mostly good.

Molly asked me to share a favorite parenting moment and so I talked about a recent memory of Cole (above).  It's featured on her blog today, here.

essay no. 5

Jill

Manhattan, NY

I grew up in the desert. I am accustomed to popsicle-melting heat that sends you tap dancing from the cool, green lawn across the scorching cement to the relief of your back door. The thermometer often boasted blistering digits that stapled you to any piece of shade during a midday soccer game.

Even so, as we approached the pyramids from 10,000 feet above, I could see that this desert was different. The sun lapped at the airplane window like a rabid dog and I shielded my eyes from its intense rays, still trying to absorb the sights below. Single-color buildings rose up from the sandpaper landscape, appearing like rigid firewood stacked on end, ready to combust if the sun god threw its flame. This place was very different.

We stepped out of the cool, familiar arms of the airplane and into the desert sun. I suspect that Egypt could sense my hesitation because it unfolded its entire tomb of mysterious sights and sounds and pressed them upon my frame to see if I would crumble. We were bombarded by a din of voices shouting Taxi! while another haunting voice demanded attention as it sang from the loudspeakers to call the crowds to prayer. We found a driver, his eyes would only meet Brad’s gaze, and we quickly agreed on a price. I climbed into the backseat behind Brad and our driver as the custom required. The ride was wild and we vaulted from lane to lane at great speed. I gripped the door handle tightly wishing there was a seatbelt for me. I was terrified. My senses sent me into a panic. I imagined what could happen to us as two unsuspecting travelers in such a foreign place. I could see the headlines.

The heat was wrapped intensely around me but I felt frozen. Brad turned to me, his eyes were bright, Can you believe we are here? Everywhere I look I am amazed by something new, and I love that feeling!

I shook my head of stone in complete surprise as I realized that he was having an entirely different experience than me. How could this be? Two people under the same blistering sun, hearing the same voices echoing through the streets...for me it was eerie and for him it was exhilarating. We were approached by the same people in unfamiliar dress and speaking in unusual tones. I felt threatened, he felt curious.

I wondered if we experience only what we expect. If I expect to be afraid is that the experience that I will be granted? If I expect to encounter kind, good-hearted and well-meaning people will I notice the good things more?

Days later, as we walked down the sand-washed steps of the Cairo subway, a small girl next to me began to slip down the stairs. Before she tumbled further I instinctively thrust my hand towards hers and she quickly grasped my fingers to regain her footing.  Both she and her mother looked from my unfamiliar hand up to my foreign eyes. The girl seemed grateful while the mother appeared to be wary. I wasn’t offended by the disparity, I understood. Not long before I had been the person shelled-in by fear and I missed the goodness and wonder of what was happening around me.

Now when I am afraid, I often think of that small moment that taught me to pay attention to how I approach new opportunities. I try to pull myself from the long shadow of fear to experience the desert sun.

+++++

"Every dreamer knows that it is entirely possible to be homesick for a place you've never been to, perhaps more homesick than for familiar ground." – Judith Thurman

*****

Jill lives in Manhattan with her husband Brad and new baby Jane.  She has an inspirational knack for design, motherhood and seemingly approaching life with joy.

*Catch up on Delightful's weekly essays here.  

essay no. 4: stumbling on perfection

Marisa

Phoenix, Arizona

stumbling on perfection 

Fumbling with the keys, I shifted your weight to my hip. You leaned forward with an inquisitive sparkle in your eye, your chubby hand grasping for the shiny metal pieces.

They slipped through my fingers to the floor.

Frustrated, I stooped to pick them up, careful not to drop you or the unwieldy bag of dirty laundry that I held in either arm. I thrust the key into the lock, twisting it left while giving the poorly painted green door a shove with my shoulder. I exhaled the breath I didn’t know I was holding and watched as the door swung open.   

I met him on a blind date. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to go, and I spent a good portion of time beforehand coming up with excuses for why I wouldn’t be able to make it. Minutes before the group arrived, I remember sitting in the armchair near the kitchen, putting on my shoes and asking my college roommate, why am I doing this? He’ll probably be really lame, I said.

But he wasn’t.

The key was stuck in the lock.

I gave it a good yank, but nothing happened. I pulled and twisted and strained until I was out of breath and my palms were red and raw. I might as well have been trying to uproot a one hundred year old tree with my bare hands, for all the progress I was making. Still nestled on my hip, you gurgled and thought I was playing a game.

Finally, after minutes that felt like hours, whatever was catching the key in the lock gave way. But by then my patience was gone, and I was silently cursing this lock, this door, this place.

I decided I was being ridiculous; my emotions were enlarged by the soul-crushing exhaustion and loneliness I was experiencing as a new stay-at-home mother. My sensitivities were bare, vulnerable to the mild aggravations of daily life.

In that moment of self-absorbed pity, I dreamed about the well-appointed, well-decorated laundry room in the house I hoped to have someday. It would be better than this. I knew it.

I emptied the bag of clothes into the washing machine and slammed the lid shut. 

I told the ultrasound technician that we didn’t want to know, but in my heart, I was thinking about what I wanted. Oh, not blue or pink; I really didn’t care about that. Instead, I was harboring secret preferences for certain personality traits and particular quirks and eccentricities.

I pushed until I thought the pain would render me unconscious; when it was over and someone called out “It’s a boy!”, the visions I’d had while pregnant suddenly came into sharp focus.

I watch him stumble his way from the kitchen to the dining room, a high-stepping chicken walk that makes me giggle uncontrollably. His hands hang in the air like a disjointed marionette, and his goofy grin exposes uneven jack-o-lantern teeth.

Thank goodness, I think, that I did not get what I wanted.

The microwave timer I had set for 24 minutes beeped loudly. I scooped you into my arms and headed back out the door towards the apartment complex’s communal laundry room, to the lock that gave me so much trouble earlier.

I began again. Door open. Key stuck. Violent thrashing. Battered hands. Triumphant victory.

I discovered the clothes had stopped mid-wash, and they were sopping wet. UNBALANCED!, the washing machine said. I rolled my eyes, thinking of the irony. UNBALANCED!, it accused me again.

I redistributed the clothes, but there were still many minutes left. I didn’t want to leave, so together we waited. I was annoyed, and you were oblivious. 

When your husband gets laid off from his job during the worst economic recession since the Great Depression, there’s nothing to do but move forward. And that is what we are doing, although admittedly there are times when the weight of uncertainty presses me into the ground.

In the middle of the day, in our miniscule living room, he holds our son. He jiggles him back and forth to the beat coming from the radio and they dance together, smiling and laughing.

I thought I wanted a mortgage and an employer-matched 401(k). It turns out that I wanted this.

I scanned the small room for something to amuse you with - a square of lint from the dryer, maybe a piece of paper from the community bulletin board. But there was nothing, just a long counter in the middle of the room. I planted your feet on the countertop and grasped your hands. First, a tentative step and then – suddenly – you realized that the runway was clear. You barreled forward like a miniature rocket. I saw the fire in your eyes.

The excitement had you slack-jawed, and two long strings of drool hung charmingly from your mouth. You panted and squealed in excitement, and as we travelled around and around the countertop, I laughed so hard that my stomach hurt. Suddenly the tiredness was gone, and I was no longer thinking about some fantasy life where keys never get stuck and washing machines always stay balanced. 

I had already stumbled on perfection.

The author Alice Walker has said, “Expect nothing. Live frugally on surprise.”

Some of the greatest moments of my life so far have been the ones I never expected. This is a lesson that has taken me years to appreciate, but I think I understand now that life holds more than we think we know, and that the unrevealed plan laid out for us is better, so much better, than we can imagine.

I hear your feet thwack, thwack, thwacking in time with the rhythmical pulsing of the washing machine.

The sound reverberated in the small room, and it fills my heart now.

*****

Marisa writes in a way that awakens your inner writer, makes you want to be her neighbor and leaves you wanting more.

*Catch up on delightful's weekly essays here.

essay no. 3

Courtney Adamo

London, England

I always thought I would have a daughter.  As a young girl I remember keeping my favorite toys, mementos and photos perfectly organized so that one day my future daughter could enjoy them ( in the same way that I loved seeing my own mother’s photos, dolls, her high school cheerleading costume, love letters from her first boyfriend, etc.)  I guess I assumed that only a girl would appreciate these things and would value the link to the past, the connection between mother and daughter. And so I kept them for the daughter I hoped to have.

When I was 20 weeks pregnant with our second child we went for a scan to find out the sex of the baby.  We already had a little boy, so of course there was a small part of me deep down inside that thought it would be nice to have a girl.  The nurse told us it was a boy.  My husband grinned from ear to ear; beaming with pride.  I smiled too, hoping to hide any tinge of disappointment.  Disappointment is a bad term; of course I felt extremely lucky to be having another baby, and I didn’t for one minute take his health for granted. Plus, I knew it would be great for my son to have a brother.

Our second son was born after a marathon labor, no drugs whatsoever, just good old-fashioned sweat and strength.  From the minute he was born I loved him. I remember wondering how I could have ever been so selfish to have hoped for a girl. Another boy was perfect.  And it’s true – you always love what you get, and can’t imagine life any differently.  The ideas you may have had as a young girl seem like silly notions. Life has a bigger meaning.

When you have two boys and are pregnant with number three, everyone assumes you would want a girl. These assumptions completely infuriated me.  Pregnant with our third and intent on not finding out the sex, I held firmly to the belief that I would, of course, love the baby no matter what it was.  Plus, I really believed it was a boy, and all those people making assumptions were neglecting the fact that ‘it’ was already what ‘it’ was, and the amounting social pressure was not going to change anything.  What I might have wanted didn’t matter. It seemed silly to want. I had learned my lesson.

When Ivy was born, they placed her directly on my chest.  I looked up at my husband for the big announcement, but the room was quiet. I flipped her over, took one look and… tears flooded my eyes.  I made the announcement myself, “It’s a GIRL!” I said, “And she’s beautiful”. It’s difficult to describe the amount of emotions swelling inside me at that moment: shock, for one, but also such an overwhelming feeling of knowing I had always wanted her, and there she was lying on me, eyes wide open, taking in the world. I looked at my sister standing beside me, tears rolling down her cheeks, and I had flashbacks of the two of us being little girls together, sharing a childhood. That little girl inside of me rejoiced. I looked around the room and saw my husband smiling, tears in his eyes as well.  Even my midwife gave me a reassuring smile and a nod.  It was as if everyone wanted this but no one would say, not until it happened. I sat there in the room staring at my daughter, loving her instantly, knowing this was the life I was meant to have.

*****

Courtney seems to be living the life I've always dreamed of: calling London home, traveling the world with her own little (and beautiful!) family and being happy and creative and driven in it all.  It's delightful to follow her on the must-read international blog, Babyccino.

*Catch up on delightful's weekly essays here.

essay no. 2: Wet Like Seals

Justin Hackworth

Provo, Utah

Wet Like Seals

I never wore a seat belt when I was a kid. Instead, we flopped around the back of the car like cutthroat trout on the bottom of a boat. And it was there, behind the back seat in my parents’ station wagon, back with the sleeping bags and suitcases, that my older sister told me she was from another planet. She was sent here, she said, to observe. She would not harm us, she said. She would, in her role as a sister, tease from time to time, but only to fill her role as sister.

I didn’t believe for one minute that my sister was an alien. When I laughed and said I didn’t believe her, well, that just made her mad. See. She was really my sister after all. Would an alien care one way or another what I thought?

We were driving West. California. I remember we sang “This Land Is Your Land” and listened to old radio programs like “Fibber McGee and Molly” that my mom had checked out from the library. I was eight years old.

The car didn’t have air conditioning unless you count rolling down the windows. It was the middle of the summer. Hot, hot.

In Nevada we stopped at a gas station. It had a cafe next door. That was back in the day when you’d roll up to the pumps and tell some kid “fill ‘er up.” So we rolled in to the station and my dad told the kid to fill ‘er up and we all went inside and I drank a Coca Cola for the first time in my life.

It was cold inside. You only had to be in there five minutes before you kind of wished you had a coat. Chilly for a few minutes, sure, but when we left, I mean the second we walked outside, the chill vanished in a soft wall of crushing heat.

My dad told us to follow him. We walked around to the side of the gas station and he took a water hose and sprayed us all down. Back in the car, dripping, happy, wet like seals, I heard my dad tell my mom, “Fellow inside said it’s 114 in the shade.”

Jump ahead. 2009. Now, I’m driving. Now, I’m looking back in the rear view mirror and seeing my two boys there in the back seat. They are strapped in. Car seats and buckles. They joke and tease. And sing. They’re singing a song I taught them.

    There’s a girl downtown
    With freckles on her nose
    Pencils in her pockets
    And ketchup on her clothes
    She’s a real nice girl
    Pretty as a plate
    The boys call her Katie
    When they ask her on a date
    And who knows, Katie
    Maybe you could be the one.

It’s a small moment. Simple and, for me, beautiful. So when my family celebrates Thanksgiving this week, I’m going to be thankful for driving in a car with my two boys. That, and air conditioning.

......
Song lyrics by Hayes Carll

*****

Justin is more than an artist.  He gives you the gift of seeing yourself the way you've always wanted to be seen.  Because of that, you leave your session instantly thinking that you've made a new friend.  And everyone needs new friends.  

*Catch up on delightful's weekly essays here.

essay no. 1

Missy

California Coast

You show up at my bedside promptly at 6:00 am Avie. Sometimes I get lucky and it's 6:15 or (gasp!) 6:30. You are quiet, and I wake because I feel you staring at me. In your hand is a (insert dress-up item of choice) black leotard/Snow White dress/tutu and fairy wings.

Hi Aves, I mumble, cracking open an eye.

Mama, can you put this on me? You say, holding your costume directly in front of my face.

I sleepily smile instead of turning the other way and telling you to go back to bed. I've done that before and it doesn't work. I've learned that by relenting to your request you will merrily play dress-up for a solid twenty minutes, allowing me to wake slowly. Usually you'll climb into Coco's crib and I hear you two playing together through the baby monitor. Eventually I get up, step into my slippers and we march downstairs for breakfast.

It is at the breakfast table that we decide what to do during the day. Most of the time our agenda is wide open. We go to the park when we want to, we play dress up for as long as we care, we dance in our loft if we feel like it and watch movies when a thunderstorm rolls in. I like it this way.

I savor these days. I never wish them away. In fact, I question whether you really need one year of preschool next fall before kindergarten. Just so I can have more days like this. You are only three years old as I write this. And Coco is one. It's hard for me to fathom life outside of what we live daily: early morning risings, occasional trips to Disneyland, walks to the park, cheering you on as your ride your trike out front.

And yet I know someday it will come. Someday you are going to leave and I will not be the center of your life. It's a hard thought to wrap my head around. I feel a lump forming in my throat already just imagining that day. Maybe because the day I left home was a hard reality to face.

I decided to go to college on an island in the Pacific Ocean, not knowing a single person. The day started early as I ran a few last minute errands. I walked in the door and heard a familiar sound. My parents were arguing and my stomach sank. This wasn't anything new, but it took a turn for the worse when my mom packed her suitcase and sped away without saying goodbye. We tried calling her. We waited for her to come back. But, in the end she never came and it was time to leave. Megg drove me to the airport and I made the five hour flight alone.

It was only when my dad hugged me goodbye that I remembered his words of encouragement a few years prior. On a race day unparalleled to any other in my running career he pulled me aside. Missy, we are hill runners. When the hills come at mile 4, that is when your power begins. It's in our blood. Push yourself up them and keep the momentum going. You'll leave everyone else in the dust.

So. The day marking my independence, something I was sure would be exciting for everyone involved, turned into anything but. However because of the story that played out that day, I learned that hills are not merely in running races. Life itself can be quite hilly at times. Mountainous, even.

But this is where you are lucky girls. Because we have an uncanny ability to power up those hills. We have it in our genes. I knew it when my mom left that day, or when I studied in London. Or when I ran the Boston Marathon. Or when I brought the two of you home from the hospital as newborns. Every single time, I made it out ok. More than ok. Much, much better because now I have you two.

As much as I want to forget the day I left home, I force my self to remember it. Just so when your day comes and I am torn between utter thrill for you and a fear that matches it, I can be happy that I get to watch it happen. You get to choose what you want to be, who you want to be, and how you will make it happen. And you will make great things happen, largely due to the extra strength we have running through our veins.

Lucky me to be there for you too. Because I will be. And I will be cheering you on. That I can promise you both.

*****

What I love most about Missy is her pledge to make her girls' childhoods (lives) magical. She really is that kind of mother.


*Catch up on delightful's weekly essays here.  

essays

*Soon, we'll be adding this feature and I'm thrilled.  Because I think in stories and I'm most inspired by others'. *

We all have a story.  Not one we particularly assign to ourselves, but one that forges its way into "the biggest moment of our life."  It earns this permanent label that seems fluorescent at 10 year reunions or extended family dinners.  My sister's was falling into the Sound of Music fountain.  Mine has been the time I broke my back.  

It was October 1, 1998.  My very first semester of college.  I was wearing a long sleeved skater tee, high waisted Silver jeans and those Dr. Marten sandals with the chunky PVC soles.  I came to school with this fearlessness that showed itself best that day.  After becoming locked into my bedroom, I popped out the window screen, slipped over the edge, climbed until hanging and then realized my impossible quandary.  I was stuck.  I held on until my fingers failed me and then fell all forty feet.

I have hundreds of lucid memories: waking up to paralysis, calling on an urgent faith in God and the new holes in my very favorite shirt.  I remember slowly climbing three flight of stairs, collapsing on our scratchy living room carpet and telling my absent roommate to "call my mom."  I remember being tied to a plastic stretcher, the sting of my first catheter and being so cold during hours of x-rays.  I was confused by the peanut sized "sick" bowls and first cried when I finally talked to my mother on the emergency room's corded wall phone.  She delivered my diagnosis.

The thing is, these kind of stories linger and, after all these years, I've grown to hate mine.  No matter how I tell it, my story is somber.   Many times I've wished that hitchhiking Honduras, junior prom queen or the time I dove into a school of jellyfish would replace it.  A better portrait of me.

My life moved forward.  I traveled less and grew cautious and my stories became a bit more typical: a three hour labor, a Clomid pregnancy, a kitchen fire or the time a Bostonian rabbi bought our red Bajaj scooter with the temple funds.

It wasn't until William Carlos Williams reminded me (in my own interpretation) that we can be most inspired by a landscape and daily "ploughing", that I put the fear of my life and my Icarus type headlines going quite unnoticed- behind me.

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned 
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning

-William Carlos Williams, "Landscape with the Fall of Icarus"

I have new stories.  They're simple, but those are my stories now.  And suddenly, I love this new vantage point.  Like a still life, "I see my own straining body which stands shaped like a star and realize gradually I am part of a human pyramid."  (Michael Ondaatje, Running in the Family, page 27)  It's a better fit-- being sketched daily and, in time, becoming part of something bigger than myself.

That's why there always needs to be a place to tell our real stories.  I can't wait to hear yours.