breadcrumbs in ohio

I spent Sunday driving the seven hours from Akron, Ohio to Annapolis, Maryland with my kids chirping away in the backseat and no one but a sad, stale, nearly empty bag of Trader Joe's style Pirate Booty on the passenger seat beside me. I suffered from a nasty summer cold. I had driven seven hours in the opposite direction just two days before. And I played hundreds of rounds of animal-only 20 questions. The children's selections included a dark-eyed junco, a Vietnamese snow leopard, a ground beetle and a port jackson shark, and because we read the same non-fiction nature books, it somehow worked.

However. Even the most successful and determined 20 questions players will disintegrate into absurdity eventually, and I knew when Gabriel started asking things like "Is it a heebee geebee? Is it a poopy skidoopy?" that we were in trouble. And still so many miles from home!

But really, trouble is a relative term. We made it. And even though Mike was called away by a family emergency at the last minute and couldn't join us on this trip, and even though I got sick, everything was just fine. We rolled off 97 and into Annapolis in the late day heat with all the windows down, giddy, blasting the Beastie Boys. I watched Frances and Gabriel in the rear view mirror doing their ridiculous little kid hip hop moves, hair flying in the wind, and I felt very capable.  

Besides having bigger kids who are also capable - sometimes moreso than I give them credit for - I know that the drive back worked because of my confidence that those hours of driving were more than worth it. We had been to Ohio to help celebrate my grandfather's 90th birthday, along with my mother, aunts, sister, niece (we're a female-heavy family) and many other people I had never met before, or met once or twice as a child.

My mother's family isn't the closest, and I hadn't seen Poppy since my sister's wedding almost five years ago. But during that visit, Frances and Poppy bonded immediately, and seeing the two of them together reacquainted me with the closeness I felt with him as a child. The children have corresponded with him since, which is very sweet. Somehow sitting next to him over the weekend, an extraordinarily vital nonagenarian - the same man who read me stories in his lap, who built my sister and me a pink-and-white playhouse in our backyard, who we knew never to talk politics with, even as children - brought me a sense of great peace and comfort. He's the same guy. I'm more or less the same person too. A thread of connection, unbroken by space and time.

The book I'm now reading is organized into letters written by an older therapist to her much younger graduate student. One letter is about following what she calls "breadcrumbs" - the pictures, stories, and memories from our childhood that we can trace to figure out who we are and where we come from. We all make up narratives to explain ourselves and our pasts, and we can get pretty nicely settled into certain story lines. But oh, it is arresting and wondrous to be surprised by a stray breadcrumb! Me, Poppy's granddaughter? Me, a Korach? A part of a family whose story stretches to Eastern Europe, some of whose members perished in the camps, some of whose members struck out at tender ages for America, where they accomplished amazing things? Can my life - and my mothering - possibly be part of that legacy?
  
As a child I spent a lot of time wondering about the Korachs of the past and imagining what they were like. I spent time wondering and imagining what the Korachs of the present were like, sitting back, watching my mother slip into her family ways with them over the Thanksgiving table. But only over the weekend did I realize that I am them, part of the story. My kids are too. We're different--who isn't?--but we're not separate.

Gabriel took the pictures here. Maybe they can be breadcrumbs for him someday.

A therapist needs to reflect on who she is. I understand that. But the task seems equally urgent for a parent: how else can we give ourselves and our stories to our kids?

meet the positives

Above you see Miss Perky Positive and her brother, Master Playful Positive. Their parents, Mister Polite Positive and Mrs. Pretty Positive, are sadly not pictured. In fact, at the time this photo was taken Mrs. Positive was tucked into the corner of a couch, talk talk talking with her friend who lives 1,700 miles away. But no matter. That hardly got in the way of the pride and joy these children take in living out the full, fantastic meaning of their name.

This is how Mike transformed a couple of a whiny, hot and tired kids into a pair of smiling goofballs who took readily to a game of noticing how great everything and everyone is. I do believe a papa's ingenuity needs certain circumstances to truly blossom. And by certain circumstances, I mean a papa needs a mama to get out of the garden. Give the man a little space to exercise his flair for parenting, uninterrupted!

I knew they'd be fine while I was away. I even suspected it would be a good thing for all of us: I could recharge, reconnect with my dearest friend, and get acquainted with her newest sweet babe while the kids could enjoy a long stretch of "Special Papa Time" (which doesn't normally last for three days). And I knew Mike was a very capable and caring parent who could handle things well.  

But I didn't know they'd be sad to see their idyll with Mike come to an end. They missed me - just like I missed them - but not too much.

My trip was, for lack of a better word, heavenly. Time spent with our dearest and closest friends serves to remind us of the person we truly are, and the things that we value most. The kind of life we hope to lead, the directions in which our heart yearns, the ways we hope to serve others. And even - I don't think this is overstating things - our own lovability and worth. Because we do need to be reminded, don't you think? Even if you are blessed to have, as I do (and very, very grateful for it), an affectionate family whose members give and receive many "I love yous" a day - there is something about stepping out of the busy flow of regular life and being joyfully present with a friend that confirms the inherent, unquestionable value of the both of you. It felt so luxurious, this trip, and it really was - but so much more restorative than any massage could possibly be!

(If you have been on the fence for awhile about visiting a special friend who lives too far away, or can't quite seem to find the right time or settle on the right place to meet - well, I am here to tell you to just do it. Figure it out. Book the flight, clear your calendar, announce that you will soon be sleeping on her couch. It will be worth it.)

And the kids? I did miss them. It hurt to say goodbye. But when I returned, it felt good to step back into the swift river of everyday life, even with its homework to help with, spilled smoothie to mop up, kids to drop off, birthday gifts to arrange (Mike deserves a good one tomorrow, wouldn't you agree?) and work emails to return. I didn't mind it. With scant exceptions, I liked it. Today I saw their beloved faces with fresh eyes.

dodgeball v. worms

Today I waited for Frances on a bench in the sunshine at the end of the school day, along with Gabriel and our friends. When she was finally dismissed and made her way over to us, she carried a crisp new fortune teller in one hand and dragged her backpack in the other, walking slowly and steadily until she was about an inch away from me. We stood nose to nose. I could not read the mood, not even a little.

Mama, she said, very earnestly. Would you please find a plain old t-shirt in my drawer and embroider it with the words "I hate dodgeball"?

Oh, daughter of mine! It is awful, isn't it? (I don't think I said that. I'm pretty sure I just thought it).

I know many of you have fond memories of playing dodgeball in school. I think that is just terrific. I, however, do not. And according to Frances, not even Mr. Dan--resident physical education guru, beloved by every first grader I know--can make dodgeball fun. So in my mind, that settles it.

It was one of the first times I understood in my bones why she feels such envy towards Gabriel, who gets to spend time with me while she is at school. The mere mention of dodgeball helped me to get it, and the fact that he and I spent a near perfect morning outside in the garden today, digging up worms, flying a little plane of balsa, pulling up the radishes, and generally soaking up sunshine in the breezy May weather.

I'm off tomorrow, on a trip all by myself (in a much bigger airplane) to Denver, to see a beloved friend and her beloved family. Extraordinary. May is simply an excellent month. Happy weekend, everyone!

fortune-telling fever

Do you remember these? Frances ran up to me after school with one in hand, breathless with excitement. On the way to the car it began to come apart in a way that proved challenging to fix, so she burst into tears and accused me of meanness. I wasn't sympathetic enough, apparently. Well, yes. I took a few deep breaths, reminded myself of her late night the day before, and reminded her that even if she was frustrated she was not allowed to take it out on me. (Ha! I can at least try...)

And then I told her we could look up how to make fortune tellers online (tutorial here). The mood lightened. Truth is I was a little excited too. I don't think I've seen one of these since the sixth grade and they are a lot of fun.  At home Gabriel got in on the action and the children were shortly screaming with delight, shock, laughter, and disappointment. Instead of your middle school version-- full of boys' names and cities where you might live when you grow up--these fortune tellers are firmly set in early childhood.

For example, Gabriel dictated the following fortunes for his teller:

*You will jump on the windowsill and touch the ceiling.

*You will poop on a lizard tomorrow.

*You will turn into a basketball player.

*You will sleep in my bunk bed tonight.

*You will pee in your underwear.

*You will fly on a bird's back. 

*You will go to a carnival. Right away!

first night

After an early dinner I told everyone to come outside and help me in the garden. It took some coaxing but they all made it. The children dug a desultory hole or two, pulled a radish, munched an arugula leaf. And draped their bellies over the swings for a good lazy hang, and generally wandered the yard, disoriented (isn't this supposed to be story time...?) and all the while I transplanted the last of the flowers and checked on the tomatoes I moved into the garden earlier today. While I puttered around (incidentally, I have never puttered around a garden before) I wondered how all of them would fare during their first cool, breezy night outdoors.

It's weird. I am empathizing with tomato plants. I imagine the undersides of their delicate leaves being blown upwards by a sudden night wind and I involuntarily shiver. Oh dear. Sleep well, little ones.

rumpus

I am so sad about Maurice Sendak's death. His books accompanied me through childhood and now parenthood; I don't think we ever go more than a few days without reading In the Night Kitchen, The Moon Jumpers, Where the Wild Things Are, or Higgelty Piggelty Pop. His exquisite art and attunement to the perils of childhood (of personhood, maybe) have surely influenced me more than I know.

About a year ago I stumbled upon Outside Over There at the library. One glance at the cover made me shiver. I'd forgotten about this one, which I read as a child--over and over--though it scared the daylights out of me. It's the story of a brave big sister who has to rescue her baby sister from goblins all by herself. The images are haunting (including those of her abstracted, mournful mother who does not seem aware of the trouble at hand). I got up the courage to check it out a month ago and read it to Gabriel, who told me it isn't scary at all and please read it again. And again.

transplanting

This is a precious, fleeting season in Maryland. The days have grown long and warm enough to accommodate a post-kid-bedtime visit to the garden, yet the nasty biting bugs have not arrived (when they do, they will make bare-limbed evening rambles the kind of thing only a crazy person would attempt. Or, I suppose, a person drenched in Deet.) 

Do you see the curling pea tendrils, the arugula, the tomato plants preparing themselves for the grand, risky move from the safety of their plastic pots to the wilds of the garden? I missed those plants. I thought about them while we were in Lancaster over the weekend. I wondered how they were faring in my absence.

My goodness, that's a first for this novice gardener! Now that I'm in charge, I've grown attached. I never thought my heart could open for a mere plant, but this spring I've learned different. Maybe something about being ultimately responsible for another living thing inevitably stirs up affection.

It was a lovely, short visit, the highlight of which was a spin through the long-awaited fair in the park at the end of my mother's block. There were countless run-ins with old friends and their much-taller children, bumper cars, a fun house, snow cones, and an unfortunate episode after riding the swings with Gabriel: I was quite literally brought to my knees in the grass a few feet from the ride's blinking lights, a gesture inspired by sheer gratitude that the endless spinning was indeed finally over and a feeble attempt to control my nausea and dizziness. Lesson learned: Mama doesn't do the swing ride.

tussie mussie

Frances, like her mother, is a hatcher of schemes, a plotter of plans, and a lover of grand, purposeful, and well-executed Events. We both get a rush from the early conceptual stages of plan-making, and even though I really get it when Frances starts talking a mile a minute, describing the imagined event she will orchestrate, I often find myself attempting to pull her back down to earth. Do you really think everyone will come in costume? Where do you suggest we find the fantastic decorations? Who will pay for those amazing snacks? Etc.

It's just that I don't want her to be too disappointed by the disparity between fantasy and reality that will inevitably make itself known. In the name of protecting her bright spirit, I engage in a little spirit-squelching. Does that make any sense? Her perceptions are so very different from mine; why not let her see through her own plans on her own terms? Maybe reality won't disappoint. Or maybe it will, but surely she can handle it. So a couple of weeks ago, when she began describing the May Day party she was going to throw during recess, I kept my mouth shut.