Not in my day...

November 29, 2005 | Category: In My Life

Now that I am 40, I get to say things like "back when I was young...."

So, back when I was young, my brother had books full of pictures and shelves full of trophies and ribbons. He played every sport there is. Oh, and he was good at it.

Me? I have the natural athletic grace of a pet rock. But I tried. Yes, I did. I skiied, I swam, I played softball, and field hockey. I sailed. I was a cheerleader for a couple of seasons, too. You don't know this because there are no pictures of most of it. And certainly I was never given a trophy.

Because back when I was young, boys were still graded on their physical accomplishments and girls? Not so much.

So we're at Bear's karate this evening. And as his class was ending, the kids for the next one were trickling in. And in walks a couple of girls, about 8 or 9 years old. One in a faux leopard skin coat and purple clogs and her friend in braids and a bright pink jacket and matching earmuffs. They changed into their uniforms and got in line waiting by the door.

The friend admires the first girl's pedicure.

"Is that sparkly purple?"

"No, it's called 'royal blue glitter'. I got it to match my new karate trophy."

"Oh, I didn't go to the tournament. But I got a purple trophy for coming fist at the spelling bee."

"Sparkly purple?"

"No, regular. But it would be a good color for my toes anyway. And I spell way better than my dad now."

"That's cool. I do math better than spelling. If you get the purple can I try it on my toes?"

"Yeah, sure."

Oh. My. Stars. We have so come a long, long way....

If you decorate it, they will come...

November 28, 2005 | Category: In My Life

I know this couple, they're in love. They have a baby and each other and they are so happy that every time I am around them I have to promise myself not to compare my life to theirs.

Because, they really are happy. Right this minute. I mean, as I write this, they are porbably kissing or teaching their year-old toddler Portugese or piecing a quilt for the local AIDS hospice while there child gently sleeps.

Their home is comfortable in the way a home is when it has so much love and vibrancy. Their lives are spilled out on the walls, in little posters and pictures. Their kitchen is well organized, to acommodate both their talents. Their child's room is a haven.

This couple, I have known them a long time. And like my Aunt and Uncle, like my friends out of state, their world didn't happen by accident. It was a natural outcome of their shared dreams and the hard work they put into it.

I look around this house, and I see all the dreams we packed into our moving boxes with our incomplete china sets and our throw pillows. We headed out of the city with an infant, an unmatched collection of furniture, and big ideas.

We were going to have a home like that. We plotted it in our minds a thousands times.

This was where we would put that armchair we're going to buy someday. And this would be where we keep the menus from our favorite restaurants. Here is where we will track Bear's growth on the wall.

But then....

Well. Yeah. Then all that stuff happened and then we were miserable but we didn't give up and yet sometimes it does feel like what I keep thinking is progress is really just being stuck in the same place but on a new day.

And our house is like that. It isn't warm, and comfortable. It is rumpled, and unorganized, and it doesn't stay clean. There are pockets of sanctuary and long lines of chaos and construction. I feel jittery, looking around. And sad. And frustrated. And there were so many, many days when the only thing that kept me here was picturing Bear's face if ever I told him that it was time to leave.

And it was not so long ago.

But you know what? On Sunday afternoon, we went to the Christmas tree lot and we bought some real honest-to-goodness used-to-be-alive evergreen garland. And we wrapped it up in white lights and draped it around the front door.

Sure, our neighborhood is practically the universally agreed upon house-decorating Olympic winner of Pleasantville and a little scrap of lighted swag don't mean a hill of beans in land where National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation is required viewing and folks start laying the concrete platforms for this year's giant Frosty display in September.

But we did it. All three of us. It was a crappy weekend, and it could have ended like so many before - rumpled, disorganized, unsatisfied, snapping.

But instead, and heaven help me I don't know how, we were standing in the misty rain in our socks, with pine needles stuck to our arms, grinning at the joy of a strand of white lights, and home.

You can't tell me we don't have the most gorgeous 16 feet of swag around.

I know it's not okay yet. I know, there's no need to tell me.

Yesterday morning, I cried in the shower. I wanted to rip down a wall in frustration. I didn't think I could take one more minute, one more hour, one more day of how hard it can be. It is so hard sometimes. I felt so strung tight. And I have ... no idea at all how the rest of the day got easier.

But it did.

It hurts. So much. So often. But we're here. We're all here, in this home right now. We're here, and I know it's not okay yet but tonight it sure feels okay. We're here and we do love each other. And by God, our door glows.

And I believe.

Muted Screams

November 26, 2005 | Category: In My Life

Sometimes I feel like turning into a corner and screaming until my lungs fall out onto the floor.

But I mute myself. And keep moving forward.

That is all.

Signposts

November 23, 2005 | Category: Mother to the First Power

In Paris, there were these great old-fashioned signposts. Crazy roads with no lanes and drivers with homicidal bents, sure. But great signposts.

Eiffel Tower thisaway. Notre Dame thataway.

I wish life had these kinds of signs.

Bear loves Happy Montessori. And being non-dominant (they used to say ambidextrous) and learning all his fine motor skills with both sides thankyouverymuch, we wanted him in Montessori. An educational approach that is designed to be non-pressured, strong language focus, and most of all, child-centered.

Because his birthday is September 6th, Bear missed the public school deadline for being in Kindergarten this year. We could tell that Bear wasn't quite ready, in any event. Since Happy Montessori doesn't have to follow the same guidelines as public schools, Miss G - his sweet triathalon-running pigtail-wearing teacher of 3 years - talked with us and suggested that we move Bear into the all-day program that Montessori has instead of Kindergarten this year and then just keep Bear there for 2 years if we felt he wasn't ready for first grade next year. She said that this way he would spend his afternoons in the company of his favorite group of kids - the one he'd been in class with since he was 2.

It was with a conflicted heart that we decided to allow it.

A few weeks after Bear started staying in the afternoons; Miss G called me and said that Bear was struggling a little with retaining his morning lessons into the afternoons. Retention not being a big issue that I had seen at home ("Mom, 6 months ago you said I could take swimming lessons....") I chalked it up to stamina - going from a 3-hour day to a 6-hour one.

Then she called a couple of weeks later and said that Bear's non-dominance meant neither writing hand had the fine-motor development of most of his peers and that she was concerned. I reminded her that this was one of the reasons why we decided he was getting two years of the 'kindergarten' program. At home, Bear is happy to draw and paint and fill up a sketch book with his letters ... using either hand. He is excited by his growing abilities to make what is on the paper reflect the ideas in his head.

Then she called and said that the schools full-time learning specialist (3 Masters degrees and 18 years experience) would be spending some time each week with Bear to help evaluate his learning style and see if there were better ways to be presenting Bear with Language skills. CD and I discussed it and called her back with our agreement. As Dee told us, it doesn't hurt to learn as much as we can about Bear.

Then, yesterday, Mrs. Quilt - the learning specialist - called. For an hour, she made recommendations. Occupational Therapist to assess his non-dominance and help him develop his fine motor skills. OK. Mrs. Q herself will spend 3 sessions a week in Bear's classroom as a helper, seeing how he learns and helping present information in new ways as one of the "helpers" that often join his classroom (like student teachers, parent helpers, and other specialists). She is working with a couple of other children in Bear's class so it should all flow well. OK fine.

And by "OK fine" I mean; "What the frelling frell is going on?"

He's been in an all-day program for all of 7 weeks and what? He's being covertly watched by a shuffling crowd of All-but-thesis types taking notes and nodding vigorously?" I mean, I'm ALL - make that WE'RE ALL - for our kid getting every scrap of loving guidance where he needs it but don't you think he's going to NOTICE HE'S A LAB RAT?! This is a bright kid. He is very aware of his environment. Is all this to the good for him? Or damaging?

Anyone know? Anyone? Bueller?

So last night, CD and I sat, shell-shocked. We asked Dee for her counsel. I mean, it is nursery school. Expensive and well-respected nursery school, but still. How many specialists should be intervening in the life of a child who isn't even kindergarten age?

Bear writes his own name as well as MOM and a couple of other words (with both hands), sight-recognizes several words in books, draws really great representational pictures, can do simple adding and subtracting, has a spoken vocabulary far above his age level, and can round kick the stuffing out of his karate teacher. At home and with friends, he seems right on par.

The thing that's scares us the most has actually nothing to do with his cognitive skills or learning method. It's that he's sensing there is something wrong.

In class, Bear has begun "masking" - pretending he can do things that he hasn't actually mastered yet. Like "reading" starter books that some of his peers are reading. This, everyone agrees, is a sign he feels pressured.

But no one knows - pressured from his realization that something is expected of him that he is not doing, or pressured from his internal desire to be at the same skill level as the older 5 year-olds and 6 year-olds in his class?

I am baffled, flummoxed, and feel a little railroaded. We've decided that our next step is to demand an in-person meeting with the school folks (and we're bringing Dee). Maybe then we'll get better answers about the problems we're trying to address and if this level of intervention is necessary.

Meanwhile, CD and I look at each other and try to act calm. Maybe all this is just responsible and proportional on the part of the school. I don't know. There are no concrete right directions, no pretty signposts anywhere we look...

Only of interest if you know who John Crichton is...

November 21, 2005 | Category:

Continue reading "Only of interest if you know who John Crichton is..."

Stepping Into the Light (of Paris)

November 17, 2005 | Category: Picture Post

I want to say this loudly and proudly... the boy did good. We landed in Paris and were met outside customs by our driver, who whisked us to a fabulous hotel (Hotel du Louvre). Our suite had TWO floor-to-ceiling doors opening to balconies that looked onto the Louvre (that is CD standing on a balcony in the 1st picture). AND they allowed us to check in early, so we could shower and change.

Despite the fact that it was overcast and windy, we set out for a long walk. We meandered up the streets past spraying fountains tipped in gold and ancient facades with carved fleur-de-lis. Bought me a scarf to keep out the cold. Along the way, I kept turning to CD and saying wonderfully mature and erudite things like; "That's the Seine! We're walking along the Seine!" or "Ooh! Ooh! Look! It's Notre Dame!" or CD's personal favorite, "I'm in Paris! I'm in France! I'm not wearing underpants!"

Along the road towards Notre Dame are predominately garden and pet shops, and the proprietors use the sidewalk as an extension of their stores. We made our way through orange trees and fancy displays of dog leashes. As I leaned in to take a picture of one of the more whimsical birdcage displays, CD whispered in my ear "Free the gnomes!" and started teasing me about the oppressed nature of French garden gnomes and how we should start a movement to gain their gnome suffrage.

Viva les gnomes!

My friend Dee, who was in Paris just a few weeks ago, had commented that one of the things that had struck her was the amount of penises she saw in Paris. Uh, on sculptures. And how realistically sized they seem to be.

Now, I'm not about to get into a debate on why she was going around Paris checking out the sculpture's penises (penisi?) instead of the warm-blooded variety but it was intriguing enough a comment that we decided we should check it out.

And sure enough, I am here to report that there ARE, indeed, over a dozen marble penises hanging in the wind just in the short mile or so along the Jardins and around the Champs De Lysee. And yes, they were uh, realistic. Or not. Depending on who you know.

Let's just agree that Paris is, among its many other benefits, a city of glorious nudity.

On Saturday Night, we met one of my all-time blogging heroines and her partner in REAL LIFE for dinner. This will go down as a highlight of not just the trip but of the past few years. If you look closely, you can see my wrist in the picture in the post she wrote about her visit to Paris. My wrist! On her website! How cool is that?

In case you're wondering - Helen and Angus are just as loving, funny, bright, warm, and sharp in real life as they are on her website. It was a great night. And I will be hung over for weeks as I recover.

At 12:01 she raised a toast, and as easy as that? I was 40 years old. It was light and lovely and CD and skipped up to our room kissing and silly.

I don't know what happened in the night. I should have been overjoyed. My birthday in Paris. Dinner with Helen and Angus. Good things ahead! A gift in the room safe! But no. The the next day, I woke up in tears. I have no sense of how it had shifted inside me, but I was suddenly terrified that the best of life was behind me, and shaken by who my reflection had become.

I remained as fragile as spun glass, my emotions ripping away a storm inside me. Even as I opened the gorgeous Swarovski crystal necklace and bracelet that CD had given me. Even as we traveled the Seine in a glass boat, eating gourmet courses and watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle in the night. CD tried to take care of me, but I couldn't stop shaking and crying. I don't know why. I wish I did, because it has lingered into all the days since.

The next day, after investigating the Louvre for hours and especially enjoying the ancient Egypt exhibits, we found a Hertz rental car place in the mall beneath the museum. We decided on a lark to get a car. Within minutes, we were on the roads of Paris reenacting the car chase scene from Bourne Identity. As CD zipped in and out of skinny streets with no lanes, I frantically turned the map this way and that looking for a way out of town. That we ended up on the A1 is thanks to divine intervention, and NOT my navigation skills.

Eventually we settled on a northward trajectory, and into Lille and then on to Brussels. By nightfall, we were sitting in a tiny pub with a Dutch-speaking proprietress who was trying to understand my meager French.

The map we had was of Paris with the rest of France shown only in major routes. And, as it turns out, the way to get around Brussels is to go around in this tunnel that circles the main part of the city. You go down and up, hoping that each exit will bring you back to the highway.

(Dear Belgium: Better signs. Just saying.)

Eventually, hurrah, we DID find the highway again. Except we were now on our way to Luxembourg. OK, so we turned around. And soon, we saw signs for Germany. (CD: NO! Not Germany! This is BAD!). So we turned around AGAIN. And found ourselves on N8, which was actually a road on the map we did have. And we breathed a sigh of relief.

Until, dear God, we realized we were headed to Gent. And beyond that, the Netherlands.

So we turned around and went the other way. And an hour later? More signs for Gent.

So we took another road. And another one. In the dark of rural Belgium, on a cold night with only a full moon showing the way, we drove around for 3 hours.

Until, finally, we found a river. And from the river, we found the main drag. And from the main drag, we found Lille. And like that, we were in France again.

Our nerves frayed, our patience gone, we made our way with terse words back towards Paris. But somehow, by the time we approached the Rue de Versailles and made our way back to the Louvre, things had begun to settle between us.

Things long unsaid had been hauled out into that tiny car and shouted at. It had hurt, but then it had begun to feel much, much better.

Dropped the car off, walked through the cold breezes to our hotel. Savored the warm there, the steam of a hot shower. And as we crawled into bed, he reached for my hand beneath the pillow. And we fell asleep kissing distance apart.

With the alarm set so we could make the plane home in the morning.

There's No Place Like Home

November 16, 2005 | Category: In My Life

We're home. I'm 40. And what have we learned?

The Louvre is big. Paris is just as beautiful as you think it is. Nothing feels as good as your child's arms around your neck after being seperated. Nothing smells as good as your own pillow as you crash into sleep. Crepes are yummy. So is my husband. Never get lost in Belgium when the only map you have is of France.

More later.

Love,
Elizabeth

La Vie En Rose

November 11, 2005 | Category: In My Life

I made a list about a dozen years ago. I was sitting on a ledge on the isle of Spetses, wearing nothing more than a silky white sheet tied around my waist and a sunbeam. I remember watching the blue sea, pen poised over my journal, feeling so powerful I could have roared.

I wrote down all the dreams I could think of. The obvious and the ones that I had never admitted before. And through the years that followed I added and subtracted. Many of the things I have actually done - given birth, worked a salaried job, finished a work of fiction and let others read it, forgiven old hurts...

But then a few years ago I stopped. I stopped praying, I stopped deaming, I stopped looking at my list. I lost track of me. Gave me away to the days.

Until a couple of months ago. When all the little cuts bled me to a fury that left me in enraged tears on the phone - drawing the line in blood.

So, around number 10; "Walk along the Seine before my 40th birthday..."

And would you look? My bags are packed, my ticket is in hand, and I'm about to fly away to a dream - with 17 hours to spare.

I've taken me back. And damn, it feels good.

I, Elizabeth, being of an almost sound mind...

November 10, 2005 | Category: Family, It's a Trip

It is a humbling thing.

Since we've never done this before, I mean both of us left Bear for any real length of time, we've had to prepare.

Our Wills have been updated. A Special Power of Attorney issued for Dee so she can do things like sign Bear out of school and authorize non-emergency treatment. A compiling of important documents into sharp new Ikea boxes....

We aren't worth much, you know. But we sure do have a lot of paper. Savings Bonds, College Funds, a litte bit in investments, school loans (still!), my work benefits (life and health insurance) and his work benefits, the number of our bookkeeper (keeper of the True State of Things), Living Will, copies of our passports, mortgage, car title, my whole life policy....

CD curled up behind me on the bed this morning as I heaved great sighs. It's been a little raw to see us reflected in official seals and balances and notarized decisions. It's terrifying to think of Dee needing them.

Our family situations and citizenships being what they are, it is a Gilded Hedge Maze if anything happens to us. And having to plan those out, having to push my mind down the paths of of the "what if's...." have made my stomach heave.

"I'm scared," I told CD as he held me. "I don't want to leave him...."

CD nodded.

"Next time, we take him with, OK?"

CD agreed.

We drifted off into our thoughts, in the shadowed early morning.

"But you're done now with all that stuff?" he asked.

I hadn't the heart to tell him that the mountain in my new office wasn't done. Dee still needed the really important instructions compiled....

Our itinerary,
What to pack in Bear's school lunches,
How to work the TiVo and the satellite,
The bedtime rituals,
And where we keep the liquor.

Blah Blah Bras

November 09, 2005 | Category: In My Life

Earlier this week, I bought 3 new bras for my trip to Paris. Because I just couldn't see me going to Paris in my tired old badly fitting beige ones.

The new bras are all the same size and manufacturer. I decided to wear each one once to make sure it fit - because you don't really know until you're about 10 hours into the day.

Monday's bra was a cute yellow number that looked great under a low-cut shirt and my green suede jacket. Comfy and supportive all day. Forgot I was wearing it. Thinking of marrying it.

Tuesday's bra was pink and a little tight across the chest and rode up a little. Had to adjust it a few times. Felt a little saggy, but not too bad.

Today's bra is a black lace torture device. It is tight across the chest, saggy, and the underwires are poking my arm. My ARM! As I type!

Do you know how hard it is to type while being poked in the upper arm by your underwire? Do you? Well?

I do NOT UNDERSTAND THE BRASSIERE INDUSTRY. I am completely baffled. I am about to be umpty-ump years old and having been wearing bras for most of those years and I am no closer to foundation garment zen than I was as a teenager.

We caught a piece about a bra shop in Paris that will hand-make a bra to women's precise measurements. The cost? Around 2 grand. If I had it, would I spend it? YES. YES. YES. Because these things NEED a bra. They can't be let to waggle loose, you know. They could put an eye out. Probably mine.

So - 3 bras in identical sizes and identical manufacturer with the results being 1 that fits, 1 that will do but not great, and 1 that should be classified as a weapon. Ye Gods.

Well, I hope Paris likes Yellow.

Paris

November 07, 2005 | Category: In My Life

All these years of getting so close, and now - finally - I am days from getting on a direct flight to Paris.

Except, you know, the rioting. The disenfranchised of France are rising up. My heart goes out to everyone touched by the violence.

And I'm looking at my non-refundable tickets, and like so many people in the world today - I am not sure what to do.

Follow Me

November 02, 2005 | Category: Mother to the First Power

That song by Uncle Kracker came on the radio, and I didn't think to change the station until it was too late.

From the backseat, Bear's sweet voice; "Mommy, what's this song about?"

This is a very common question. And usually, I answer. And honestly. But this time, I was truly stumped. Go on, YOU play "Scruples" with a precocious preschooler.

Me, trying not to show fear. They can smell fear. No fear: "Uh, what do you think it's about, sweet pea?"

Follow me, everything is alright...I'll be the one to tuck you in at night...

Bear: "Oh, I know! It's about a babysitter. A special one like Elia who comes all the time and takes me to the park! And makes me take a nap, but only when I'm tired!"

(There's a bullet dodged)