonding time and our bond was made of barbed wire. I knew better than to speak to her in the tone used by the size 4 daughter, but our conversations although more diplomatic, were just as deadly.

I'm certainly not saying my daughter and I didn't go through some loving wars during her growing up years. I often tell people that her first sentence was, "Mom, you're not going to wear that are you?" I will say that I have never felt more proud than when she introduced me to her future mother in law as "my Mom and my best friend".

I'm carefully saving my best child rearing advice on the off chance that someone, either related or unrelated, will turn toward me someday with a question. Just in case that day never arrives I don't want to die with it in me, so here goes. Child rearing is simple compared to knowing when you're done. When our children are small we attempt to anticipate every danger and race ahead with pillows ready. Like loaded freight trains it takes us a very long time for us to come to a stop. Sometimes we just don't see the red light and just keep running full throttle right on through the warning gate of adulthood. You will hear the sound of the impending disaster in your adult child's voice if you listen. Woe be to the parent who ignores it more than once.

Forgive me this one last look back...

When my oldest son broke up with his first girlfriend, the one he dated for three years from age 11 to 14, I wanted to console him, distract him, but when all failed I tried reason. "Son," I said softly, "you didn't plan to marry her or anything, now did you?" One look in his blue eyes told me his answer. Yes, in his sweet young innocence he saw her as the woman he would be with forever. I still think of her with great fondness and I know he does too. While his destiny was not tied with hers, she took him from childhood to awakening manhood in a way that makes me forever grateful to her. Today they both have happy productive lives with their own separate spouses and children. While I think that they might have been happy together at one time, they now have totally different world views and ambitions. Seeing her life and his it is hard to imagine how that might have turned out had they grown together instead of apart.

We all have special people that come into our lives at times when we need them most and then slip away when their job is done. For me they have been few and far between, perhaps because I appear so self sufficient from a distance, the distance I generally hold people for fear of getting hurt. But four years ago when I started this blog there was a man who saw through me like I was made of glass, immediately recognizing a kindred spirit. He found the soliloquy I spoke in that painfully honest way people have when they do not know they are being observed. When I saw his comment I felt like I had been discovered naked in church.  We burst into conversation like children being let out of school for summer, joyous, shouting, skipping, children. For that brief space I let myself believe that all things were still possible, all roads still open. He took my hand and pulled me out into the sunlight. He held up a mirror to my soul and made me look without turning away. I thought summer would last forever.

Our letters to each other flew across the distance between us like northern lights pulsing in the sky. I shared every secret of my heart and it felt like he did the same. When he started backing away I understood, because I knew him like I knew my own mind. I came very close to begging him to stay  even when I knew he had to go.  He maintained a presence on the internet for a long time. Not much was posted, but I could still go there and stand where he once stood, tracking the sentences with my fingers and remembering what he had given me. A few weeks ago I went and saw the words: The blog you were looking for was not found, like someone just turned off a light switch. I knew it was coming, but I still struggled in the dark for a bit.

My parents often told a story about me learning to walk.  I would grab for an adult hand to steady me, but rather than bend down to hold my hand, they would extend a rolled newspaper that I could grasp for support. One day the adult holding the lifeline let go, but unaware, I continued to keep my arm up in the air clutching the paper. For weeks I walked independently, but clinging to the imaginary support of the newspaper with my baby hand over my head. My parents found this hysterical and retold it at every opportunity. Although I remember nothing about it I think it sounds just like me. Years later when learning to swim I insisted that the teacher hold his hands inches below me in case I sunk under the water. I closed my eyes and floated happily until he called out to me from the other side of the pool. Like the man who walked across the water with his eyes on Jesus, in the second I stopped believing I sank.

Of course I did learn to walk on my own, to swim on my own, and honestly, I know I will continue to keep my eyes open, all on my own. I just want to say this to him on the chance that he might be listening still. The words are slightly paraphrased from an ancient anonymous poem that has always touched my heart.

"I did but see him passing by, but I shall love him 'til I die." 

Love may be blind but just in case I'm skipping the chocolate.

Valentines day again, that glorious holiday invented by Hallmark and Cupid. Although I can be cynical when it comes to romance, I admit I rather like a day devoted to love. Of course that's most likely because I have someone who loves me, warts and all. I spent a long time getting ready last night and all through the process my husband watched me change dresses, stocking and undergarments several times. I solicited his help fastening the garters from my bustier to my stockings. He finally succeeded after much struggle and cursing and laugher.  I told him women who wore these on a regular basis must have staff.

After all was done I think I cleaned up fairly well, little black dress, red shoes, and the diamond heart around my neck pointed out an exposed cleavage unnecessarily. As expected, men in the room took note of it, but unexpectedly, my husband was the most appreciative of all of them. After a especially obvious ogling I pulled close to him on the dance floor and whispered, "I love that you saw me get ready and yet you can't take your eyes off of me." He smiled and spun me around again.

All in all a lovely evening with a wonderful meal of a lemony risotto with scallops and shrimp, the perfect band, and the regular group of friends we see every week. I was feeling pretty and sexy and enjoying the dancing so much. We sat down to recover from three dances in a row when I was approached by a woman I see on regular basis, but would certainly not call a friend. I was startled when she leaned down beside me and said, "You look especially beautiful tonight." I was beyond startled actually. I just said a quick thank you and then there was an awkward moment when she continued to bend over expectantly. I guess you might need some background to appreciate the awkwardness.

My husband, the kindest of men, refers to her as "10 pounds of potatoes in a 5 pound sack." She is not totally unattractive, maybe a bit lumpy, but her clothing seems to have been purchased for her size 4 teenage daughter. Not only is it too small, it is very skimpy and stuff always hangs out so much you just feel embarrassed for her.  Her husband seems to adore her as much as mine does me, but their performance on the dance floor makes me throw up a little in my mouth. He guides her around the floor by putting his hand on her ass. Sometimes he moves right on down to the bottom of her skirt and pulls it up while he grinds against her with his rather large belly. I know I sound like a terrible person saying this but trust me, I am being as kind as I can be in my description.

So back to the almost naked rotund woman bending over my seat. Finally she realizes that I am not going to return the compliment and she straightens up. After the surprise of the encounter the horror of the accolade hits me. She thinks I look good! Oh my God, I can never wear this dress again! I need to lose 15 pounds by tomorrow! After she moves away I turn to my husband for reassurance. "Honey, do I look like a slut tonight?" He laughs and calms me as much as he can but I cannot shake the lingering uncertainty. I sit there wishing she had said something nasty to me like she usually does when speaks at all. I make a trip to the ladies room and take a long look, but I do not have the gift of objectivity about my own appearance. By the time we came home around midnight I was in a better frame of mind but the first thing on my agenda today is the gym. Well, confession first I suppose and then gym.

Hope Valentine's Day finds you in love, but if it doesn't remember that there's someone out there for you. Maybe some one you already know, maybe the next one that walks through the door.  XOXOXO

A Very Minor Occurrence

  It seems indecent to post her picture here, this wild thing, mute and still in death. I do not know if she died from hunger or, struck by a car on the road, she limped here to rest. Before I found her I had followed the story her hoofs made in the deep snow, crossing back and forth, x and o, circle, and around  again. I saw where she had scraped the snow back searching for food by the tree, and there a branch shows her teeth marks. When I am almost to the edge of the water the unexpected smooth brown fur startles me.  I freeze in place and watch her, waiting for an explosion of motion when she realizes I have found her sleeping place. As I stare at her belly for a tell tale sign of breath I walk back in my mind through my noisy passage to this spot. No living deer would be within miles of the clumsy ape that rules this forest, my feet like thunderclaps across the still landscape. As minutes pass and she stays there, motionless, I notice how the snow covers her front hoof, how the crystal ice on her rough coat catches the sun and clothes her in precious gems like a woodland fairy.

Back inside my warm house I think back to reading a story to my eldest son from an old book that had belonged to his great aunt, Deer In the Snow, by Miriam Schlein. It was an idyllic tale of young children who lived with their parent in the woods where game was abundant. They notice three deer that seem to be hungry and the father goes to the feed store and buys oats and alfalfa so the children can keep them nourished all winter. The book was written in 1956, long before deer suffered from overpopulation. In fact in the 1930's the white tailed deer came close to extinction in the US. It is difficult to imagine today as recent estimates put the deer population at around 30 million, enough to qualify as a nuisance in suburban and even smaller urban areas.

Yet here I am looking at the picture of one fallen deer and I cannot help feeling sad. I suppose if I had known she was hungry I would have tried to feed her, even realizing it would be a stupid thing to do. It's just that there is a difference in the millions of deer that trample down our suburban flower beds or throw themselves in the paths of cars and this one dead helpless creature lying nestled in the snow, glittering in the sun, under a sky as blue as cornflowers. It is always thus when we are directly confronted with natural selection.  I suppose in that stopped clock way Joseph Stalin was correct when he stated that, "A single death is a tragedy, a million deaths is a statistic." Today under my tree, by my lake, during my watch, a lovely creature breathed her last breath, hungry, cold, and alone.