right now (we are not in mexico)

right now, our daughter is sleeping that beautiful, give-it-all-up, trust-filled sleep.  pink cheeks.  sweaty hair.  slight snore from her slightly stuffy nose.  right now.

a few days ago, we celebrated her first birthday.  we had intended to be doing that celebrating in mexico, on a much-anticipated trip full of sun and water and cocktails and extended family.  instead, my poor husband is recovering from emergency surgery and a painful 9-day hospital stay.

in the past couple of weeks, i've done my fair share of we were supposed to be..., we had planned to..., we should be..., this sucks sucks sucks sucks sucks.  but you know who had no idea what we were "supposed to be" doing?  our daughter.  she only knew what we were actually doing, right then, in any given moment.  it was a mighty example she set.  sometimes i was able to follow her lead:

right now, i'm nursing my funny, smiley, exhausted daughter to sleep in the hospital parking deck.

right now, i'm holding my husband's hand.

right now, a good friend is standing and laughing with me in the cold, while she helps me when i really do need some help.

right now, i'm talking on the phone to a nice person with a squeaky voice who works for an airline.

right now, my newly one-year-old daughter is tasting a raspberry for the first time in her birthday "fruitcake."

in the year since she has been born, this small person has taught me many things, but one of the best things i am still and always learning from her is right now.  what is happening in your right now?

but i'm not too fond of october 18--with apologies to m

yesterday, i wrote about how i don't hate october 17, even though it's the anniversary of my father's death.

october 18, however, is the day after october 17, and therefore october 18 usually kind of sucks.  try as i might to resist it, every year i have a sort of subconscious build up to 10/17.  i take off work.  i plan dad-celebrating, family-loving activities.  i set aside time for writing.  and somehow, somewhere way down deep, i have this seed of a belief that this year, on october 17, something will change.

i never really fully recognize this kernel until october 18, of course.  when i can clearly see that the "something" i was hoping would change is not going to change.  i have not tranformed into a magical phoenix-like creature who now understands the meaning of life.  i did not have a dream in which my father appeared and told me the answers to all my doubts, wonderings, and hopes for the future.  lo and behold, on october 18, after all that celebrating and family-loving and writing, my dad is still dead.  well then.

this was especially hard to slam up against after anniversary one, and it was also extra crap-tastic after anniversary five.  this year, i thought i was wise to the ways of october 18.  indeed, it was no surprise to me when i woke up this morning to see that seed of a belief unearthed, barren, mute.  but even though it wasn't a surprise, it still wasn't fun.

october 18, it's a good thing you are the day m was born.  he is very special to me, so you get a pass.  otherwise, i'd just give up on you, i think.

i don't hate october 17

my father died exactly ten years ago.  on october 17.  since then, i notice the number sequence 10/17 everywhere, all the time.  i have an uncanny knack for checking the time at 10:17 in the morning and at 10:17 in the evening.  one of my closest friends in the world lives at 1017 _________ street.  i land on cell number 1017 in excel spreadsheets over and over again.

logically, it would make sense to me to hate that number, hate that reminder, hate it when october 17 rolls around every year.  but i don't.  i think i actually like it.  10/17 is now and forever linked to my dad, and so 10/17 makes me think of him, every time it shows up.  and i like thinking of my dad because i had a spec-damn-tacular dad.  every year, on october 17, i spend the day celebrating him and connecting with his memory and hanging out with my family.

this year, that celebration feels different to me, because this is the first year i've been a mama. this is the first year i've had this amazing daughter to take to one of her granddaddy's favorite breakfast places, to look up at me while those quintessential chamblee expressions form on her face, and to love with the same overwhelming, unconditional love i know my dad felt for me.  but this is also the first year i've had this incredible new human being who will never sit on my dad's lap, grin up at his slow smile, and crack up when he talks in his donald duck voice.

i never knew my granddaddy on my dad's side.  he died before i was born--before any of his grandchildren were born--just like my dad did.  i remember feeling awkward about that grandfather as a kid because i didn't know what to call him (no grandfather name is established when there are no grandchildren yet.), i didn't know if it was okay to ask about a dead person, and i didn't know if he would've liked me or not.  i want to help my daughter and her cousins know their granddaddy in some way, so in the spirit of celebrating him on october 17, i offer this:

my daughter and my nephews,

your granddaddy on the chamblee side...

checked everything in the house--but most especially the stove--at least six times before he left home

loved to eat breakfast and desserts from "the list"

wrote poetry for your grandma

made banners for his children on their birthdays and hung them in surprise places around our house

grunted when he was confused, mad, or in a tough spot

banged on the window over the kitchen sink to get our dogs to quit barking at least one million and seven times

washed the dishes but almost never put them away

couldn't stand whistling

trained us, all our cousins, and several unsuspecting friends that there is absolutely no smacking your food at the dinner table

wrote me a letter every single, solitary day when i was away at governor's school one summer between junior and senior year

taught us to drive at the farm on tractors, a go-cart, and an old chevy truck

once conspired with my siblings to hide breakfast from me on sunday morning before church because i was so hard to wake up

built a pond with just a scoop and a whole lot of trips back and forth

was a dreamer, a visionary, a schemer, a philosopher, a mediator, a stargazer, and a salt-of-the-earth farmer down to his toes

could be infuriatingly slow to speak but was frequently the one people listened to

laid down on the kitchen floor in front of the refrigerator when he was sick with the flu once every year

could make me laugh when i was mad better than anyone

was astonishingly smart but didn't show it off

had the best smile

would have loved to ride with you on the tractor at the farm
would have loved to listen to you laugh
would have loved to help you make a scarecrow at halloween
would have
simply
loved you.

and that's just a start.  ask me more anytime.  i'll tell you everything i can remember.

love,
me

the parent who remains

a note to my readers:  many of you know me and know my mother, so i feel it's important to point out that--like most of my poetry/creative writing--this piece is not autobiographical or even biographical.  it is, however, influenced by my own reflections at witnessing the strength and grace of many "parents who remain," including my own gorgeous mama.

she looks out the window and notices that the grass has been mowed.

someone mowed the grass and she never noticed and she can't think

when

or who

but it must have needed mowing and she is grateful

someone mowed the grass.

in a couple of weeks, she will need to mow it again.

and again after that.

and again and again and again.

for the rest of her life, this grass will need to be mowed.

she can do that.

she can absolutely do that.

she looks over at her husband's aunt

a very old lady

whose own only child lives an ocean away

and she knows that this aunt will need to go to the doctor soon.

in a few months, she will need to be the one to move this aunt
into a nursing home.

and visit her after that.

again and again and again.

for the rest of her husband's aunt's life, she will need to be looked after.

she can do that.

she can absolutely do that.

she looks around her at the house and all the people in it

a lot of stuff and a lot of people

and she thinks of oil changing, thank you card writing, retirement planning, dishes washing, grocery shopping, churchgoing, window replacing, dinner eating, dog medicine giving, trash taking out, taxes completing,

and representing

out and about in the world

representing

and deciding

all that deciding

that she will need to do.

deciding.

she can do all of that.

and

looking at her children,

all grown up

as grown up as they will ever get in her eyes,

she does her very first deciding since everything changed.

she decides:

i will watch my children be heartbroken.

i will not try to cover up their pain or pretend it doesn't exist.

i will not offer them stupid platitudes that make them feel oddly guilty about being sad.

i will not act out when their father's memory seems to get more attention than my living presence.

and

i will accept their help when i really need it.

they are each, in turn, finding her in the room

every few minutes

checking in with their eyes or a hand on her arm as they walk by

because

she is heartbroken too

and she knows they know that.

the non-negotiable breakfast

part six in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

when i was growing up, my dad had only one demand when we went on vacation.  that demand was breakfast.  he didn't care much whether we spent all day in the ocean or walked the pier 25 times or sunned ourselves into oblivion around the pool reading magazines with our walkmans turned up.  but breakfast was non-negotiable.  and it was early.

at around 7:30 in the morning, he'd start to get antsy, and no later than 8, we were dragged out of bed, pulling our hair back in sloppy ponytails or grabbing a baseball cap, and sliding on flip-flops or jellies or those adidas slipper-shoes to go to some spot that would serve us bacon and coffee and maybe some biscuits and molasses.  we protested mightily.

but now, so many years later, guess what each of my siblings and i consider to be an inviolable part of going on vacation?  yes, indeed:  breakfast.

i'm curious:  what are your vacation must-dos?

what are your befores and afters?

in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.

lately, i am thinking about the eras in our lives, the ways we measure our "befores" and our "afters."

global standards dictate that the timeline of human history is measured in b.c. and a.d.--or sometimes b.c.e. and c.e.  but i'm more interested in how each of personally marks time.

my memories tend to get automatically passed through the "before daddy died" and  "after daddy died" filter.  i reckon that could sound morbid, but i'm guessing i'm not the only one who has discovered that one of those "before-and-after-death-of-loved-one" filters got installed in my brain without my realizing it.  

i also have the "before baby was born" and "after baby was born" measure, "when i was in chicago" marker, a "when i could still eat gluten" and "gluten-free era" label, and a "when i was in the green/blue/yellow bedroom" filter from the musical bedrooms me and my siblings played growing up.

when i'm writing or performing a character, i often try to identify a moment in which things change for that character.  now i'm curious to think about characters in terms of their "befores" and "afters," the filters through which they catalogue their lives, the ways in which they mark time.

so, you can help me write stronger characters.  let me know:  what are the "befores" and "afters" that mark time in your life?

two years ago today

in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.

two years ago today
she got dressed in a barn that smelled like gasoline and fertilizer.
she pulled off her daddy's flannel shirt and pulled on her mother's wedding gown,
made new again.
she smiled without ceasing
and knew she was lucky
to have these people with her
at this place that is part of her chemistry her biology her physics.

two years ago today
she knew enough to know that she didn't know what the years would bring.
she knew enough to know that she couldn't predict
that she would take a new job in a few months
that he would grow an astonishing moustache
that they would argue over this thing or agree over that thing
that they would have a baby
girl
who stretches their hearts in every direction.

and today
she knows enough to know that she still doesn't know what the years will bring.
she knows enough to know that she can't predict
how much money they will have
who will be healthy and for how long
when it will be easy or when it will be hard
what they will create
as a family or as individuals.

but today
just like two years ago today
she knows enough to know that she wants to do all of this with this same person by her side
and these people (and more like them) in their circle
willing and ready to affirm the joyful times and the shitty times for each other
down by the pond
in a mid-summer butterbean rain.

a wobble-versary--OR--why i like marking the passage of time

in celebration of july 31, the anniversary of the day my husband and i got married, this week’s blog posts will be about the ways we mark the passage of time.

it seems that 2012 is a big deal for earth. apparently, the earth wobbles when it turns. it wobbles really very slowly, so one complete wobble takes somewhere around 26,000 years. it seems that 2012 marks the completion of one cycle of an earth wobble, which means we're now back in the same place wobble-wise we were 26,000 years ago, but slightly moved over. if i understand it correctly, this means we’re in essentially the same orientation, but things look a little different now. the stars are not quite in the same places they were 26,000 years ago.

three things about this wobble idea remind me why i like marking time:

one || time is so much bigger than me. 

we’re talking about the earth over 26,000 years. i can’t really grasp the huge-ness of that, given that i can’t even really get a handle on the huge-ness of 50 years of marriage, or 20 years without my father, or 80 years of a life. it’s good for me to be reminded that time is so much bigger than me.

two || even very small changes over a long period of time can result in big shifts. 

there’s a bunch of conversation about what the wobble-versary and the shifting stars mean astrologically and for our north star and for our civilization. anniversaries do this for us, too. they remind us that even very small changes over a long period of time can result in big shifts.

three || it's good to re-evaluate and celebrate where we were, where we are now, and all the stuff that happened in between.

and, of course the wobble-versary makes us want to know what was happening 26,000 years ago, when this wobble first began. it was about the time that the neanderthals met with extinction and people started making tools like harpoons, needles, and saws for the first time. anniversaries make the opportunity for us to re-evaluate and celebrate where we were, where we are now, and all the stuff that happened in between.

i’m curious: how do you feel about anniversaries (or wobble-versaries)?

a surprising fringe benefit of de-cluttering—OR—honey, i love my coloring books

this is what happened in my house this weekend:

my husband and i cleaned out our bookshelves. he sorted, i held the baby, and we each reminded the other that we can always go to the library if we really miss a book that we let go.

toward the end, he uncovered two coloring books and held them up for my stay-or-go verdict. i’m pretty sure i channeled my inner 8-year-old when i said, “oh, my coloring books! i love coloring!”

and he looked completely dumbfounded, and said, “really? you do?”

sometimes the ins and outs of daily life lull us into believing that we know all there is to know about our near and dear loved ones. and, hey, if we know all that and we still like each other, that’s awesome.  but this is even better. this means there are more questions to ask, more stories to tell, more quirks to discover. hooray for that.

thanks, overstuffed bookshelves. very helpful, indeed.

what s/he wrote

a friend recently shared this new yorker article on facebook:  why are american kids so spoiled?  it's a ten-minute read, but it's well worth it.  the author discusses a lot of the same ideas that i recently read in the continuum concept, a book written in the 1970s that had me nodding my head, reading bits out loud to my husband, and saying "oh, right, of course!" when just about every page had something to say that made great intuitive sense to me.

back before my husband and i got married, we did an exercise that i got excited about trying after reading this at the fabulous a practical wedding.  the exercise: over the course of several conversations, we identified the values that we wanted to be present in our marriage, and then we tried to plan our wedding based on those values, too.

we had planned to have a similar set of values conversations before our daughter was born that would help guide us as we raise her, but she busted out a month early, and that exercise--like many other things on our "to do before baby" list--remains undone.

after reading the continuum concept and the new yorker article, though, i think we might need to make time for that conversation.  here's a quote from the article: "what values do we convey by turning our homes into warehouses for dolls? by assigning our kids chores and then rewarding them when they screw up? by untying and then retying their shoes for them?"


we don't have a "warehouse of dolls" and we're nowhere near shoelaces-age yet, but the idea is important to me.  and while i don't agree with everything in either reading, i do think this:  we make so many small, in-the-moment decisions to try and do what's best for our kiddo, and those decisions would feel stronger to me if we had our personal list of values to measure them against.


so all of this talk so far is marriage- and kid-related, yes, but it gets me thinking about our busybusybusy, choice-choked adult lives of all kinds.  do we need to be more explicit with ourselves about our values so that, at the very least, all that busybusybusy is spent in ways we really want to be spending our lives?  has everyone else already done that except me?  do you have a list of your values posted to your bathroom mirror or what?

when the blanket's got you

my daughter has just learned to hold on to things.  she grabs onto her blanket, my fingers, her dad's arm hair with all she's got, and she doesn't let go.  in the last few days, she's gotten really good at holding on with not just one, but with both hands.  it's a big deal.

her favorite thing to hold onto is her blanket.  she grabs that sucker and works it between her fingers and pulls it up to chew on it a little bit and generally just gets as much of it as close to her as she possibly can.  and she loves it.

that is, she loves it until she freaks out.  there's always some turning point there when the grabbing on goes from "she's got the blanket" to "the blanket's got her."  and then she's upset, overwhelmed, and panicked--but she still won't let go.

i was thinking yesterday about how we do that to ourselves in adult life, too.  sometimes we grab on so tight that even when it changes from "we've got the blanket" to "the blanket's got us," it's so hard to release that grip.

it's nice to be reminded that sometimes--not always, but sometimes--when it seems like stuff is gonna get us, it might just simmer down if we stop holding on so tight.

i'm curious: what stopped getting you when you stopped holding on with all your might?

things i’ve learned about teamwork from my husband--or--how to pull together when life seems crappy

when things are going well in your lives...

say to your special person with a big smile, “who lives better than we do?” and then give them a smooch. this is a big deal. it's fun, and you’ll be glad you did it when things are not going so well. speaking of which…

when things are not going so well in your lives and you’re starting to take it out on each other...

dig deep, call on your ancestors for help, and try your very level best in that really bad moment to reach out to your person. if you’re in a stand-off in the kitchen, go over and hug her. if you’re sitting in silent tension on the couch, put your hand on his knee. if you can summon it, say, “i love you.”

more than likely, this will both completely surprise and completely disarm your person. and more than likely, your person will be exceedingly grateful that you realized she was upset, too. and yes, more than likely, she will be just a little bit humbled because you were the one who was able to reach out.

if, on the other hand, when things are not going so well in your lives, you try your very level best to reach out to your person and you fail because you’re too far gone, trust that your person will reach out to you, and accept it when she does.

maybe in a few minutes, you’ll even be able to laugh about the way you threw a bag of cheetos and a shoe at the refrigerator and collapsed in a heap in the middle of the kitchen floor. or not. either way, it’ll be better than it was before.

it smells like forever

he walks in the room loud as a thunderstorm but happy, if you can imagine that.  i watch his smile creep up on him and when he laughs, i rush over to be nearby so i can grab up some of that laughing and rub it between my hands.  i make a glowing ball out of it, and put it in my mouth so i can carry it around for a little while.  he puts his arm around me, and it's fuzzy as ever.  i snuggle my face in the crook of his elbow and before i know it, i am off the ground, in the air, a little bit dizzy, a little bit breathless.  he pops the ceiling off the house with his left hand, and i can see the treetops getting closer, getting farther away, getting closer, getting farther away.  the light between the leaves makes my eyes feel funny.  i open my mouth wide to catch the fun in the air, and some of his laughter glow escapes my mouth when i do.  some of my own laughter pops out, too.  just as suddenly as it began, it stops, and i press my face into his soft, old t-shirt to get my bearings back.  i inhale deeply, and i feel safe here where it smells like forever.

fireworks: what makes you stand still?

fireworks were a big deal in my family growing up. for years, we'd all load up in the truck or the station wagon and head over to the state fairgrounds in raleigh on the fourth of july. later, we watched the fireworks on the fourth at the mudcats stadium out near zebulon. and sometimes, just for fun, my dad and my uncle would set off firecrackers in the field at our family's farm. they'd light them up and then run like crazy to get out of the way and get a good view.

since then, i've seen fireworks in a massive crowd of people in downtown chicago, from my apartment window in the baldwin building by the durham bulls ballpark, from a back deck in chatham county surrounded by trees and friends, at the waterfront in wilmington, from a big garden in paris, at the top of a double ferris wheel...

and i love them every time.  i love the way they make us look up.  i love how big they are, and how loud.  i love that they exist for no other reason than to celebrate.  i love the way they make a whole group of children and adults with very little else in common say "ooh" and "aah" in unison--the adults often the most awestruck of all.

most of all though, i love the way fireworks stop me in my tracks.  always, they make me stand still.

i'm curious:  what makes you stand still?

because it helps them feel better

i woke up with hives the other night.  but i thought they were bug bites.  they were all over my chest and shoulders and down my back, and i thought we were infested with a big extended family of spiders or something.  and so, even though it was the middle of the night, and even though the baby was asleep in the co-sleeper attached to our bed, and even though he had absolutely no bites whatsoever making it highly unlikely that our bed was home to a gazillion biting meanies, my husband got up and helped me change the sheets.  he was pretty sure it was hives all along, and--even though he didn't say it--i know he didn't think the sheets really, logically, needed to be changed right that minute.  but.  he helped me change them anyway because he knew it would help me feel better.  (it did.)

i got to thinking about the illogical, irrational, or slightly inconvenient things we do just because we know they will make someone feel better.  i always let my husband sit so he can see the door when we go out to eat.  i'm not sure why, but it just makes him feel better.  i have a friend whose one-time roommate asked that she take all her cool magnets off and just let the refrigerator door be blank and clean and white.  she wasn't a neat freak in general, but that clean refrigerator door just made her feel better.  i know people who like to get to the airport a full two hours in advance, even for a domestic flight.  it's probably a little inconvenient for the family or friends who are traveling with them, but what's the harm?  it makes the other person feel better.

i like that we do this for each other in the world.  and i bet we do it more often that we realize.  i'm almost positive that my loved ones do it for me more often than i realize.

i'm curious:  what small things do you do--even though they're slightly inconvenient or irrational--to help someone feel better?  and even better:  what things like that do your people do for you?

(leave a comment and let me know.  i love stuff like this--these little bits of human uniqueness.  i love them.)

do you watch tv?

i wish we didn’t have a tv.  sort of.

we’ve been making sure our four-month-old daughter doesn’t see the tv.  she’ll have enough screen time in her life that we’d like to keep it out of her world for as long as possible.  and it’s a pretty widely-accepted fact that tv doesn’t do a whole lot for your brain, much less your motivation.

so i’ve been watching less tv, too.  and i haven’t been missing it. 

and then i read an article about what a waste of time tv is, and i agreed with every point.

and then i started thinking about how if we think our kid would so much better off without tv, then we probably think we would be so much better off without it, too.  so why do we still have a tv?

here’s what we use our tv for:

1)      zoning out

2)     relieving boredom

3)     feeling less lonely

4)     watching shows we actually love

5)     watching sports

6)     out of habit

7)     when we’re mad at each other

8)     procrastinating

so the only ones of those eight things that i actually want to use tv for are:  watching shows we actually love and watching sports.  do i have the self-control to actually make that happen?  or am i all or nothing when it comes to the magic square with the addictive flashing pictures?  do we need to get rid of it altogether?  can we do that?

i'm curious:  do you watch tv?

how being a mama is making me a better theatre artist (and vice versa)

installment two  ||  resilience

i fail a lot with this baby.  i do something that i hope will make her laugh, and she turns her head to stare at a blank, beige wall beside me.  i make a noise that i think will elicit a smile, and her bottom lip quivers.  i put on my very best song and dance show complete with rump-shaking and wacky face-making, and she bursts into tears.  with a baby, you can fail every day, 100 times a day like this, but you get back in there.  you try again.  maybe because the reward is so great.  maybe because you have no other choice.

in the theatre, i've failed a lot, too.  but my resilience hasn't been as great.  each time, it takes me a while to get back in there.  this baby's got me in resilience training.  in theatre, just like with a baby, you try again.  because the reward is so great.  and because you have no other choice.

this year

this year
we celebrate a new father
the countless times he cooked and cleaned for mama when you were an inside baby
the hours he knelt on the hard linoleum floor to support her as you made your way into the world
the nervous pride when he announced we had a baby...wait for it...girl
dad
who changed your first diaper
who made the first late-night doctor call when mama got nervous
who melts when you smile at him and also when you poke that bottom lip out and threaten to cry
dad
who sang you to sleep hours at a time
for months
who worries about whether you're pooping right
for days
who walks you around the circle in the neighborhood
for hours
this daddy of yours is patient, silly, tired, vigilant, confused, hopeful, anxious, playful, instinctive, and oh baby he will stand up for you any time any where to any one
i am so happy for you, daughter
but i am not the least bit surprised
because this year
as every year
we also celebrate two old fathers
you will only know them from our stories and our photographs
but girl
one of those fathers is the father who taught your father how to be father even before your father wanted to be a father
just by being such a brilliant father himself
and
one of those fathers is the father who taught your mama how to recognize a good father even before she was ready to be mama
just by being such a brilliant father himself
yes love
this year
we celebrate a new dad
and lucky for you
he's yours

proud

my daughter is finding her voice right now.
she is 3 months old.
i listen to her gurgles and coos and of course her cries.
many, many cries.
her crying is upsetting to me, of course.
i'm her mama, and i want her to be happy.
and the kind of crying she's doing isn't happy crying.
but i'm also proud of her wailing.
she is expressing herself.
she is telling the world what she needs, in the only way she knows how.
she isn't doing it in a mean way.  or with an intention to hurt anyone else.

but she is doing it without apologies, without embarrassment, without tempering her feelings in order to please anyone else.
she doesn't get that from me.
but i hope i learn it from her.

childlike

she has twenty different laughs
and most of them
are full of mischief.
she has a little girl's smile:
it makes her cheeks get round.
it makes her eyes get all sparkly.
it takes over her whole sweet-smelling face.
she has an "ooooh!"
she has a "yes!"
she has a "you all did such a good job!"
this woman,
she will jjjjump, clap, talk a mile a minute;
i have seen her when she just couldn't be still.
this one,
she is like a child
in the best possible way:
she has a great capacity for joy.