Happy Birthdays!
August 29th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I am stubborn, for this I blame my mom.
I have trouble asking for help, for this I blame my mom.
I understand the delicate balance between silly and smart, for this I blame my mom.
I would chose a nice guy over a bad boy any day, for this I blame my mom.
I know what it means to always be independant, for this I blame my mom.
I’ve worked hard to get where I am, for this I blame my mom.
I know what it takes to earn something, for this I blame my mom.
I blame my mom for a lot of things. Most of them being the qualities I possess which I am most proud of.
My mom is small but mighty. She possesses a strength that is part fierce independence with an underlying vulnerability and love that she shows during the moments that count. Like when I seven and needed something to make me smile, so my mom put underwear on her head as she was folding laundry and sang I Feel Pretty. Or the time I forgot my umbrella at home when it was pouring rain so she delivered a brand new bear handled umbrella to me in my classroom. Not only was it a cool move, but I became the proud owner of the most coveted umbrella in the third grade.
I grew up in awe of my mom; the way she worked out like a machine, the fact that she could survive off hard boiled eggs and cottage cheese alone, the idea that she could wake up at 5 a.m. with unbridled energy. Not to mention that she was beautiful, and was never at a loss for men who wanted to be in her presence. I would study her through my thick bifocals and wonder how someone so pretty could have created a specimen like me; an awkward, clumsy, bat-visioned, ratted red-headed child. But as I grow older the similarities between my mom and I are undeniable. Our laughs both turn into cackles if they last more than 5 seconds, both our noses tip up at the end, and we are both at a loss when it comes to asking for help.
Asking for help was never something my mom was good at. The older I get the more I understand this was probably formed from necessity. After being let down too many times, maybe she was forced to become independent, and after being strong for so long maybe it’s hard to go back. I never truly understood how deep that need ran until the day our car broke down. I was around 7 years old when our little Hyundai couldn’t make it the last 4 blocks home and coasted to a halt. My mom calmly steered the car into the bicycle lane, flung the drivers side door open, propped her left hand steadily onto the open door frame, grabbed the steering wheel with her right hand and then pushed with all her might. Mind you, this was a fairly busy street and many guys predictably pulled over and offered to help. More than a dozen men must have stopped and offered help and all were met with the same response from my mom, “it’s okay, I got it.” And she always did. Even in the moments when she didn’t have it, she never let on.
She worked hard, made sure we lived in a nice neighborhood and went to a good school. She always made sure that we had great birthdays, loving Christmas’ and notes in our lunchbox telling us how much we were loved. And in return I always wished that my mom would find someone to love her as much as she loved me. I spent the greater part of my younger years studying the guys my mom dated. I took notes on how they laughed how they acted towards my brother and I when she wasn’t in the room, how they walked. I convinced myself that if I could discover the formula for what was wrong with them, one day I would be able to find the perfect guy for her. Unfortunately the only thing I became good at through this exercise was determining the kind of guys to stay away from when I was old enough to date.
When I was around 23, long after I had moved out of the house and began making my own way in life, I came home to meet my mom’s new boyfriend. I was poised for the worst but Tony, the guy, seemed nice enough.
Over time I got to know Tony better. After spending years perfecting my ability to spot a jerk in no time flat, through careful and meticulous observation, I was poised to take notes on him. Funny thing was that when it came down to it I didn’t have to study Tony, I only had to study my mom. For the first time I saw my mom more relaxed. She didn’t seem to carry the same tension, a tension I never realized was there until it was gone. For the first time I actually felt my mom’s hopes for someone to depend on wouldn’t be met by disappointment.
A few years ago, after a number of years being together, my mom and Tony got married in a very small ceremony (just my brother and I) on a beach in Kauai. One of the many reasons I love Tony so much is that he was the one to cry during the ceremony…my mom of course did not. Tony is a good balance for my mom. He makes her softer and she makes him happy. Granted my mom will always keep a small part of herself separate from everything, forever at the ready to stand on her own, but the great thing is – I think she finally realizes she may not have to anymore.
What I had always hoped for finally happened, she found the love that seemed to elude her for all my years growing up. It seems funny to call Tony my step dad because I met him in my twenties. Truth be told though, he is more than a step dad. He is the first person to ever come into our lives that I trusted with my mom’s heart and with mine. He is a good man and even though it took us over twenty years to find him he was well worth the wait.
My mom and Tony both celebrated their birthdays in August so with that I will close with happy birthday to you both, I love love love you!
Strays
August 4th, 2009 § Leave a Comment
I don’t have children. That’s not an apology, or a plea for someone to fertilize me, its a mere statement if only to illustrate the depth of another love I have for children of a different sort, I have two dogs.
When you get to be over 30, there are two questions strangers lead with when trying to get to know you better, “are you married” and “do you have children.” While I am fine with my answers to both these questions, I find that others react to my lack of husband and children, akin to if I told them I was dying of cancer.
I have since developed an annoying nervous response to their prodding, which usually plays out like this:
Complete stranger who has accomplished the level of wife and mother: “Do you have kids?”
Me: “ No” (trying not to convey any tone that could be misconstrued as disappointment) “but I have two dogs.!”(in a tone that conveys enthusiasm far exceeding that which is appropriate.)
I’m not sure if they take offense because my comment cheapened the sanctity of their children or because I over glorify the relationship between dog and ”parent”.
When I was younger I wanted a dog so badly but my brother’s allergies and my mom’s unwillingness proved formidable obstacles. Every pet store we passed I would beg my mom to let me go in and “just look”. I knew every attempt was futile and I would leave every visit empty handed. But I soon discovered another route to dog ownership…strays.
My first stray dog encounter happened on my way home from school. At ten years old, I operated off one rule, the golden rule of “finders keepers”. The fact that the dog had a collar on was inconsequential. He was unleashed and undeniably in love with me. It was our destiny to be together forever. From now on it was me and my new dog, Winston. He looked 100% like a Winston, and if dogs picked names for themselves, I was sure this would be the one name out of all the other names in the world he would choose. It certainly wouldn’t be Max, as his tag mislabeled him.
We continued our journey home and if Winston strayed too far, I would call his name in a high pitched squeaky voice that made him trot back enthusiastically every time, further proving his name was perfect. When I got to my house I yelled for my grandmother and tried to contain the enthusiasm that was dripping out of every inch of my body. I needed to convince her this nuisance of a dog followed me home and I was now faced with the unfortunate responsibility of caring for him. Surely my unwillingness to welcome Winston with open arms would prove to her this was more about fate and destiny, than it was about my desire to have Winston for my own. After one quick glance, it was clear the love Winston and I shared was contained between us. Not only was she upset that I brought this scruffy dog into the house, but he clearly “belonged to someone else” and she told me to take him back to where I found him. With a heavy heart, I walked Winston back to the park where I found him. As we walked, I cried and he chased unsuspecting birds. Broken hearted that I wasn’t able to make good on the life I promised him, I kissed Winston goodbye and wished him well in his life as Max.
Undeterred, my tendancy to find stray dogs and take them home has extended well into adulthood. I’ve been late to meetings at work because a stray darted across the street. I’ve chased a stray dog down train tracks in an outfit far too fancy to be doing so. I carry treats in my trunk to will the less willing, and I do it because I figure they wouldn’t be put in my path, if I wasn’t supposed to notice them.
Dogs fill the empty spaces in life, they are magic that way.
We clean their poop, wipe the goop out of their eyes and let them give us face kisses with their floppy tongues. Dogs love us. They sit with us when we cry, lick our wounds and stand at the door waiting patiently for us to re-enter their world.
We love them because they sprinkle us with their fur, mark us with their drool and make their way up onto the beds we swore they were never allowed on. And all we have to do is be exactly like we are.
Someday I will be able to say I have children, my desire to be a mom is undeniable. But for now, I don’t have kids but, “I have two dogs!”
Broken Homes
June 24th, 2009 § 2 Comments
The first time I told my mom I was engaged she responded, “To who?”
I was 18, he was 30 – we dated for 3 months. One trip to Hawaii later, I returned home with a shell ring on my finger and big ideas for the wedding.
We lived in a house on a cul-de-sac where I would scrapbook with the neighbors every Sunday night. He bought me a golden retriever for Christmas which I named Grommit. He had his own business, was financially stable and eventually bought me a pretty wedding ring that I would sometimes turn upside down to hide. We set the date for our wedding 6 months later only to postpone it 4 months later. Our engagement lasted for 2 years.
One morning, after he had left for work, I sat at the top of the stairs in our house cradling my Christmas dog crying. I kissed his wet nose slid my engagement ring off and placed it on the bathroom counter. And then I left the house for the last time.
Being engaged to him, especially to someone 12 years my senior, had put me in a frenzied state of trying to finish school so that I could have children right after we got married. Even though I wasn’t ready to be a mom, he was running out of time to be the ”young cool dad” that he always envisioned being. I quit my full time job to become a full time student, which meant I had given up my independence and stability. 2 weeks shy of my 21st birthday, I had never been so terrified walking out of that house and into the unknown future.
Walking away was difficult – but essential. I was in love with the idea of love. I loved knowing I would have someone by my side for the rest of time. It wasn’t until the wedding grew closer that I finally realized, I wasn’t in love with him, I was in love with the idea of marriage. While he was a wonderful safe and loving guy, I was far too young to be someones wife.
My parents divorced when I was 1 1/2 years old. Growing up in a divorced environment, I knew that no matter what mistakes I made, I would do everything in my power to ensure a failed marriage wasn’t one of them. I realize things happen, and statistically I have a 50% chance of it not working. I can however do my due diligence before getting married to make sure that the person I am marrying is someone I have no doubts about and have every intention of being with until my last days. This includes not marrying someone at 18 and after just 3 months of dating.
Sadly, far too many people get married too young, too soon or too quickly. I watched Jon and Kate last night and found no joy spying on their crumbling marriage. The episode was drenched in sadness and each of them had the same cold hard stare that people who are going through a separation adorn.
Watching the episode last night I realized for the first time that divorce is much harder on the parents than it is the children. As a child I had no idea what I was missing. I thought every normal child shuttled from each parents house every other weekend. I thought all daughters dreaded alone time with their fathers. To me it was normal and like most all other children I adjusted my world view accordingly. For the parents though it means missed first steps, shared or missed holidays, not being there for the first lost tooth. It means not being there to watch your children grow from day to day. It means missing the little moments in between the “every other weekends.”
It drives me crazy when people stay married “for the children”. I respect my mom much more for being strong enough to walk away from a situation she was unhappy in, even though it meant struggling to find her way. And although she didn’t do it gracefully she did it with strength and courage. That to me is far more admirable than someone who stays in a loveless marriage “for the children.” To me that seems more an excuse than it does a reason.
I tell my friends who are going through a divorce that the best thing they can do is to never speak negatively about their ex-spouse to their children. I have vivid memories of my father talking harshly about how much he hated my mom (I am generously paraphrasing here) only to have him say to me how much I remind her of him. To a child, hating their mother or father, is the same as hating them.
In 13 years, I am a long way from the girl that returned from Hawaii with a puka shell ring. Sometimes that part of my life seems so distant I almost wonder if it happened at all. And although I am thankful that it ended in a breakup and not a divorce–I do sometimes wonder just how my golden retriever is doing.
