This is the time of reckoning, when your 44-year-old husband tells you he doesn't want to try again. This is the time when your step-son says maybe you can't have babies because your stomach is too strong, too small, too hard. This is the time when a fellow teacher says that you dress as if you are 40, "like an old lady" she says, and you look at her frowning, really frowning, and just think, not yet, not yet.
Your baby hasn't come. Every movie you watch is about babies, born, dying, and every time your husband looks over at your stoney face, your wet face, your laughing face, your incredulous face and checks to make sure there isn't the threat of the strong undertow of sadness he thinks might take you down.
It's that time.
It's also the time that you fall into yourself, your sexy woman-human body, your own skin and your step-moming skin and just celebrate the love you have. The beast of loss haunts your back step, sniffs the night stars, lurks in the shadows of the garden of your mind, but you choose not to feed it. You refuse the why? Refuse to look for a pattern that explains the things you have had to let go of. Why? Because God isn't in those patterns, don't call it God, call it Joy--Joy isn't in those patterns. The equation that explains your loss doesn't exist. The only thing that exists is your choice to move on and to take it all in: the beauty, the sorrow, the cycles of the seasons, calling it all your home.
Saturday, February 15, 2014
When He is Sick He Wants Mom
Suffering from a fever for several days, what does a boy want but the comfort of his mother? I take his temperature, try to get him to eat, to take his medicine, but it is the wrong kind and he won't swallow it. I cannot comfort him and I think if I were his mother I would know how. Is this how all mothers feel? I wonder if I would know intuitively how to make him feel better if I were his mother. There are moments when I feel distinctly that I am Not Mom. Not Mom is no authority on how to make a boy feel better. Not Mom forgets things like water and snacks in the car. Not Mom is strict. Not Mom is not strict enough, offering treats at the wrong time, gifts the child does not need or want. Not mom is out of step, faltering and continually guessing and second-guessing.
Not Mom days are my least favorite days. I feel useful but not essential, peripheral not central. I feel flawed and inexperienced and these days I am hard on myself for swearing, for accidentally running a red light, for taking him to the movies when he is sick and watching him throw-up popcorn later that day.
Learning to be a mom is hard. Most moms have the first 5 years to get in sync with the needs of a child, to learn the language of the child's body, to find a pace that makes sense. A Mom has the luxury of those first, admittedly taxing, years to train herself about snacks, bedtimes and the symptoms of sickness. She becomes attuned to the growth and development of her child while the rest of us, the childless tribe, the step-mothers, at 30-years-old, still sometimes forget to feed ourselves, have never had to remind a small person to shower, to make a bed, to eat something, or to save his appetite. We have been on autopilot and are dropped into lives in which we are suddenly responsible for the care of another person. If you are like me then the child is at an age when he can remember everything we say and do, an age when the he can observe us struggling to juggle work, guitar lessons, lunch preparation, meal-planning, and school-drop offs.
Through feverish eyes my step-son accepts the cool washcloth I offer him, and directs me to make a mixture of castor oil and eucalyptus oil (5 drops).
The odor blows open Not Mom's senses. She is all alert at her duty, following the child's instructions to rub the mix on his chest and neck. She does so slowly in circles, trying to be someone who can ease the child's suffering, hoping that Not Mom or not, the act of trying counts for something. When it doesn't work to reduce his fever, Not mom and Dad call Mom, and she drives over and cuddles her boy, takes his temperature, instructs the two parents standing sentry at the door the proper use of the tinctures she has brought--syrup, echinacea, elderberry. She holds him until he falls asleep. She stands up and you see how it breaks her heart a little too. She goes back over the instructions, squeezes your Not Mom arm and looks at you kindly. In that moment you realize how strange it is that your best hope is to follow the lead of the woman whose job might just be harder than yours, the woman whose job it is to entrust her child to the care of another woman, to entrust it to you. In that moment you make a silent vow to take good care of this other woman's boy, who now is yours in a way and it terrifies you and fills you with love.
Not Mom days are my least favorite days. I feel useful but not essential, peripheral not central. I feel flawed and inexperienced and these days I am hard on myself for swearing, for accidentally running a red light, for taking him to the movies when he is sick and watching him throw-up popcorn later that day.
Learning to be a mom is hard. Most moms have the first 5 years to get in sync with the needs of a child, to learn the language of the child's body, to find a pace that makes sense. A Mom has the luxury of those first, admittedly taxing, years to train herself about snacks, bedtimes and the symptoms of sickness. She becomes attuned to the growth and development of her child while the rest of us, the childless tribe, the step-mothers, at 30-years-old, still sometimes forget to feed ourselves, have never had to remind a small person to shower, to make a bed, to eat something, or to save his appetite. We have been on autopilot and are dropped into lives in which we are suddenly responsible for the care of another person. If you are like me then the child is at an age when he can remember everything we say and do, an age when the he can observe us struggling to juggle work, guitar lessons, lunch preparation, meal-planning, and school-drop offs.
Through feverish eyes my step-son accepts the cool washcloth I offer him, and directs me to make a mixture of castor oil and eucalyptus oil (5 drops).
The odor blows open Not Mom's senses. She is all alert at her duty, following the child's instructions to rub the mix on his chest and neck. She does so slowly in circles, trying to be someone who can ease the child's suffering, hoping that Not Mom or not, the act of trying counts for something. When it doesn't work to reduce his fever, Not mom and Dad call Mom, and she drives over and cuddles her boy, takes his temperature, instructs the two parents standing sentry at the door the proper use of the tinctures she has brought--syrup, echinacea, elderberry. She holds him until he falls asleep. She stands up and you see how it breaks her heart a little too. She goes back over the instructions, squeezes your Not Mom arm and looks at you kindly. In that moment you realize how strange it is that your best hope is to follow the lead of the woman whose job might just be harder than yours, the woman whose job it is to entrust her child to the care of another woman, to entrust it to you. In that moment you make a silent vow to take good care of this other woman's boy, who now is yours in a way and it terrifies you and fills you with love.
Monday, October 14, 2013
Pretending
Micheal and I say, "Fake it till you make it." I don't remember when we first used that phrase, but I tell him I do it when I know that whatever I am feeling won't serve me. I'm doing it now because his mom is pregnant. It turns out that Micheal will have a brother or sister afterall, but it won't be my child. I know that I will hear about it as I do now of the cat at his mom's house. I will hear about how it's growing, what it's doing, how it makes him laugh and maybe I will always think that it is not my child. So I am faking it, pretending I don't feel anything, or pretending joy, inviting love to be the feeling that I have for all of life that arrives, in whatever form. Because ultimately, in the end, it will be love that I have wanted to feel more than loss and more than sorrow.
Saturday, June 23, 2012
Waking Up
Sometimes when M wakes up he asks a big question, as if he has been dreaming of distant philosophies, alternate dimensions, or investigating the wide spectrum of human achievement or human limitation. I often sit on the edge of his bed as he works his way out of sleep wondering aloud about the world. This morning I was sitting at the table working on my computer when he emerged, sleepy-eyed, from his room.
"Kate, do you think some people find happiness from thinking they are better than other people?"
I pause as I have learned to do.
"Why do you ask?"
He shrugs in response.
"Maybe," he murmurs "but what do you think?"
Before answering I think for a moment. It is difficult not to begin moralizing, but I keep trying to be a parent who broadens his worldview, rather than narrows it. "I think some people do find happiness from thinking they are better than other people, but I don't think it's the lasting kind of happiness."
He nods, picks up his cat, and takes her back to his bedroom, leaving me to wonder about the definition, texture, and expression of happiness.
"Kate, do you think some people find happiness from thinking they are better than other people?"
I pause as I have learned to do.
"Why do you ask?"
He shrugs in response.
"Maybe," he murmurs "but what do you think?"
Before answering I think for a moment. It is difficult not to begin moralizing, but I keep trying to be a parent who broadens his worldview, rather than narrows it. "I think some people do find happiness from thinking they are better than other people, but I don't think it's the lasting kind of happiness."
He nods, picks up his cat, and takes her back to his bedroom, leaving me to wonder about the definition, texture, and expression of happiness.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
A Child's Wish
My husband is napping. He rises every morning in the quiet dark, hours before M or I begin to stir. Because of this he often drops into sleep in the late afternoon when he sits down, or early in the evening if we are sitting together to watch a movie. M and I joke about it. We know he won't make it through any movies we start. When we hear his faint snore begin to issue from the heavy head, when we see the softened mouth and the crazily angled head, we nudge each other and smile.
Sometimes we wake him.
On this particular afternoon M feels that regardless of Der's waking hour, it is simply far too early. "Hey dad, wake up!"
"What, what happened?"Der stirs and looks blearily around, warm from the stoked fire, from dreams.
"The war's over!" M shouts, apparently, the first thing that comes to mind.
The "War on Terror" has been going on since his first year of life. He was born in the year 2000. He has only known a world and a country at "war" with everyone who looks to be a threat, an abstract war on terror in which anyone could be an enemy. When M was eight, during the election year, he said, "Bush has been the president my whole life," and it seemed a long time. During his lifetime homeland security became a household term, the war on terror justified the detention of people without a trial.
"I wish that could happen, a person falls asleep and a war is over. I wish it were that easy. You wake up and say,'Hey, the war is over,' " he says to himself.
"Is it over?"he asks me.
Der, lion-like, smiles sleepily, happy to let me field that question, and lets his eyelids drop again.
Sometimes we wake him.
On this particular afternoon M feels that regardless of Der's waking hour, it is simply far too early. "Hey dad, wake up!"
"What, what happened?"Der stirs and looks blearily around, warm from the stoked fire, from dreams.
"The war's over!" M shouts, apparently, the first thing that comes to mind.
The "War on Terror" has been going on since his first year of life. He was born in the year 2000. He has only known a world and a country at "war" with everyone who looks to be a threat, an abstract war on terror in which anyone could be an enemy. When M was eight, during the election year, he said, "Bush has been the president my whole life," and it seemed a long time. During his lifetime homeland security became a household term, the war on terror justified the detention of people without a trial.
"I wish that could happen, a person falls asleep and a war is over. I wish it were that easy. You wake up and say,'Hey, the war is over,' " he says to himself.
"Is it over?"he asks me.
Der, lion-like, smiles sleepily, happy to let me field that question, and lets his eyelids drop again.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
The Last Day of School
My step-son is a beauty. Each week, when he returns to the house he flies through the door chattering like a bird. He drops his lunch by the sink and his school bag by the table and picks up his bass guitar or his ukelele. For the next 40 minutes he follows me around the house from task to task--do I like this song or this song? Which bass-line is better? Do you recognize this? He wonders about the date of the first time a man walked on the moon; how many flags are there on the moon?; when did Kurt Cobain die? M wonders about racism, which soccer player is leading in goals scored for the European Championship tournament; who will pick him up today; why girls don't realize that just by wearing pants they are cross-dressing--but it's weird for boys to wear makeup?
Today M dressed for the last day of school like the alternative rock stars that so inspire him. It is the same outfit he wore on the first day of sixth grade, nine months ago. This morning he dresses in a white linen shirt, a tie, a suit vest, and black skinny jeans and his black adidas sneakers.
He smooths his hair down and asks me to help him put on mascara. As far as he is concerned, eye makeup is a necessary part of this outfit, a break from his usual jeans and soccer jersey. Just like the first time he devised this outfit complete with makeup, we don't say anything except to compliment his unique sense of style. We don't have time for eye shadow or that would be put on too. As I apply the mascara, I comment on how long his eyelashes are. He squints, squeezing his eyes together (It tickles!)printing little tracks of the still-wet mascara on his lower eye-lid. "Well, it looks more like The Cure this way," he comments, tilting his head and inspecting himself.
"Do you want to keep it?"Considering the effect, he shakes his head."To remove it, just put a little lotion under each eye, applied with a q-tip, then get your finger wet and wash it off," I instruct. He follows my directions inspecting himself, first just his face, and then in the full-length mirror. He straightens his vest and smooths his hair. We realize that the tie is sticking through the bottom of his vest and M decides it looks silly.
"I know a trick," I tell him. "There's this secret pocket," I fold the tie up under the vest and slide it in between two of the buttons in his shirt.
"Really?"
I smile and shake my head. "If you take your vest off just pull it out from the bottom of your shirt where I've tucked it in."
Suddenly we realize we are late, that we had not budgeted time for "getting ready." We move quickly into high gear--I put the mini pizzas, still cooling, into a plastic ziploc bag, wash a handful of cherries, pull out a frozen yogurt tube from the freezer and put them all into his lunch sack.
M hefts his incredibly heavy backpack up with one hand and slides his arms through each of the straps.
He grabs his lunch and patiently waits by the car while I rush around the house looking for my keys. 'Just my luck to drop him off late on his last day,' I tell myself).
In moments, we are off--not too late--he'll still get there on time, but not as early as M likes. He is like his dad, he wants to be 20 minutes early for everything. I glance at him as we drive down Greeley toward I-5, singing along to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, while intermittently asking me questions about the news or the rest of the week. Beyond his young, flawless face the Willamette river glistens and the buildings downtown spark in the morning light. We flow past the Fremont bridge, the Broadway bridge and merge onto the Interstate. We can see the city unfolding before us into the perfect possibility of a new day.
As we pull up to the school he sighs again about being late. He gets out of the car, waves, smiles and confidently joins the stream of students entering the school, already looking the part of the seventh grader, and I marvel at my luck to be a part of his life.
Today M dressed for the last day of school like the alternative rock stars that so inspire him. It is the same outfit he wore on the first day of sixth grade, nine months ago. This morning he dresses in a white linen shirt, a tie, a suit vest, and black skinny jeans and his black adidas sneakers.
He smooths his hair down and asks me to help him put on mascara. As far as he is concerned, eye makeup is a necessary part of this outfit, a break from his usual jeans and soccer jersey. Just like the first time he devised this outfit complete with makeup, we don't say anything except to compliment his unique sense of style. We don't have time for eye shadow or that would be put on too. As I apply the mascara, I comment on how long his eyelashes are. He squints, squeezing his eyes together (It tickles!)printing little tracks of the still-wet mascara on his lower eye-lid. "Well, it looks more like The Cure this way," he comments, tilting his head and inspecting himself.
"Do you want to keep it?"Considering the effect, he shakes his head."To remove it, just put a little lotion under each eye, applied with a q-tip, then get your finger wet and wash it off," I instruct. He follows my directions inspecting himself, first just his face, and then in the full-length mirror. He straightens his vest and smooths his hair. We realize that the tie is sticking through the bottom of his vest and M decides it looks silly.
"I know a trick," I tell him. "There's this secret pocket," I fold the tie up under the vest and slide it in between two of the buttons in his shirt.
"Really?"
I smile and shake my head. "If you take your vest off just pull it out from the bottom of your shirt where I've tucked it in."
Suddenly we realize we are late, that we had not budgeted time for "getting ready." We move quickly into high gear--I put the mini pizzas, still cooling, into a plastic ziploc bag, wash a handful of cherries, pull out a frozen yogurt tube from the freezer and put them all into his lunch sack.
M hefts his incredibly heavy backpack up with one hand and slides his arms through each of the straps.
He grabs his lunch and patiently waits by the car while I rush around the house looking for my keys. 'Just my luck to drop him off late on his last day,' I tell myself).
In moments, we are off--not too late--he'll still get there on time, but not as early as M likes. He is like his dad, he wants to be 20 minutes early for everything. I glance at him as we drive down Greeley toward I-5, singing along to the Red Hot Chili Peppers, while intermittently asking me questions about the news or the rest of the week. Beyond his young, flawless face the Willamette river glistens and the buildings downtown spark in the morning light. We flow past the Fremont bridge, the Broadway bridge and merge onto the Interstate. We can see the city unfolding before us into the perfect possibility of a new day.
As we pull up to the school he sighs again about being late. He gets out of the car, waves, smiles and confidently joins the stream of students entering the school, already looking the part of the seventh grader, and I marvel at my luck to be a part of his life.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
This poem by the great Spanish poet Antonio Machado, a poem I haven't read for years, came to me this morning as I was sipping coffee in the early morning light.
Last Night As I Was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.
Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.
Antonio Machado
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