forget me not
February 4, 2011 § Leave a comment
As I began to scribble my stories, one character abided quietly in the margins.
In the beginning my husband was a classmate, our time together was limited to the space of a college English class. I was endeared by the undertones of kindness and love that were threaded in personal stories he shared, I noted his confidence and easy humor, but my attention was absorbed by classwork and multiple part-time jobs. Our class ended and we parted ways for the next two years, never to cross paths on the small, private campus we shared until one evening late in his Senior year.
Drawn away from my books by a phone call from a St. Patrick’s Day celebration I begrudgingly set my studies aside and made my way to the festivities. Slurring speech and green beer flowed around me while I kept an eye open for an opportunity to excuse myself. Then, a familiar face offered me a chair in a quiet corner and took a knee settling in to catch up on the years between an old class and that moment. I was happy to see him and our conversation was easy.
Months later, he was long graduated and , unbeknownst to me, traveling across numerous states to serve as a groomsman in former classmates’ weddings. With little more than a wish for friendship I sent a note to his home address listed in our college directory. After a spell I forgot about my note.
Then, out of the blue, he called. We slipped naturally into an ongoing, long distance conversation. We filled the distance with details of each other’s days. Notes and flowers punctuated our phone calls and I recognized there was something beautiful between us.
Still, I was entering my Senior year and not sure a relationship could grow in the demanding space of school work and an uncertain future. My concerns were balanced by his determination, patience and respect formed a foundation that supported all that we shared. We moved forward together and have ever since. The conversation is still easy, respect and patience constant companions.
early bird
February 3, 2011 § Leave a comment
I wish I could paint the moment I met my son. He looked at me with large brown eyes and I could not speak for the overwhelming beauty of his tiny soul. I slipped my fingertip into his firm grasp and pleaded silently that he know what I could not say. It was a handshake of sorts, a new partnership in my endeavor as a mother. I promised to do my best if he could hold on tightly and know that he was loved.
I stumbled through my first months as a new mother. The book What to Expect When You’re Expecting was unfinished and my first Lamaze class a date yet unmet when my son came into this world prematurely. I was intimidated, unprepared, and overwhelmed.
I counted my blessings between emotional greetings and departures from the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit that was my son’s first home. Hospital visits were weighted with the worry of first time parents and magnified by monitors hovering over sleeping infants where musical mobiles ought to have been. Oblivious of our audience, my husband would sing What a Wonderful World in the gravelly tone of Louis Armstrong to the tiny bundle tangled in tubes and I would nestle our son against my skin feeling more complete with him near.
While I felt helpless and weary for my inability to make everything better, my son met his challenges with energy and strength. Tiny hands repeatedly removed the breathing tubes until doctors understood he could breathe on his own. My husband and I had sought his bedside hoping our love would give him strength, but it was his strength that gave us hope. It is this memory I recall each time he faces a new challenge. I watch my son and wait for signs that he is okay; eager to help, but aware of his strength.
puppy love
January 30, 2011 § Leave a comment
Temporary insanity, our judgement clouded by sentiment, we adopted a puppy. The homecoming was intended, but unscheduled. For years our son had begged for a canine companion. My husband and I danced around the subject avoiding a commitment by pledging One Day. Still, the calendar gave no indication that One Day was That Day.
In a moment of spontaneity I suggested to my husband we visit a local pet store with both children and attempt to identify, individually and collectively, our prerequisites for picking a puppy. Breed, adult size, personality were concepts we had yet to discuss. Logic was soon overpowered by animal attraction. One by one, we were each drawn to a crimson bundle with eager green eyes. On clumsy puppy paws she tumbled onto our laps finding a home in our hearts.
We can mark the passage of time by our pup’s stages; stuffed animals, slippers, and socks have fallen victim to teething and teasing. Errands and excursions are scheduled around our furry family member’s comfort. Guests have weathered kisses and full-contact embraces with shock and grace. Chaos is as common as cuddles and smiles as prevalent as apologies. It is, after all, a dog’s life.
a book
January 27, 2011 § 1 Comment
A book. Such a small thing in which to lose an entire person. Just as an author breathes life into her characters, these characters draw me through the Looking Glass into their world.
As a child I was an early reader and this interest was a companion in times of change. My parents divorced when I was very young, forever altering the landscape of my life. Homes, friends, expectations became unpredictable. Still, the familiarity of the written word gave me peace. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret. by Judy Blume, accompanied me on my journey into puberty when my own mother was miles away. The comfort and guidance of a woman’s voice anchoring me in a sea of turbulence.
Books fueled teenage fantasies of first loves and inspired daydreams during algebra. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, predicted complicated suitors with confusing messages of disinterest and adoration; Mr. Darcy was the standard by which I measured the boys in high school.
Later, required college reading would help me identify a passion in the vast world of academia. Shakespeare, Descartes, Min-Zhan Lu, and Foucault challenged me to push against my own boundaries and awakened a student of English, Philosophy, and Sociology. I started to see language as an instrument with which I could mold the world around me.
As a mother, books are part of my children’s daily regimen, nurturing their imaginations with pages of well loved books. Before they could read, each child would nestle into my lap, our time together a meeting place for exploration. On countless afternoons Shel Silverstein lead us down a magical sidewalk where humor and creativity inspired laughter and conversations centered in curiousity. Over time my children began to request new titles, their choices spoke of unique personalities finding their way in literature; picture books became chapter books, non-fiction evolved into research for their own ideas.
My story is common to many. Still, my passion for the possibility lurking between the covers of a new title calls to me and I am happily lost to another journey with an old love.
hide and peek
January 25, 2011 § 1 Comment
I am a nosey, private person; I welcome anonymity, but compulsively peek. I hide my Facebook account from strangers, but frequently search out old acquaintances. This cast of characters from stories long forgotten tug at my heartstrings. Images of veterans from my teenage trenches and college cliques, or suitors that didn’t suit bring to life hazy memories with the click of a mouse.
I peek into these publicly, private spaces seeking a moment of remembrance, not from another but for myself. Little voices call me mother, but so much of the woman within celebrates stolen moments from the past. They are my tiny treasures, beautiful pebbles in the ever flowing stream of life. I extract them for a moment, marvel at their beauty, and then replace them safely for another day.
breathe
January 24, 2011 § 1 Comment
Each time I dive into a body of water, I am convinced I am going to drown. Airborne and caught between the concrete and unknown below the water’s surface I am enveloped in panic and terror. Within seconds of submersion I sputter gracelessly, fighting to surface, choking on fear and exhilarated to see daylight. My mother lays the burden of this fear at the feet of a relative who threw me into a pool as a toddler and allowed me to struggle under water for instructional purposes. The swim lesson was a singular event, largely recalled through my mother’s eyes. Those feelings however haunt me in moments outside my control and help to give voice to a larger fear… the unknown.
Restless in my relationship with fear I have grown tired of tiptoeing through my days, holding my breath in hesitation. I envy those that seem to bound through their days with heart and energy, exuding confidence and strength; warmth and loyalty; passion and persistence. I gather these spirited personalities close to me and celebrate them. In the warmth of their support I find myself testing the water, fantasizing about the perfect swan dive.
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