The STUFF Sisters

Today I Feel Like Dreaming

I just got back to work from a luncheon for the Women’s Employment Network. And, I don’t want to work. I just want to walk around in the sunshine aimlessly and dream. About what you ask?

Everything. The world, my daughter, my life, the coast at dusk, falling in love again, the taste of homemade fried chicken, skinny dipping after dark, driving across the country, walking across Europe, a first kiss, a giant hug, laughing until I snort, renting an over-the-water cottage in Fiji, the smell of kids covered in Coppertone in the summer…you know just dreaming.

Some days I don’t think to dream. It just doesn’t occur to me. (One of the big disappointments of being an adult.) But today, thanks to a room full of inspiration, I want dream.

Split Personality

I was told that living with a teenager is like living with multiple people in one body. Mothers of girls say it’s worse than with boys.

I can only speak of the young man I’m living with right now. Well, I can only speak of all three of him.

Sloane

Today I went for a long walk. My “baby girl” stayed behind with her Grammie and I enjoyed a very long walk. As I walked my mind roamed. And it landed in Japan. A great sadness came over me. I started to feel guilty. I felt like I should go home. How could I be so brash to enjoy a beach vacation with the devastation in Japan?

My body grew heavier with each step. My legs started to fail me.

I then thought of the book Eat, Pray, Love. There is a part of the book that chronicles her experience with meditation. I often think of meditation in a romantic way. I keep thinking I could one day learn to meditate. I am not there yet.

But today I tried. I tried to not think. I walked. I walked. I walked.

And this is what my walking meditation brought to me. Mother Earth is not a God. She does not reward or punish her children. She does not pick one country over another. She is just living and trying to thrive. She is random, beautiful, powerful, devastating and glorious.

I realize that trying to suffer for the people of Japan will not ease their suffering. That my daughter’s screams of delight in the waves is okay. It does not mean I am entitled, that somehow being in America makes me special and that I have somehow earned this pleasure.

It just means my joy was here – now – and I need to soak it in completely. I ran back to my family. I laughed, I played, I read, I napped, and I thanked Mother Earth for this peaceful day on the shore.

And I keep silently chanting – “you are here, you are here, you are here”.

Casey

Big Yellow Bus

On Thanksgiving my daughter made me this drawing.

It makes me happy.

Casey

Fair Weather Fan

I am a “fan of fair weather” – as opposed to being a “fair weather fan”. Being a “fan of fair weather” means I spend winter dreading getting out of the house. It means I bitch incessantly when putting on boots. It means I have to go back into the house four f-ing times to get everything I can’t seem to get the first trip to the garage, since my vision is blocked by the four tons of crap I have to wear to get from the house to the garage so my teeth won’t chatter upon opening the door to leave.

Yesterday morning’s light snow and 17 degree weather was not welcomed by me. However, my Bernese mountain dog and my daughter were both thrilled and spent an hour outside playing and waiting for me to get my act together.

Casey

Fearless Ability

I envy my niece her artistic talent. Yep. I’m 45 and she’s 5 and I envy her this trait.

Several weeks ago, while she was at stuff for all of 5.3 seconds between activities, she found a balloon left over from Wings of Hope, blew it up, had me tie it, and disappeared into the office I share with Casey.

Then she left the building.

When I got to my desk an hour or so later, the face in this photo was staring down at me, and I can’t take it down from its perch. The balloon will have to give up the ghost before I ever remove it. She has the ability to just sit with pen and paper – or balloon – and start drawing. She is prolific and fearless. For this I envy her.

When I get over the selfish envy, I will be able to learn from her.

Sloane

Tribal Instincts

The school my son attends had a policy, when he was starting out there, that no seats could be held at musical programs. “Come and claim a seat for yourself early, but don’t save any for others” was the open invitation. At the time, the school was still sharing a stage in the building of its neighbor church, and these rules served a purpose. I guess. I really wouldn’t know, because for years I surreptitiously laid my scarf / jacket / briefcase across six or seven chairs to attempt to hold seats for our son’s supportive and extended family. Divorce may divide families, but it acts as a multiplication factor when it’s time to sit and listen. Yet, six or seven was never enough; some of us still stood. I took major ribbing from many factions, but I never received a citation, and the school never threw my kid out of school. (Questioning authority runs deep in me. I push most boundaries gently.)

You see, our son has been raised by a village. A village that loves him deeply and supports everything he has set his mind and body to, and that village shows up in force to his performances, games and recitals.

Just this past Tuesday, he performed his semi-annual piano recital at semester’s end, and 13 people from his village showed up to quietly cheer him on. His tribe, his people. It’s remarkable, really. My parents have been divorced for over 25 years; they show up at all their grandkids’ events when possible, sit next to each other, and speak rather easily between themselves. I know this behavior is exceptional when I mention it to friends whose parents are divorced and I learn how they have to “divvy up” the school event calendar as to which parents will attend which event. That way, the grandchildren can’t see or feel the simmering emotions. I can’t imagine what that’s like, and I’m reminded that I live in grace in this category of my family life.

Last week, we attended my niece’s vocal music show at school – the school she shares with my son. With the new stage in our new building, the rules for saving seats seems to have weakened and isn’t spoken as vociferously. I did notice that my sister was ultimately unable to “save a seat” for my husband’s and my late arrivals that day. And I can guess why: the ribbing got too intense, and she gave up what she’d laid claim to. I’ve been there. I know all about it.

People have jokingly said – and still say – to me, “Well, you can’t say he’s not loved,” or, “Is there anyone you didn’t invite?” or, “Wow. For an only child, he packs ’em in!” Each time, I just smile, say little, never apologize, and know in my soul that our tribe runs in a pack and invests everything in its young.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Sloane

Crossword

It’s Presidents Day. I am at home with a head cold and a barfing child, trying my best to get some work done from home. It’s actually not going too badly, all things considered.

I am also cleaning off my desk. There was this giant pile on top of my printer that was threatening to topple for the last couple of months, and I decided to explore what was actually in that pile that was important enough to keep, but that was not necessary enough to remember it was there.

I came across some stacks of photos from the last couple of years. (I am embarrassingly behind on the family photo albums.) In the middle of that stack were photos from Thanksgiving 2008. (I told you I was behind.) And in that set of photos were these fabulous photos of my mother trying to work on a crossword puzzle – a hobby she inherited from her father.

I gather that she would have gotten more done without the “help”, but she was good sport. I love my family.

Casey

It Boggles The Mind

One of my son's first Boggle worksheets.

If you are the least bit competitive and a parent, don’t teach your kids to read. Don’t read to them as babies or toddlers, don’t let them read to you when they start putting words together, and don’t let them stay up late nestled in their bed reading as pre-teens.

Because they will get smart and learn the English language. And then they will embarrass you.

Case in point: Starting in 1st grade, my son got a hankering for the game Boggle. We played together, and he mastered garnering about six 3-letter words per round. “Round” at that time had an elusive meaning, because he didn’t like to get stressed out by the timer, so we skipped that part. Instead, we played until he was “finished”. I managed to win every game – imagine that! – and I didn’t even try very hard because I am a good Mom. I figured playing this game was not about ruining his self-esteem at six years old.

Fast forward six years, and he’s kickin’ my butt. Every. Single. Time. He’s increasing the number of 4 and 5 letter words, and he rocks the 3 letter sweeties. I’m not kidding; sometimes ten or so per round. And, yes, the timer is now in use, and stress is not present at the table.

I’ve decided the reason children are better at this type of game is because, when they sit down with adults, their minds are empty and ready for the task at hand. Adults just aren’t as freely able to accomplish that goal. Our minds are always a jumble of data, timelines and chores. But believe me, I try to live in the moment and “be one” with the game.

The other day, during a Boggle marathon, when I felt myself getting slightly competitive at tally time – and competitive is not in my base nature – I turned to him in all seriousness and said, “I should never have taught you to read.”

He laughed from deep in his tummy, a sound that I love to hear and that melts my heart to this day. Then, without skipping a beat, he rattled the 16 letter-dice and hit the timer. We were off and running again.

Final score for 6 rounds: my son, 53; me, 29.

Ouch.

Sloane