sueeeus

A spontaneous family gathering occurred over Father’s Day weekend this year.  It was a rare event, even more so because of the upheaval in my family of late.  There were nine of us in all.  It was a happy time.  The weather was nice and we had promised the children that when they came to visit, we would hike to a special place where they used to go with their dad, and they could spread his ashes there.

It’s been a very long time since I’ve hiked that trail.  It’s a very nice hike, but I am not the sprite of my youth.  Umm.  Right.  I never was a sprite, to be completely honest.   I am a trooper, though.  I carried my 33 lb beloved a good part of the way.  Others tried to help, but he would have none of it.  I must be with my mama, he wailed, holding his arms out as though he couldn’t survive another moment in someone else’s arms.

We hiked.  It seemed as though we wouldn’t make it.  The trail was much longer than I remembered.  How much longer   We’re almost there, I kept assuring my nieces.  They stopped believing me after about the fifteenth time.  We did make it, and it was beautiful.  Of course we ran out of water, and of course I didn’t bring my camera, and of course I left the spare diapers in the car.  After all, we were only going to be out for an hour or two, at most.  Ha!  We were gone over four hours.  My munchkin was very good, considering what his mother put him through. 

The view at the top was glorious. We could see for miles and miles.  Paragliders were launching themselves skyward, and it was thrilling to watch them become one with the sky.  We found a grassy and private place, and my sweet nephew and niece knelt on the ground and said a prayer for their daddy as they let the wind carry his ashes away. 

The hike down proved more painful than the hike up, as my toes banged into the tip of my shoes with each and every step.  They were sore for days, and I suspected there was some bruising beneath my berry polish.  Being one for fastidious grooming, and all, I removed the polish the other day.  Sure enough.  Bruised.

I wish I could find words to express the feelings and thoughts that this day fostered.  There is a deep wistfulness for the children and for what could have been, but will never be.  There is a yearning for them to grow up without for a moment wondering if they were in any way responsible, or to blame.  There is a sorrow that is shared with all my siblings.  An indescribable sense of loss.  I know that I ought not romanticize death by imagining the ‘could have beens’ rather than acknowledging the way things were, but I tend to be the kind of person who hopes and believes that the best can happen, that it is possible.  Hoping against hope for things to turn around.  To get better. 

I miss him.  I miss the could have beens.  I wish things could have been better.  And all I can do is ramble on about bruised toes.

They are here. The girl (TG) and the boy (TB). They arrived last night, and we made the family trip to the airport. Mr. Gadget went in with itinerary in hand, hoping the powers that be would let him go to the gate to greet the kids. It’s a shame, the impact that 9/11 has made on the airport experience. No more crowds of anxious families waiting for their loved ones, breaking out in boisterous hugs and smiles when a familiar and beloved face emerges from the gate. Now it seems like the meet and greet brigade has been diluted into a confused swarm of meeters, greeters, and travelers milling about the luggage claim.

To avoid exhorbitant parking fees and stern reprimands (or even fines, gah!) from the local airport law enforcement, Mr. Gadget went in, and I drove on. Away and anon, to circle the airport until the reunited family emerged. At least, that’s what he suggested. I think not. Not with an extremely unhappy (and commensurately expressive) toddler seated behind me. No. Instead, we drove to a quiet, peaceful grassy place nearby. As luck would have it, a stately old cemetery is near the airport. I think it was a stroke of genius on my part. From a bustling crazy throng of traffic to expansive lush green lawns and ancient shady trees, we were instantly transported. I let my sweet little munchkin out of the confines of his carseat and he romped and played in the grass. We had a grand time. That is, until my allergies kicked in. We were finished playing by then, and back in the car, ready to drive to the front of the baggage claim area to collect the family. Wheezing. Coughing. Choking. Where is the benadryl I had some, luckily, but it took all night and a morning to clear up. Hrumph.

They’ve only been here an evening and a morning, and already…
Already, TG has breakfasted on Cheetos. TB has made a long distance call. Both without asking. My side of the family is admittedly a band of hooligans, and I’ve recently been blessed with visits from nieces and nephews of assorted ages. Hooligans or not, not once did any of them help themselves to anything without asking. They are much more polite than I give them credit for, and perhaps not hooligans at all!

I know I can be controlling. Even so. Am I out of line, feeling a bit annoyed I think I am more surprised than anything. It didn’t occur to me that visitors in my home would not ask. It seems so impolite. Perhaps they are simply independent sorts. Even so. I expressly mentioned that we have cereal (and please, don’t open anything new until what’s already open is used up) and bread for toast. I shouldn’t have had to explain that Cheetos are junk food, and we only have them once in a while as snacks with sandwiches or something, but certainly not for breakfast. I shouldn’t have had to explain that we don’t have a long distance plan on our land line (so if we happen to make a long distance call, it costs a fortune), and that we use the cell phone to call long distance.

Arrggggghh! Do people not teach their children manners I don’t want to be forever known as the evil stepmother, because I expect a certain level of courtesty (and not even very much, at that).

This happened last time. We’d assumed they were old enough to be left unattended while we worked. To my dismay, they snooped and poked and prodded into seemingly every corner of my house. Things were used without asking. Things were consumed without asking. I was a little distraught. It seemed as though they assumed that the home was their dad’s, and what’s his is theirs, and they therefore didn’t need to ask. And they were so pleased at his apparent good fortune.

Ah, the joys of a blended family. I was a well established single, prior to saying I do to the gadget man. The home was mine. The furnishings were mine. A lifetime of investments. He brought with him little more than the fallout of a bad divorce, which was mainly a substantial debt, bad credit, and a whole lot of nothing. I didn’t marry him for his holdings, for goodness sakes! But it has been frustrating, on occasions like this.

So this time, I have the privilege of working from my home office. To keep a semi-watchful eye. Hence the surprise that even in my presence, they don’t think to ask.

I kindly and gently explain these things to them. What a delicate situation, to express expectations with kindness, but with authority and firmness. It is no small effort.

If I were a better daughter, I’d put a card in the mail.  I thought about it, and thought about what I’d say.  I’m always careful to get the blank write-your-own-note kind, or the kind that wishes well without undue emotion.  It would be laughable to send something that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”

Usually I do send something.  I write a brief note comprised of small talk, and enclose a picture of his grandson, in the off chance that he might think, “Oh lookie here.  What a fine lad.  Now isn’t that nice ”  As if that would ever happen.  Ever.

Sometimes I call.  It’s not usually unpleasant, but there’s not much warmth or genuine interest, on his part.  Or mine, if I’m to be completely honest.

“You will RESPECT me!  Because I’m your father!”  I can still hear those words, thundered at me, so many years ago.  And my impassioned reply, “Respect is EARNED!  It. Doesn’t. Happen. Automatically.”  (I quite possibly may have shrieked that retort.)

Teenagers.  The things they say.

I recently learned that he doesn’t trust me.  It came as quite a surprise.  He thinks that I am in “cahoots with my mother”.  I’m not sure what designs she has, but apparently, I share them.

I do love him.  Because he’s my dad.  I admire him, even, for many things.  Intellectual accomplishments and pursuits.  Sense of style.  Culinary finesse.  I just wish that he knew how to be impartial in loving his children.  I wish that he had been kind.  To all of us.  Not just the fair-headed ones. 

They don’t quite understand.  (The fair-headed ones.)  They resent(ed) him too, for showing favoritism.  Even as small children they could recognize the blatancy.  They hated the unfairness and despised the doting.  Even so, they didn’t (and don’t) really know what it’s like to be one of the others.  One of the unfavored ones.  Like me.  Like my departed brother.  Like most of my brothers.

Some might say that I was a favored one.  Mom’s favorite one.  I admit that there was a time when I tried, valiantly, to befriend her.  I gave it my best effort.  In my idealistic and impassioned youth, aforementioned, I arrived at the thought that it was important for parents to know their kids, and finding it an impossibility with my dad, I tried with my mom.  I don’t think anybody else tried, and if, for that, I’m considered a favorite…  …Then perhaps I am.  Or was.  I don’t think so, though.  She was heroic in her efforts to run damage control over my dad’s blatant favoritism.  She tried so hard to make things as fair as she could, as fair as she knew how.  I admire her for that, and for other things as well.  Creative accomplishments and pursuits.  Ability to make ends meet that couldn’t possibly meet.  Somehow she managed. 

We had a falling out of sorts.  I was still a teenager, but I was in college, and had decided I was an adult, and was therefore ready.  For.  Sex.  That was the end of our closeness, our hours and hours of talks.  There’s more to that chapter, but this isn’t the time.  I’ve been thinking much lately of starting an entry that I will call “Chapters of my life”.  Maybe later, or possibly sooner, I’ll garner the courage to open that book.  It’s all so narcissistic, isn’t it

I write this only for myself.  To get it out.  It’s my own form of therapy.  I don’t want to offend my siblings, my parents, my family.  Any of them.  I love them.  Desperately.  All of them.  I mean no disrespect to anyone.  I seek no consolation.  Nor sympathy.  I want simply to voice these thoughts, so that I can eventually find my way out of the mire of emotions and neuroses and issues and memories and ideas and thoughts and attitudes that make me me.  And hopefully, one day, I will wake up and find the new and improved me, a loving, thoughtful, wise, centered, compassionate, together, and mentally sound mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend.

I am trying.

I can’t get enough of this unbridled bliss. 

How I love the way laughter consumes him.  He squirms, kicks his legs, giggles, squeals, drools, splutters, and shrieks.  It’s an all-encompassing thing, and a beauty to behold. 

If only I could drink it in and find a way to make it last.  To make it permeate all of my own being.  The way it permeates all of his.  The things we can learn from children.  They are so pure.

This has been sitting in draft for quite some time.  Our anniversary was April 1st.  Deliberately.  So as not to forget.  (Somehow, we nearly manage to forget, all the same.)  We ventured out with our little one and caught ‘the dinner train.’  Destination: Winery.  Dinner is served enroute, there is wine tasting and souvenir shopping at the winery, and dessert is served on the return trip.  It’s a nice little outing. 

We had some fun moments while waiting for the train.  Me and my blue eyed boys.  I can’t imagine life without them.  I have a family of my own, after all these years.  It was a happy anniversary. 

I am very blessed.

…or…   It’s a small world, after all.

Yesterday I got a post on our family message board* from one of my nieces, my deceased brother’s first born, who has been tapped in to our family for only a few years, as she was adopted at birth to a fine family who lived across state from us.  I’ve waited all her life for her to reach that age where she could meet us, the rest of her family, and when she did, it was a beautiful thing.  She is a beautiful thing.  She’s one of those people that you find it hard not to stare at, because she is simply breathtakingly beautiful.  When I look at her, I clearly see her mother, and I clearly see her father.  She is such a perfect amalgamation of the two of them, and it fills me with wonder, every time I even think of her.  She’s intelligent, has a great sense of humor, carries herself with confidence and dignity, and can play the piano like nobody’s business.  All that, and she’s in, to boot.  As in, she’s totally cool, man.  I’m not in, you see, so I don’t know how one would say that one is in, in today’s youthful crowd.  I digress.  Suffice it to say that I am pleased that she has welcomed us into her family.

Meanwhile, I work for a gargantuan company that employs thousands and thousands of people, worlwide.  In its heyday, it employed over a hundred and fifty thousand people.  People!  That’s alot of people!  In fact, in a few short weeks, I will have logged twenty years with this company.  Twenty Years!  Goodness, where does the time go   Somehow I’ve survived all the downsizing efforts and mass layoffs throughout the years.  I’ve wrestled with the idea of this working life not being what I had dreamed, and come to the realization that the grass may not be greener elsewhere.  I work with very fine people, who I love, and twenty years of experience and stability bring with it a decent wage, a stable daily schedule, health benefits, and a month of paid vacation each year.  Things could be so much worse, so I am grateful for what I have.  I digress.

So the conversation goes like this…

…I hadn’t even considered that my niece was a barista when I made the first espresso comment.  I was just being a bit flip, because I did remember a guy with a name like that, and I remembered talking with him about his dreams of brighter pastures, back when we were much younger, kids out of college with only a few years under our belts.  It was the late Eighties or early Nineties, layoffs were looming, and he was going to move to another city to try out the gourmet coffee scene.  I was going to open a bed and breakfast.  He followed his dream, I’m sure he worked his a$$ off, and now, now he’s done it!  I am SO pleased to hear this news. 

This story, though long-winded, is important for me to write about, because the bottom line is that I am filled with such a beautiful and wonderful feeling that stems from being connected.  I feel connected.  It’s a big thing, really.  We live in a world filled with millions of people living their lives, and somehow, somewhere, somewhen, we are connected.  It makes me feel so good, so happy, knowing this. Feeling this.  Experiencing this.

*We’ve had a message board for many years, thanks to the illustrious duo of C&D, my sister and her man.  It’s like an original blog, or a pre-blog.  This wondrous thing has kept my family connected in so many ways, for so many years.  Our family dynamics wax and wane, and it’s all there, all captured in our message board.  It’s a precious thing to me.

My helper.  We don’t have a child lock on the dishwasher, and he’s very good at pushing the buttons and turning the dials.  He loves to open and close doors.  He has even opened this and crawled onto the door – all it takes is a split second.  I have to be SO vigilant with this little guy.  Note the neatly folded stacks crumpled piles of kitchen towels on the cart behind him.  Another fun thing to do is help fold unfold things.  And put things away.  Sometimes I find toys and household miscellany in wastebins, laundry baskets, cabinets, and drawers.

Having a helper is the best!

I was busy not paying attention, and eventually realized that the silent contented child at my feet was diligently eating the mail.

This is the piece he was working on.

He’s not the only one with snazzy pants around here, you know. 

Now that’s snazzy.  Snazzy, I say!

• A beautiful boy with bright blue eyes.

• The way he looks at his mama, like she’s a crazy lady or something, but gosh, he sure loves her!

• A child at play.

• A whimsical card from a very dear friend.  Look!  It’s a piggy!  A happy piggy!  A bespectacled, happy piggy, carrying a banner.  How cute is that (click for full view).
• An uncluttered desk
• A clean house
• A few moments of my own to escape to blogland
• A hot cup of rich black tea with milk and honey
• The smell of Baby Magic lotion lingering on my hands, left over from rubbing into my beautiful boy’s skin
• The soft fuzzy feel of his head after a shower
• The smell of his soft fuzzy head
• The way he snuggles up against me when he’s feeling tired or affectionate
• How grateful I am that I have been blessed to become a mother
• How relieved I am when nap time arrives

I think often of my own wild boys.  They’ve had a rough road to walk too.  It hasn’t been easy for them.  I worry about them.  In a way, I’ve mothered some of them, and now that I’m older I wish that I had mothered them more, or done a better job.  I wish I’d had my eyes more open to what they were going through, and what they needed, rather than just trying to keep myself afloat.  I wish I could have figured things out sooner, found my own way sooner, so that I could be there for them and not contribute to their own growing pains.  I wish I could take back any pain that I may have caused them, any sorrow, any misunderstanding.  But it was survival, in those days.  Growing up and finding your way is survival when you don’t have good parenting and guidance.  How I wish that life were easier for them now.  How I wish that they didn’t have to struggle with themselves and how they fit in, in this crazy world.  Fitting in.   Finding your way.  Sometimes it’s so hard.  I want my wild boys to be strong, confident men who hold their heads high, laugh, love, and joy in the mere essence of being.  I want them to be free, unencumbered by guilt, sorrow, regret, stereotype, and discrimination.  I want them to be happy.  I want them to be successful in the ways that are meaningful to them.  I want much for my wild boys.  But it’s so much harder for them, now, now that one is gone.  My heart breaks for my wild boys.