Good-looking, nicely dressed guy approaches the boarding line. Tailored jeans, gray sport coat, shiny black shoes. Dark hair, graying at the temples, short beard.
His fly is down. Nice.
Snapshot: At lunch
Thoughts on Father’s Day
There’s this guy I know. He’s a single dad. Until recently I tried not to pay much attention to him because he’s hot. But it’s hard because it’s so obvious what a great dad he is.
His daughter shares a teacher with mine. The girls are not friends, but that’s another story. She struggles, that’s clear. She wants more attention, special attention, from her mom.
Her dad is crazy about her, though. He carries her cowgirl boots when she gets a blister. He drags her bike on foot all the way to school so she can ride home. He remembers all the little things for her, he braids her hair. He dresses up in crazy costumes for the Halloween parade. He’s so happy to see her when she runs out of school that his face lights up.
She knows he loves her. But it’s not enough, and she always seems needy. She bosses the other girls and she begs for special treatment from the other moms. Maybe that’s because she only sees her dad for half the week. Maybe it’s that her own mom is distracted, too busy to give her undivided attention.
And I’m struck by this: Why do we sometimes squander the love that we have in our search for the love that we don’t?
But that dad is an inspiration.
Let’s go to the donut shop
“Mom, I’m sweating,†my 5-year old whines. We’re walking through the neighborhood on our weekly trip to the donut shop. It’s about 75 degrees outside.
“It’s hot out,†I tell him, “but there are plenty of shady spots.â€
“Noooo!†He screams,â€I’m burning! It’s too hot out here. It needs to be air-conditioned!†he demands.
“What, outside?†I laugh.
“Yes!†he screams, puts his hands over his ears, and shrieks at the top of his lungs.
“Listen. If you want to walk all the way to the donut shop, you need to cheer up,†I tell him. “Go ahead, smile.â€
He does, grudgingly.
We continue walking in silence for a few minutes. I’m struck by the thought that in a few weeks he will be at school all day, and I won’t have these chances to help him cheer up, to spend time with him, and to teach him how to handle life in the moment. In these last few weeks I want to help him learn to cope with discomfort. It’s super challenging for a five-year old. I mean, it’s hard for me. But this will be an exercise for both of us.
Back before I had kids, when I was pregnant with my daughter, Geoff and I took Bradley method birthing classes. They were a little crunchy granola, but I’m telling you, this works. The Bradley method teaches you how to cope with pain. It teaches you relaxation. It shows you how to stop fighting against the pain and instead let the pain come and go. You learn to focus your attention elsewhere – on a photograph, or a part of your body that is not in pain.
It takes practice. You build up your tolerance to pain months ahead of time, training your mind by squeezing your partner’s hand, then by holding an ice cube, then finally by focusing through your early contractions. Then when you must, you lie down. You relax. You breathe. You feel the pain come and go. You think of your photograph, or of your feet, or whatever you choose, and you remind yourself that you will soon be free of the pain. The discomfort never becomes part of you, it is always separate.
And fighting it? Does that work? No more than my son’s shrieking made him feel better. Relaxing and succumbing to the pain was the only way that I found to get through it. Pain has its own rhythm and pain has its own language. Coping with it demands all of your attention and all of your submission. It doesn’t appreciate snark. It wants to own you; it demands your compliance.
And if you comply? If you ride out the pain? I found that after giving birth, after the pain had passed, I experienced the most profound feeling of happiness that I’ve ever experienced. It is truly spiritual. It’s a time not only for being with your new baby, but for experiencing your body, and the world, anew.
My son and I made it to the donut shop. Along the way we discussed Iron Man and Scooby Doo. We bought donuts and sat outside in the sun to eat them. He took a long time eating his, finally oblivious to the heat and just happy.
I think that we will keep up this weekly trip, even in July and August.
Why all-girl triathlons rock
I competed in a triathlon yesterday. Now, I’m no athlete. If you know me, you know that’s true. In fact, for some of my readers, who do know me but have not seen me in a while, this might come as a shock.
So let me explain. I competed as part of a relay team. I swam half a mile in just under 20 minutes, and ran on hard pavement to pass off our team’s ankle bracelet to my best friend, who was biking 14 miles. I did it all for her. Earlier this year she became diabetic, and the year has been such a struggle for her to come to terms with her new identity. Biking is something that she loves. It reminds her of how strong and healthy she is. So when she asked me to swim on her triathlon team, I immediately agreed. Half a mile in the pool was no big deal for me, athlete or not.
The thing is, the triathlon really impressed me. All the athletes were women. They came in all ages, shapes, and abilities. There was a small group of elites who completed the whole race in under an hour. There were cross-generational relay teams with moms and daughters. There was a large group of cancer survivors. There were moms, there were teenagers. There were die-hards and there were slowpokes. What I noticed the most was that everyone was there to support each other. There was an unspoken (and sometimes spoken) message that “we can do this!” It was so inspiring,
My daughter was very concerned about who won. At her age, winning matters. But the thing is, yesterday wasn’t about winning. It was about personal strength, determination, and health. There was energy up for grabs everywhere, and even more than that — sisterhood. It was awesome.
My five-year old has a third eye
Last week, my son signed up for the summer reading program at the library. The library provided a thoughtful prize: a third-eye tattoo. My son loves his. He put it on immediately and has been religiously careful not to wash it off.
I have to admit that I don’t know much about the third eye. My Google search revealed that the third eye offers perception beyond ordinary sight, and that it leads to a higher state of consciousness in which images have spiritual or psychological significance. But how does one get a third eye, aside from a kiddie tattoo from the library? Do we all have a dormant third eye, or is it a special gift? I think that I need to do some more reading on the subject.
In any case, my son has been asking about his third eye. I’ve tried to be honest without giving him too much information, you know? He’s only five, and I don’t think he’s ready to grapple with the full question of paranormal reality. So I told him that his third eye will let him see his Mom-Mom in heaven. He likes that a lot.
On the way to school today he told me that Mom-Mom is doing great in heaven and she is happy to see us. That made me smile. I’m glad for the link to the afterlife. Right after that, he licked my arm and then ran ahead to do his new happy dance, in which he sticks out his butt and wiggles it around while shaking his arms behind him.
There is nothing quite like a five-year-old boy.
Her talk
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.
One-thing Thursday
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?
I have a new Twitter friend
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.
Did your grandma ever make you rinse with Listerine?
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.
