Love be not proud

So I have posted 100 entries.

Each entry is a birth.  Each time I sit to compose I am writing something that needs to be released.

I have written about love, loss and the sad perplexing state of being in between.  I have written about children and parents and what it means to be both.  I have catalogued popping pills and swilling alcohol.  I have disparaged and praised.

It is no small feat... sitting here, trying to compose something worth reading.  I might want to spill salacious neighborhood details or air dirty private laundry.. . when you write, nothing is sacred.  It takes a certain amount of restraint to keep from dishing on love lives and abandoned conquests.

This weekend, I felt my place.  I went to a BBQ in Bethesda... for those not familiar with the DC area think Westchester to New York... the houses were grandiose and the cars were elegant.  I thought of myriad stories to tell... I gauged social rapport, I took note, I watched with rapture... I am a different breed.    I wore Anthropologie when others donned Cavalli.  I was happy with the keg beer, while others clamored for Grey Goose.  I hold a degree from a state university.  A B.A.  I could not match wits with those with doctorates from Ivy League schools.

Yet.  Yet, we were all humbled, equalized by the love we had for children.

Family.  We are beholden.  Whether scarred or blessed, each has their story to tell.  This weekend, I watched as my children ran round with others who came from much more gentrified backgrounds than ours.  They didn't pause to ask what each other did or where they came from or who were their parents.  They were kids... running wild, having fun.  Do you remember what that was like?

They are color blind, oblivious to wealth or the lack there of... give a child a ball, a bit of grass and a few contemporaries and you have a game to watch.

I wish I could say I had as much verve.  I felt inferior.  I felt less than attractive.  i felt inadequate.  No one uttered a word that wouldve made me feel such a way... I went there on my own.

I celebrated my sister-in-law's earning of a PH.D today.  I joked with relatives about how Tim and I were the stupid ones in the family since we were the only ones without advance degrees.  I was only half joking.

Life is hard.  Families are harder.  The best chance we have is to stand tall and take it on the chin.  I've weathered my storms and taken my hits.  I have more character than a shakespearan play.

I ache for the lessons my children will have to learn.  I shudder contemplating their losses.  I yearn to shelter them from the ugliness which inevitably ensues.

I've rambled... too much wine, too little forethought... well.  I part with this.... if only I had wings to shelter them from the blows, if only I could stand in their stead and take the fall, if only I could give them life's rich pageant... if I could shower them with knowledge and power.... if only.

I may not have a PH. D or live in Bethesda... I may not aspire to such an address or distinction.  I love my children unequivcoably.

Ah well.  What more could you ask for?

Furious

Teddy is the most naturally gregarious person I have ever encountered.  He considers everyone to be a friend.  He was dubbed the Mayor of Kindergarten.  He converses as easily with 8th graders as he does with children younger than he.

So I was naturally surprised when I learned that Teddy is being bullied in school.  Teddy could not be labeled as a classic victim; he is social, popular and athletically prow.  He is large for his age.  However, he is a gentle soul.  While protecting a new student from being bullied, he was slammed into a headlock and thrown to the ground.  He retaliated.  And ended up in the principal's office.  My own child did not give me these details; other eyewitnesses, both children and adults, relayed this information to me.

Today, I met with the principal to discuss the situation.  I was informed that it is my son's responsibility to (1) Say no to the Bully (2) walk away and (3) report the incident to an adult.  I find this ludicrous and a totally insufficient reaction to the situation.  My hackles are raised.

Teddy does not dislike this bully.  He is torn.  He has a certain loyalty to his "friends" and I respect that.  What I find annoying, is that this school administration has decided to place the onus on the victim.  My child is self assured and well liked.  He CAN stick up for himself.  What about the children who fall under the classic victim description?  A shy bullied child is supposed to tell a bully no?  That's exactly the reaction the bully is looking for.  With all of the media coverage about this escalating problem, the best we can offer our children in protection is Just Say No????

Everything is exacerbated for me because I know, and dislike, the family involved.  There are deep seeded issues and these are readily apparent to anyone who comes in contact with this family.  The mother refers to her children as Special Needs.  She claims the son in question is bi polar.  Being bi polar myself, I take great umbrage with the label Special Needs.  I also question the diagnosis and would like to know what measures are being taken with this child.  If indeed he should be classified Special Needs, he needs to be in a class that caters to his needs.

This is not a good day, despite a shining sun.

Dark Day

I can feel it seeping into my bones.  It reminds me of being cold in New Orleans.... a more brutal cold than anywhere else because you don't expect it.  Maybe it begins with self loathing... not being able to fit into a dress, regretting that last drink the night before.  Maybe it is the miserable weather, the unseasonable cold, the low lying gray clouds.  I can feel it sinking its teeth into my soft flesh.  I am never immune, never fully protected; my armor is flawed.

I live with depression the way many people live with a few extra pounds; it hangs around and for the most part I can ignore it, but in a weak moment, it prays upon me.  This morning it has settled in my mind like a thick fog; it has blurred my vision, masking what is truly important.  My limbs feel heavy, my head is thick.  Coffee tastes bitter and food sounds repulsive.  I hear the siren call of sleep.  The unmade bed beckons to me, softly at first.  I feel compelled to abandon the day.

I long for sunshine.  If only the sun would break forth, dispelling the gloom, maybe I could dress, function. It is no small feat to sit here and force my fingers to peck away at the keyboard.  I know where I should be but lifting my feet seems beyond my strength.  The steel sky and chill wind do little to alleviate my burden.

I swallow my pills and press forward.  If I can push myself into even 10 minutes of Pilates, I know it will help.  Running would be ideal but the thought of dragging myself to the gym is to much to bear.  Baby steps.

There is much to be done.

Sharing the love

I wasn't sure but it looked as if Leah's soft gray eyes were brimming with tears.  Liz Valencia I knew was excited to be joining us.  I had just invited the two mothers, whose husbands were working on Mother's Day, to join us for brunch.  I know their hardworking husbands wished they could be with them, but I was glad that we could step in to be substitutes.  I was looking forward to a special day with friends and family, being feted and loved.

Yet, it certainly wasn't that way for my own mother back in the day.  It wasn't until now, as I sit to compose, that I realize how very different my own mother's special days must have been.

I can only recall with clarity one Mother's Day gift I bestowed upon Merrie Gayle.  We kids had been sent to visit Bio Dad here in Northern Virginia for the weekend.  We went to Ballston Mall and I spent $30 on a peach linen blouse with heavy lace detail.  I must've been 16.

There were no flowers for my mother.  My father did not make a special breakfast and serve it in bed.  If she was given gifts, they were handcrafted in school.  My father did not take us out to buy her any treasures.  We did not have a celebratory dinner.

I am sure my mother got up on Mother's Day, like she did every day, and made us all breakfast.  I know the children would have accompanied her to church, but only begrudgingly and while Sandy stayed at home.

I guess in our own small way, we children gave her some solace and recognition but I know from my own experience how much a loving spouse contributes to Mother's Day.

Yesterday, we shared our morning with Leah, Liz and my mother Merrie Gayle.  Tim made sausage and eggs and bacon.  Leah brought champagne for Mimosas and Liz brought bagels.  We laughed over coffee and biscotti, telling stories of children and reliving the escapades of the weekend.  I know Leah and Liz missed Tom and Nestor as my own mother missed her husband but I was happy that mine could bring some happiness to them all.

Tim did not hesitate when I suggested that we share our day with friends.  He welcomed them as I did.  He even went out and bought extra supplies as he wanted to make sure the morning was special.

And it was special.  Sharing my family with three other mothers whom I love and respect made me appreciate Mother's Day all the more.

You are where you live

There are drawers which stick.  Chips of wood or gold leaf here and there.  Some legs are wobbly and the oil paintings are caked with cigarette smoke.  Yet, each piece is exquisite.

I live with relics.  My home is a collection of cast offs, discards, and inheritances.  Chairs have been salvaged from the street, tables have been stripped and painted and stripped again.  Paintings have been reframed and cleaned with nail polish remover (tread lightly).  Silver dimpled and polished, gleaming despite the dents.  Bone china, paper thin, displayed in the kitchen cupboards, one side from Sassie, the other from Gran.  Even my fine linens are handed down.  

And that which I couldn't beg or steal, I borrowed.  Only 8 of 40 silver mint julep cups are mine.  The centerpiece of the table, an urn which looks like a trophy, is my mothers.  I used 8 of her sterling forks for Derby party, not to mentions two egg plates.  

There is something comforting to me knowing that with which I live with has been loved before me.  The exceptional green bisque of the nymph which was Gran's, the sterling coffee pot of Sassie's, the stunning Dorothy Mead over my mantel which belonged to my uncle.  As I am a mosaic of people, so is my house.  I do not own a piece from Pottery Barn.  Once, I had a plastic bowl for Teddy from Ikea.  I find Reconstruction Hardware to be grossly overpriced.  

I prize my pair of handpainted italian end tables from Goodwill and the barrel chair I bought for 12 dollars at the flea market.  Even the pieces I have acquired from the monolithic Home Goods are "dent and grab" specials.  

As a child, I brought home birds with broken wings, worms, baby squirrels fallen from the nest.  I have always loved the unwanted.

I look longingly in the Horchow and Ballard Design catalogues.  I devour Traditional Home and vintage Southern Accents.  I yearn for the cohesiveness, the tranquility of matching nightstands and carpets chosen specifically for a room.  

I have rewritten the end of this blog 4 times now.  What is it exactly I am trying to say?  I guess, embrace what you have, work with you have got, don't be afraid to ask for more but be ready to accept what it already is.  My house is a metaphor.  Who knew?

Lucky Girl

I can see it still... the linoleum floors, the "soothing" green tile in the bathroom, the carpet mats for circle time.  I remember walking into Kindergarten, in my blue pinafore appliqued with a red hot air balloon, and feeling enveloped, embraced.  There was not an enemy in my class.  Instantly, I had sixteen friends.  Very little changed over the next 12 years.  Our friends were readily available, pre-chosen.  It is finding your friends along the rest of the way that is challenging.

Saturday, about 40 people descended upon my house.  The ladies, dressed for Derby, looked like flowers with their nodding bonnets.  The gentlemen were well appointed.  We looked quite the civilized bunch, clutching our silver cups.  As the night passed, the decorum wore off and the party thinned out.  The music was turned up.  After I escorted the last two guests to the door, I reflected on all my friends and how they became to be so.

My parents and stepmother were in attendance.  You cannot choose your family, but you can choose your how you relate with family members.  I do not forget my place; I am a child and will always be so to my parents.  However, now that I am an adult with a family of my own, I relate differently to my them.  It is an extraordinary thing to share a drink with your mother, laughing over a childhood past.

Having moved from my hometown a long time ago, there were no childhood friends in the group and my two college girlfriends couldn't make it this year.  My oldest, and dearest friend, Kristen and her wonderful husband Bruno were there.  Kristen and I worked together back in 1997.  I danced at their wedding.

My children attend a different school than do my neighbors children.  I have met some lovely people through St. Thomas More and was so pleased that they chose to attend Derby this year.

Of course, the largest, and most rowdy contingency, was from Barcroft.  Most of these people I have known for 7 years, some only for 3.  They are equally loved and respected.  I know everyone believes that their friends are special but I truly think there is something unique here in Barcroft.  We can parent one another's children.  We can divulge life changing secrets.  If a weekend passes and I don't see my Barcroft pals, I really miss them.  We babysit for each other and share clothes.  We have even traveled together.  It is a diverse group, yet cohesive.

We are losing a family this summer.  Amy, the newest member of the Barcroft clan, and her husband Larry must pack their family up and move  to San Diego.  I have survived this before, but it isn't fun.  I know that Wendy, Amy's closest friend, will feel the loss the most.  I remember, too well, the pain I felt when both Lori and Susan left Barcroft.  Of course, I am still friends with them and always will be but I miss sharing our daily experiences.

I looked about the room, at the well dressed crowd bobbing and weaving to the much too loud music and marveled at how all of this came to be.  The confidantes and gym partners, the book groups and sewing classes, the beach trips and Happy Hours, 4th of July and of course, Derby.  I thought about the stages we have all gone through together... when Kristen and I were just dating Tim and Bruno, when they came to visit us in Austin, starting playgroup with Lori and Susan and how it expanded; I thought of when Nestor used to come to playgroup with his Washington Post - too shy to interact with all the women?- and how he is my Go To man.  I pondered how all of our spouses melded right in.  I was cheered to see Michele and Joe Zummo, new friends from STM, staying late night with all the raging Barcrofters.

After I had locked the door, blown out candles and collected half empty glasses, I felt full, satiated in the knowledge that I have chosen well.

Contemplations on 40 years

It had been a lovely day, bright and warm enough.  The evening settled snuggly in and the air remained comfortable.  Slowly, our friends began to materialize.  Barcrofters first of course.  The ladies all in black, the men in various stages of dapper dressing.  The bar was open, the food was being passed and the bass in Kesha's latest song thumped in the background.  Tim was forty and we were celebrating.

I thought I would know more by now.  Tim is forty and I am thirty-nine.  I thought we would feel more responsible, more mature.  There we were, after midnight, in a bar.... as I danced Tim threw back shots.  Really?  This is where we are?  Of course, THIS is not every Friday night.  Still.

We pay bills, and taxes.  We lease cars and make tuition payments.  We change the air filters in our homes and have regular dental check ups.  Yet, where is the wisdom?  Where is the knowledge that I thought I would possess by now?

I still use acne medication.  I've been known to swear like a sailor and drink like a fish.  I still like to match my shoes with my outfit.

As the evening wore on, I weaved in and out of conversations and collections of friends... work friends, college buddies, neighbors, confidantes.   These are the people who know us best.  What did they think of a 40 year old Tim doing shots?  Me, outdancing twentysomethings.... are we where we are supposed to be by now?

When I wake up and feel old enough, will it be too late?  And for what?