She’s at the seminar table, her heart pounding, breath coming in gasps, their eyes on her, when her voice fails her. Her talk on Pynchon all but forgotten, past and future fade into the irony of Mucho Maas and his love for Oedipa as she knows but doesn’t realize just how much more she wants. Her classmates, clueless, stare at her in silence, but for one: “Killer handout,” he tells her.
I did something new yesterday. Well, not really new; I used to do it all the time before a few months ago.
Yesterday, I did only one thing at a time. I didn’t multitask. While I did something, I tried to focus my mind on what I was doing. I did not stop to check my email. I did not go on Twitter. I did not grab my phone mid-sentence to Google something. I stopped at the grocery store, played with my boys, visited my friends. We had lunch together. I drove home, listening to the radio, and had a nice conversation with my 5-year old. I thought about why I’m blogging, what blogging is adding to my life. I thought about what blogging is taking away from my life.
All that time, I did not write any posts. During my baby’s nap, I exercised and read a book. In the late afternoon, I dropped the boys at my neighbor’s and spent girl time with my daughter. We talked about our upcoming trip and we laughed together at her 7-year-old humor. We bought fabric together for me to sew her some things.
Still, I did not check my email or text anyone. I focused on the present moment. And you know what? I felt clearer than I have in several weeks. I know that there are several projects that I want to complete over the next couple of months, and it’s going to take more of these kind of days for me to be able to do that. I love blogging, don’t get me wrong. But sometimes I just need to do one thing at a time.
I think this is going to be my new thing: One-thing Thursday. Will you join me?
What do you call a friend on Twitter? I’m new to this, so I’m not sure. Is it a Twitterer? Â A Tweetie? I have no idea. But I have one.
It’s a guy, and that’s a little bit of a problem for Geoff. But he’s dealing. This Twitter friend, Mr. P, he is a flirt. Which is nice for me, bad for Geoff. But he’s also got a few things in common with me. He’s a parent. He’s a writer. He’s a blogger. He’s going through some changes, too. So I feel like we have some common ground.
When you’re trying to reinvent yourself, you need someone to stamp their approval on you, to validate the new you. Now, this is a totally new concept to me. I’ve always  tried to avoid seeking approval from others. It usually leaves me wanting more. It makes me feel never quite good enough. I don’t expect a lot of compliments, and I can live with the knowledge that you might not agree with me, or even like me. But for some reason, I suddenly find myself needing to hear that I’m doing this right. Maybe that’s an effect of blogging, or it’s simply reflective of the change I’ve gone through lately. My identity is in flux and I seem have lost my own approval stamp.
Since Mr. P is just a Twitter friend, and because there’s no threat of running into him around the corner, I can be really honest in ways that I can’t with others. Well, honest up to 140 characters, anyway. And he’s pretty supportive for someone whom I don’t really know. He doesn’t judge, doesn’t make me feel like a freak for wanting to be different. It’s nice to have a Twitter groupie. You ought to give it a try.
Today I’m going to tell you a story about my grandma. My mom’s mom. She was Jewish, so I called her Bubbie. When I was really young, before I went to school and learned about Jesus and other things that made her uncomfortable, she loved me. She took me places–the bowling alley, the zoo, restaurants, the mall. It’s so easy to love someone who doesn’t yet know her own mind. And I loved her, too. My mom didn’t go out much, so those trips with Bubbie were all the more special.
I used to spend the night at Bubbie’s pretty often. My mom needed the break, I imagine. On one such sleepover, I guess that I was about 10 at the time, Bubbie helped me get ready for bed.
“It’s time for you to rinse with mouthwash,” she announced, pulling out the large bottle of Listerine from under the counter. “You’re old enough.”
Now, let me explain. This was the 80s, and mint-flavored Listerine hadn’t been invented yet. The liquid inside the bottle was an angry amber color, revealing only a hint of the hell it would wreak inside my mouth.
“Okay,” I agreed, cluelessly excited about trying something new for Bubbie.
“Put this into your mouth and swish for one minute,” she directed me, as she poured some into a paper cup.
I gulped it into my mouth, my blind trust about to be shattered. I choked. I cringed as the horrible burning spread through my mouth. What was this feeling? Why would my Bubbie do this to me?
I couldn’t take the pain. Have you ever tasted old-school Listerine? I’ve never tried moonshine, but that Listerine couldn’t have been much worse.
Bubbie saw me struggling. “Come on,” she coaxed, serious. “You can take the pain. You’re a woman.” She sounded certain. I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t spit. I swished through the pain. The minute passed, although it felt like hours.
Finally she let me spit and rinse. The experience was seared into my brain. It took 15 years and a reaming by a hygienist before I tried Listerine again. By that time, the Listerine was minty and more gentle. By then I knew my own mind and my Bubbie hated me.
To this day I think back to that day in my Bubbie’s fancy bathroom. She taught me something about myself: I am strong enough to take it. I’m a woman.
That certainty saw me through three natural births and my grief after my mom died. On a regular basis, it gets me through the day. I have much more to write about my Bubbie, but for today, know this: Even though she died hating me, I love her still.
She made her way ahead of me on the path, leading the dog on her leash, in her quiet way. Earlier in the day she had been angry and still tired from a bad night’s rest. Now, settled, she wandered among the scrub and flowers pulling the lazy dog down the grassy path. She stops to watch the hawks circling overhead. She, like me, was being herself, a beautiful, messy-haired seven-year old.
Before I became a mom, I thought that I would want to teach my daughter everything that I know. I mistakenly believed that I needed to learn a certain amount before I would be able to raise her the right way, as if there is even a right way to be a mom. Now that motherhood is my reality, I find myself wanting more to just stand back and watch to see what she becomes.
From my walk yesterday.
 
    
I know that I just gave you a confession, but I have something else to admit. I like to let a little bit of my bra show. Sometimes I choose a shade darker than my shirt, or a pattern that peeks through the fabric. Sometimes the lacy edge peeks out from my neckline. It just makes me feel a little bit racy, a little bad, if you know what I mean. Now, you know I’m a mom. Most of the time I am dragging three kids around, from here to there, to school, to piano lessons, to swimming. I often have my one-year old on my arm. More often than not, my hands are sticky from someone’s snack. And that feeling can be annihilating.
But when I know that I caught Geoff’s eye on his way out the door to work, or I feel a guy’s eyes on me (I know, I should be ashamed, I’m married!) I feel a little more alive, a little more me. It helps me get through these mommy years in one piece. It reminds me that being a sexy girl was what got me into this mess in the first place, and that I will one day return to what I was—more or less—a sexy woman with nice clean hands.
Do other moms do this? I definitely haven’t noticed any bits of lace peeking out. But I say go for it! Moms, do your hair and wear your date night shoes on regular days too. Go shopping, alone, for yourself. It feels great.
I do have one friend who tried my advice. She religiously wears sweats. Recently she confided that she did some lingerie shopping, and that she’s been wearing her sexy bras and panties under her sweats. Her husband loves it, and I hear she’s been reaping the benefits.
So, guys, when you see us moms, in our sweats, hair in ponytails, tugging flocks of kids along by the arms, well, you ought to look more closely. Things are not always as they appear. Sometimes, they are a lot more interesting.
I never met my dad. Have I mentioned that? I can’t remember. He and my mom had a fling, as far as I can tell from her piecemeal stories. They worked together in a pawn shop. Yeah, awesome, I know. I have no idea how long it lasted, only that there was a night with steak and eggs, an emerald ring, and sex.
My dad had two children before me. He was a drinker. His son, age three, was the victim of tragedy. My dad, drunk, backed his car into him. My dad never forgave himself, never got over the loss.
Years later, still long before that fateful night with my mom, his daughter was thrown from a horse and killed. That closed the chapter on parenthood for my dad. Still long before my conception. So, you see, any hope that I had of a relationship with my dad was doomed before I was even an embryo.
Flash forward–I’m seven years old. Like all seven-year olds, I’m a writer. I write letters to friends, to neighbors, to my dad. I wish I had that letter; I would post it here. I asked. Please meet me. I want to meet you.
No answer. Not even a note in reply. How could my seven-year-old self recover from that? She didn’t. She shut out her dad. No dad at all is always better than one who ignores you, right?
Fate was on my side. My dad passed away a year later. The drinking caught up with him. Death sealed the deal. It was a relief, it really was. No longer did I have to tell myself the story that my dad didn’t love me enough to meet me. But it’s true.
I’ll end with this thought: You might think that my dad’s failings damaged me in some way. You’re wrong. My mom loved me enough for two parents. She taught me how to ascertain my worth from within myself. She taught me never to accept less than the best from others, and to block out negativity. And I do.
Six days and counting. We’re all excited, but I intend to draw it out. I’m going to savor each and every moment leading up to our departure.
Six days until our first camping trip of the summer. Six days until we load the car with the bare necessities. Six days until we close up the house, leaving the realities and responsibilities behind. Six days until we return to ourselves.
In preparation I will make a list. Food we want, the special things that we eat only in the wilderness. Sugary cereals, smoked sausages to roast over the fire, eggs to cook quickly after our hike, whole melons, and marshmallows, of course marshmallows. And beer.
Also on the list: sunscreen, band aids, flip flops, a new frisbee, some rope, bug spray, ice. Only the necessities, remember?
After shopping, I will pack, arranging everything carefully so unpacking will be effortless. I will stuff the cooler and have it ready to toss in the trunk at the last moment.
I will check the directions and show the kids the campground on the map. I will begin the process of detangling from the demands of home. I will begin to let go.
I will make a playlist of music, a small pile of books to direct my thoughts in their wandering. I will pack my art supplies and sketchbook. Finally, when all is readied, I will wait, excitedly. I will close up the house, shut the curtains and leave things neat to ease our return.
At last, when the sixth day arrives, I will help load the car. I will buckle the baby into his carseat and watch as the kids settle themselves into their seats. As we begin to drive I’ll let my thoughts go, watching and listening. Being. At last.
I like to take risks. Not every day, but every once in a while, I like to just jump into something. I love to wander around a new place, I like to hike a difficult trail even with my kids in tow, I get a rush from challenging someone’s ideas.
Now, if you know me, you know that I am not the type to go off the deep end. You probably would never consider me a risk taker. You’ll just have to trust me, I am.
I just took a quiz that proves it. I take most of my risks in the social sphere, but also quite a lot recreationally. I do wait through the cold months to drag my kids to the wilderness for days on end all summer with the bare minimum of supplies, just to teach them how to slow down and survive. I do count on my body to take on whatever adventure I choose, regardless of my training and ability. Sometimes that gets me into trouble, and I like it that way.
The Wall Street Journal article that referenced the quiz explains that women, commonly thought to be more risk-adverse than men, in reality, do take a lot of risks. It’s true, for me. I am, I think, uniquely able to act on my thoughts and desires. I am out of the workforce right now, by choice, which gives me a certain level of freedom to do as I please. I am not accountable to a boss, other than my family. Really, I feel no pressure to impress anyone right now, which I did for all of my 20s. In the absence of pressure, I can consider my true opinions about things. In most cases, I feel comfortable speaking up about my opinions, politely of course. When I do feel uncomfortable, I’ve come to like the energy burst it gives me.
So why, you might ask, would I consider giving up this freedom, my time with my kids, my ownership of my life to return to the workforce in a new, uncharted capacity? Why, if I am so fortunate to have all that I technically need, do I feel so drawn to reinvent myself at this moment? It’s completely risky. I am investing my time and energy in a project that has no formal description and has no documented endgame. I want to be creative and get paid for it. It’s going to be difficult and demanding and I’m going to love every minute of it. Because I am a risk taker. I’m with 36-year-old Paul Cusma, investment banker and speed junkie, who calls it when he says, “I don’t want to wake up one day and realize I forgot to live my life.â€
