In my rear view mirror

My essay, The Truth Is, is featured Mamalode today, along with the work of some really fabulous writers. Click here to visit me over there. 

We can’t return

We can only look behind 

From where we came 

And go round and round and round

In the circle game. – Joni Mitchell, The Circle Game

No matter where we are going, no matter the length of our travels, my passenger’s side rear view mirror contains the image of my girl’s scrunched face trying to prick my attention to solicit a beam in reply. If it’s warm, she rolls down the window and leans her chin out like a puppy lapping up the breeze, hair flying wild. Childhood in a snapshot. It’s swiftly getting left behind in the rear view mirror. With Princess Commando entering 6^th grade, Henry beginning his freshman year of high school, First Born Son closing out his high school stay in senior year, and a three year old who overnight has grown legs and lost her baby face, I have been gazing into that slip of glass more frequently lately. Lingering in sweet comforts of the way we were- moving forward with butterflies in my stomach.

I took Princess Commando to visit her former school which houses grades Pre-K- 4. The building recently underwent a multi-million dollar renovation. She marveled at the new wing with its floor-to-ceiling windows, a dedicated Art room (instead of Art on a Cart), a full sized gymnasium. She was amused by the cosmetic upgrades and the arrangement of the classrooms. She ran her fingers over her former locker number. Her shoulders sank.

“I wish I could go back.” It was so much simpler then.

We walked down the same hallway we traveled on the first morning of kindergarten 7 years ago. It was only yesterday that I twisted her honey highlighted hair into two jaunty ponytails on the top of her head, helped her pull on her colorful tights and slip on her suede moccasins.  The corridor is brighter now and at the end of it, there is a wall papered in a life sized black and white picture of a tree-lined promenade-a blown up photograph of a parkway designed by Frederick Law Olmsted, the school’s namesake. The lane unfurled through time and space. I stood before it focusing on the point where the perspective narrows. The future and past locked hands in a bittersweet waltz. Zephyrs of hope and longing spilled off the print. My 11 year old standing on my right and her 5 year old essence on my left. 

No matter where we are going, no matter the length of our travels, no matter the physical or emotional distance between us, I will seek their faces-  eyes wide with wonder, hungry to learn, yearning to become the people they are today- in that slip of glass.

First Born Son on his first day of Pre-K, 14 years ago. It seems like 100 years ago. It seems like yesterday.

the dogs are talking again...

... it means I'm going mental. It's a process- slowly drawn out. The children see shades of its end result- the nasty snapping, the switch that's flipped. The docile doe turns into the howling werewolf poised for a kill.  Its cause is summer. And having children. Who are home for the whole summer. And caring for those children so much that I am spending more time on volunteer work for their school than I would on a full time job. And struggling to find time to do what I love to do. And trying to remember what it is I love to do.

The Mr. asked me the other day- what would make me happy. He was being kind, truly thoughtful. He thought he might find a way to bend the course of things in my favor- just a touch. He was hopeful that I would tell him happiness lies in a night out with him. Or finding work outside of the house and putting Violet in daycare full time. Or getting to go away some place I've always wanted to visit. Or riding horses. Indulging in some small pleasure- just for myself.

The truth is I want to kick everyone out (talking dogs can stay) and enjoy an absence that is not even afforded by the return of my darlings to school. I need 24 hours. At least. They are free to enjoy cotton candy eating, twirl- a- whirling, vomit inducing fun at an amusement park- their holy land. I want to clean my house. Scrub away the dust and scum until I'm choking on disinfectant and wearing the perfume of Murphy's Oil Soap.  And I want to enjoy object permanence- nothing shifts or gets added to the tableau- nothing spills. I want to revel in the noises that come from our 100 year old house. And the dogs. And my own squishy soul. Then I want to sit at my desk and finish an idea. I would make it a good one.

But truly, I just need that time to miss the people that I never get a chance to miss because how can you miss someone or something when it is never ever out of your sight?

the truth is

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

When I was a grown up

Violet’s little voice is always transmitting a story or a half-made up song that permeates the airwaves. She has this thing lately that sounds like daydreams spoken aloud about the things she will do when she grows up. Or maybe they are things that happened in a former life as they are reported in the past tense.

When I was a grown up, I climbed a crane to the top of a building and jumped off into the sky.

I had my work blinders on, trying my best to let her constant hum stay in the periphery- but the little tune she was singing to The Dog kept snagging in my head.

‘Twinkle twinkle do svidanyia. How I wonder how you do svidanyia’

‘What did you just say?’

‘Do svidanyia.’

‘Do you know what it means?’

‘It means good- bye.’

Shit- where was I when she was  learning Russian?

I had been preoccupied and overwhelmed with trying to find freelance projects to help contribute to our financial pot. As the kids have gotten older the well has gotten deeper. Swallowed in it is my patience, confidence and sense of fun- not that my kids will ever say that I had any to begin with. The truth is I don’t want to play and I just don’t know how to- with heavy boughs threatening to break over our heads.

When I was a grown up, I drove my car to the beach and I played all day and collected dead fish.

Her father and brother were away over a rainy weekend. I wanted to take her to her first movie at the theatre with Princess Commando. But she had been so nasty all morning. At the pet store where I was trying to find a no bark solution for our schnauzer, a sickening shift of a migraine started to pinch a nerve in my jaw.  I wished they had no bark solutions for kids especially after I asked her nicely to stop jumping on the dog food and she yelled clearly, for the benefit of the elderly spectator beside us, ‘I don’t like you! I want to strangle you.’

When I was a grown up, I ran away and never came back because I was mad at you.

It was an excruciatingly long day. When it was close to bed time but not quite there, I let her enjoy the novelty of a ‘kid shower’ bringing the shower head to her level where she pirouetted in suds.

When I was a grown up, I took showers with my whole family every night.

Afterward, she dried off in her room under the costume of her hooded butterfly towel by dancing to top 40 music on the only station that works on the broken CD/ Radio/ Nature Sounds player. She spun in the spinning room. Nerves shot hellfire into my brain. I laid on her bed trying to focus on her perfectly matched rhythm and musicality. It was impressive- the effortless playfulness of it all- her little bright moon flashing me with every turn. I envied her ability to let go of crabby-day grudges, her abandonment of petulance for dance in a blink- her carefree movement through each day, trusting that  everything would be okay.

She bowed at the end of her last song.

‘Oh, Mommy, I really do love you,’ her little voice filled with sympathy for her laid out mama.  ‘I’ll be your mommy. You’ll be my baby.’ She tilted her head to the side with empathetic eyebrows.

When I was a grown up, I took care of you when you were sick.

Sometimes the universe gives you a break in disguise. She punches you with pain and there is nothing you can do but ride it out. Just be in the present. Just play along.

Violet ran her tiny fingernails down my arm, sending tingles and a surprising sense of comfort under my skin. There was nothing else I could do but receive her warming touch. She was the mama and I was her Baby Dear.

When I was an old lady and my little girl was a grown up, she made sure I was clothed, fed and bathed. And I knew everything would be okay.

What's Growing Around Here This Summer

This summer we have our first little vegetable garden with some lettuce, cucumbers, carrots and squash. But that's not the only thing that's growing around here. We got us some hair. Some big red curly hair. It's truly something to behold. Henry never had curls as a kid. Maybe a little wave- but nothing like this.

The Mr. has suddenly become a throw-back to fathers of the 60's. "Son, when you gonna get a haircut." There are way too many battles to wage with teenagers. Wild manes need not be added to that list. At least he shampoos and conditions each day.

I have a piece at Mamalode today. The publishers have been kind and generous enough to share my essay, Shedding with the greater Mamalode audience. The essay goes live at 4:00 PM EST. Please visit Mamalode - read my piece, read the contributions of others, enjoy. No other magazine highlights and celebrates the emotional aspect- the good, the bad, the humor and heartache- of parenting like Mamalode does.  Please feel free to share the link to the Mamalode piece. Have a great weekend!