Pink hollyhocks burst against an adobe wall.
A ladder to nowhere casts haphazard shadows.
Sagebrush guards the well; her black door becomes a window, becomes an eye, becomes a gate to the faraway.
Notes on my one-year old
This morning, he was lying facedown on my bed, his adorable little face lying on the blanket, so I joined him. I put my face right up against his on the blanket, nose to nose. He laughed. We stayed like that for a moment, smiling at each other. Then he jumped up and climbed onto my back, wrapping his arms and legs around me like a baby monkey. He laughed and said, “Mommy!” Then we laid like that for awhile.
I love him like crazy at this age. He’s so open, so full of himself. He has little fear and heaps of curiosity. He doesn’t hold himself back. If only he could permanently remain in the here and now and not reach two, a thief waiting to steal all of his fun.
The little mischief maker:
All dads should play pony
“Where’s my brown-eyed princess?†he called as soon as he set his hat on the rack and tossed his coat over the banister. His voice reverberated throughout the small house, now all the more a home because of his arrival.
He kicked his wet shoes off into the mat and loosened his tie, unbuttoned two buttons on his white shirt. “Come on, princess, let’s play!†he called, waiting. Usually she was sitting by the door, but today she was off somewhere, immersed in a game.
He quickly ran a hand through his hair and got down on his hands and knees. “Come ride your pony,†he boomed.
“Daddy!†she cried, running from the kitchen, through the house, and vaulted into his back, hugging him. “I love you, Daddy! I missed you!â€
“I missed you, too, princess,†he said, beginning his loop around the living room. “Where to today?†he asked, as he did every day.
“Can we go to India?†she asked, her voice hopeful and excited.
“Of course, princess,†he agreed, rounding the armchair and nearing the fireplace. “Which way is it to India?†he asked.
“Oh, Daddy, I don’t know. Don’t you know the way?â€
“Well, I’m not sure, but I think we need to go south, and over oceans.†He paused near the fire for a few moments.
“Oceans, Daddy?†she asked as she tightened her grip on the collar of his shirt.
“Yes, princess. But ponies cannot ride over oceans, so we’ll need to take a ship.â€
“A ship? Really?†she was so excited that she nearly fell off of his back.
He stopped while she climbed back on, “Yes, my love, a huge ship! Would you like that?â€
“Yes, Daddy! Let’s go! Mommy and Norman can come, too, right?â€
“Yes, princess,†he laughed his deep laugh, pausing to lean against the sofa. Little did he know that in a few short months he’d be boarding a plane without his family. Ships were no longer the only way to cross oceans.
“Oh, Daddy, I can’t wait to sail to India and meet the Indians!†she cried, climbing off of his back and onto the sofa. “When do we leave?†As he sat up, she grabbed his hands.
“After dinner, my love, after dinner,†he laughed, turning to smile and wink at his wife—my Bubbie—in the kitchen doorway, who was holding a dishtowel and wearing the same slightly displeased expression that would come to be her usual expression years later when I was born.
“Dinner is ready,†she said.
By the water
It flits by, quietly landing on her arm.
“Look,” I whisper, gently touching her arm near its landing place.
“Oh, a damselfly!” she whispers excitedly.
Of course she knows its proper name, but that doesn’t explain how she attracts these ethereal beings, why they seem to hover around her daily as if they recognize her.
“How do you charm them?” I ask as the damselfly moves away.
She laughs in reply.
Breaking the rules
I’ve been thinking a lot about rules lately, and I’ve been breaking more than a few. Sadly, even some of what I write as a blogger breaks some of the rules of my marriage. Last week, I read this article by Molly Crababble on money and success. She contends that to accomplish anything above and beyond the marriage-big-house-two-and-a-half-kids pipe dream, women have to break the rules. I agree.
In her article, Molly Crabapple talks about how artists in particular have to transgress established norms. Artistic success, she says, depends on “doing the ambitious work everyone said you weren’t ready for, then getting mocked and rejected for it, until, slowly, the wall began to crack. You could never do what you were supposed to, never stay quietly in your place.â€
I’ve mentioned this before, but if you’re new around here, one of my reasons for blogging is that I want to return to work. I want to work as a writer, and I want to write creatively. My plan is to start with writing about myself and move on to separate characters. I find myself in a unique position: well-educated, with some decent experience on my resume, and with several years away from the workforce to raise my kids. Not to mention that I have a certain level of financial freedom.
Since I stopped working full-time when my daughter was born, my husband’s opinion has been that it doesn’t pay for me to work. Truthfully, by the time we pay for childcare and our ridiculously high tax bracket, there would be very little money left to make my efforts worthwhile. This is the “official†reason that I stay at home full-time. It doesn’t include my strong desire to be at home with my kids when they are little, to start them off with a strong emotional attachment. It doesn’t begin to cover all the fun that we’ve had together over the past seven years, and it certainly ignores all the skills that I’ve learned as a mom.
Stepping out of the workforce has given me clarity about the pros and cons of paid employment and what I really want out of a job. I want to do what I love. It’s a sacrifice to hand over part of your life to a manager. I’d love to have the freedom to write as I like, indefinitely, without any consideration of pay. But I think that’s impractical. And honestly, I think it will serve my marriage well for me to once again receive a regular paycheck.
So here I am, on the cusp of changing nearly everything about the daily structure of my life, of my kids’ lives, of Geoff’s life. I want to savor this time as I transition from full-time to part-time mom. But I’m constantly reminded how much I have come to expect of myself in this unpaid role. It’s nothing short of perfection. I am used to filling my days with taking care of my family’s needs, with making their lives special and fun. I do love that job, with all my heart. But I just can’t do it all anymore. And to change, I need to break the rules.
To write this blog, which I hope to craft into a portfolio, I need time away from my kids. Rule #1 broken. I need to hire a sitter during the day, which means spending money. Rule #2 broken. I need to make time to do what’s important to me, and I need to do it before I take care of anyone else. Rule #3 broken. This is unfamiliar territory, and I only know that to succeed, I have to make up new rules as I go. Do you think it’s easy to make up new rules? Does it sound like fun? Maybe. But it’s also hard, like running uphill. Sometimes a nice life, with enough money, a loving husband, and three cute kids, can act like a trap.
I’m going for the impossible here: I want to have the family and a job that I love. Do any of you have an axe I can borrow?
Vision
She stands on the log as if on a stage, the sun casting its beams in a ring around her. Slowly, she lowers herself, dipping a toe into the smooth blue water below.
Today’s math lesson: Money = Love
“I’m not going to be able to give you your birthday money anymore,†Bubbie announces over egg rolls. Her announcement has a finality to it. As always, Bubbie is not messing around.
I look at her blankly, say nothing.
It’s my twelfth birthday. I’m celebrating with my mom, my aunt, and my grandma at the neighborhood Chinese restaurant. We’re Jewish – we celebrate many family occasions here.
Twelve-year-old me understands that Bubbie’s “birthday money†is the U.S. government savings bond that she gives me each year for my birthday gift. I know that the money is for my college fund. I also understand that when she says she won’t be able to what she means is that she’s not going to. She’s punishing me, but I don’t know why.
Two weeks earlier there was a fight. I’d like to tell you that it wasn’t physical, but it was. I lost. My sister, then 30 years old, won, in more ways than one.
“Mother,†my mom sharply protests. In her defense, she did try to speak up for me, this time. Two weeks earlier it had been a different story. “It’s Christi’s birthday. Let’s enjoy our lunch.â€
“Fine,†announces Bubbie, shaking her head self-righteously. So the subject is dropped. But it still hangs there, above our table, clouding our wonton soup. Lingering.
At 12, I had no idea why my sister attacked me, frightening me, hitting me, blaming me for her failures. I had no idea – then and now – why my grandmother could have possibly sided with my sister. It was my first sign of their unbreakable and dysfunctional bond. I had no idea how money equaled love to my Bubbie, and how she could only show her love for her first granddaughter – her rightful granddaughter – by taking it away from me, her last granddaughter, her only illegitimate one. I only knew that I must have done something really wrong to make everyone hate me. But I had no idea what it was.
I stare at the fish tanks and wish that I could get in, get away from my family, this family of only women who seem to want to tear each other apart. I don’t want to be 12 if this means no one loves me anymore, that by simply being me I’ve done everything wrong. I can’t even say anything. I have no idea what to say. So I eat my soup and stare silently at the fish.
This meal was one of many Chinese restaurant meals with my family, similar in menu, décor, and introspection. I spent my teenage years floating in and out of my relationship with Bubbie. Sometimes I worked hard to please her, sometimes I tolerated her quietly, sometimes I fought back. But I always knew that no matter what I did, it would never be enough. And true to her word, she never gave me another birthday bond.
On the side of the highway in France
Geoff, you were there. I’m willing to bet that you’ll agree that this was far and away our most romantic dinner ever.
We were on our honeymoon, in France. A little background: I studied French for many years and could order in restaurants, follow directions on the street. I wanted more — to convince everyone that I was French. To do that, I never smiled and spoke as little as possible.
We started our trip in Paris, with long walks and croissants. We moved on after a week to little towns in the countryside: Avignon, Cannes. There were more, but I can’t remember them. The last stop of our trip was in Nice. The evening we drove there we set out late without having eaten. We were hungry and hoping to stop along the way. The highway, ironically revealed only McDonald’s and we kept going.
We were nearing the edge of Cannes, about to give up on dinner altogether. But we were very hungry, so it felt awful, almost depressing. As we neared the interchange ramp, the restaurant appeared, like a mirage.
It was small, dimly lit from within. Previously a home, it exuded a warmth that is both characteristically French and nearly impossible to find among the French. We stopped and went in, pausing to glance at the menu in the window.
The very friendly hostess sat us immediately, speaking in quick French. She brought us aperitifs and hors d’oevres before we ordered. I don’t remember the food except that it was delicious; I have forgotten almost all of the details but for you and me together, starting out on this journey together, and being so happy. The surprise and mystery of that little restaurant by the side of the highway, its appearance at the best possible moment felt like good fortune. That piece of luck has always felt significant to me.
It’s this: If we stick together and keep going, good things will fall in our path. It’s worked for us so far.
It’s my birthday
I’m 36 today. I will miss being 35, because even though this has been a hard year, it’s been a good one. I’ve learned a lot about myself this year. I’ve made new friends and reconnected with old ones. I’ve started writing again, in a way that truly excites me. I’ve learned to be honest with myself about what I want and what I need. I’ve learned that I can trust myself but that I should also trust those closest to me. Sometimes others can see you the most clearly. I’ve begun to ask for help when I need it, and to occasionally seek approval or criticism from others. I like how that gives me a three-dimensional view of myself and forces me to resolve disparity between what I am and what I think I am.
This has been a hard year. If you’ve stuck by me, and if you know me in reality then you most certainly have, thank you. You reading my words is the most meaningful birthday gift I could receive.
There’s this blog I like
So, I’ve been blogging since March. And a couple of months ago I started following the blog link-up over at Yeah Write. Like most new bloggers, I’m trying to drum up readers, so I try to make the rounds and read what everyone posts once a week. Sometimes I’m better at it than other times. But there’s one blog that I really like, and I always check it out when I see it in the lineup.
Joe, over at Living in Kellie’s World, caught my eye right away, because, well, he’s hot. Check out his photo if you don’t believe me. He knows a thing or two about women. He’s good, for a guy. And he’s funny, which keeps me coming back. Plus, he’s smart. He reads.
The best thing about him is how much he truly seems to love and want to please his wife. From what I know about men, very few take the time to create a whole blog documenting their efforts to please their wives. Joe, I wish you were friends with my husband, Geoff. I have a feeling you’d be a good influence on him.
Here’s the thing. Week after week I try to comment on Joe’s blog. I craft friendly-but-not-too-friendly compliments, I suggest that he submit his posts to a publication with a larger audience. I do all the things that groupies do. And every week, no matter which format I use to submit, Joe’s blog rejects my comment. It’s weird.
Joe, what’s up with that?