My mom is a storyteller. She likes to tell stories of our lives over and over again. Occasionally it gets frustrating as she gets stuck on a minor detail - was it a Tuesday or a Thursday - and my siblings, my Dad, or I will blurt, "it doesn't matter. Get to the point!" But usually I enjoy her stories because I find that new details might be revealed in each telling.
One story involves a request three year old me had of the move from the state in which I was born to the state in which I grew up. I demanded a yellow bedroom. Admittedly, my parents could have painted my new room to appease me but our new house came with a yellow bedroom already. Fortuitous. Eventually that room became my brothers' as it was the biggest and made the most sense for sharing.
Yellow makes me happy.
I had hoped to find a bright, lemon yellow dress for my 8th grade dance but had no luck. Maybe it wasn't a color designers were using, maybe a dress that color just wasn't in the stores we were checking, who knows? Instead I wound up with a sleeveless dress in cobalt.
Blue is, and has been for nearly two decades, my favorite color.
I've previously shared my affinity for Spring and the memories the season brings. Bold, bright forsythia blooms in our backyard. It may not be here next year or may just be cut back. We have new rear neighbors who have sons about the same age as ours and we'll need a better path between backyards.
I am always discovering new ways in which I grow more and more like my mother. I think I might be described as a roundabout storyteller too.
A few years ago, when dealing with antepartum depression, my therapist gave me a book called Nobody's Perfect, Not Even My Mother in which "a young child learns that nobody's perfect, yet people can be wonderful just the
same." because part of my struggle was perfectionism and not being who I thought I should be, particularly as a mom. The illustrations and moreso the storyline feel old; the book is from the 80s. Yet, when reading aloud to a child, it helps temper the parental hero worship that lasts for such a short time in their young life, and reminds the reader that nobody's perfect, not even me. In the words of Stuart Smalley, "...and that's...okay."
My imperfections are not few, but I think some of the worst ones are evident when I'm in such a hurry I forego minor laws and basic human courtesy. Nothing good comes from rushing. Case in point, several weeks ago we were thisclose to running late to an obligation and I chose to, just this once, turn right at the stoplight closest to our house, despite the prominent "No Turn on Red" sign. Sure enough, there was a police officer in the vicinity who witnessed my mistake and pulled me over. It was my first time ever getting pulled over and I didn't cry like I always assumed I would, even though the boys were asking me if I was going to jail. Instead, the first thing I said to the officer was, "I know exactly what I did wrong and I'm sorry." Fortunately, he was in a forgiving mood and I got off with a warning.
It's funny because, as R will be sure to tell you, I ordinarily won't even jaywalk because it's against the law. And, as R will also attest, I tend towards what he calls overly-PC and what I consider walking a mile in someone else's shoes. Kurt Vonnegut succinctly stated my life's goal, "God damn it, you've got to be kind."
When I fail in that regard, I want to cry and I get an empty hurt in the pit of my stomach. I had such an encounter today and it was all my fault.
We had a busy morning. We went to a playdate, then a toy store to get gift ideas as we have a birthday party every Saturday for the next four weekends. Last stop was the library. I park and let the kids out through Curly's side of the car. While making sure he's safe, Slim pushes the door hard to get out. It hits the car next to us. I register that the car is running; the driver is in the car. I reprimand Slim, insisting he needs to pay better attention to his surroundings. I'm mortified. But I'm also single-minded in my purpose - we have to get in and out of the library fast, make it home to eat lunch, load up the backpack with snack, note, and folder, then meet the pm kindergarten bus. The car that was hit by our door has its reverse lights on; the driver is leaving. Ok then, my brain's focused on the to-do list. We need to hurry.
Walking now, we're five cars away when I hear a loud, "What do you think you're doing?" I know who it is. I know they are talking to me. But the tone of voice raises my hackles and I turn around and defensively respond, "Excuse me?" A blonde woman, about my age, looks at me disdainfully. She says something else caustically. I walk towards her and ask her to please cut the sarcasm in front of my kids. She does. She points out the mark on her door that matches the color of mine. I hadn't noticed. I want to melt from embarrassment. She dresses me down calmly, deservedly.
I profusely apologize. I explain that my focus isn't where it should be. I offer my insurance information. I want to prove that I'm actually a very nice person. She won't take it, any of it. All she wants is something impossible. For me to go back in time and say I'm sorry without prompting. That it was bad enough when people walk away from things like that when the driver isn't there, but it is worse when they are.
It is too late. The damage is done. Literally and figuratively. She is right and I darn well know it. She doesn't take anything from me, but imparts a final message. Her point sounds like something you'd hear in a horror movie, "Just don't let yourself do this again."
This past weekend, my boys wanted to play "baby." I had such a woah-time-is-going-way-too-fast moment strike as I cradled them in my arms. It especially resonated with my older son, my first baby, as all four feet plus of him and his long, lean limbs stretched far beyond my lap.
A friend and I recently discussed that while we may be picky about what movies we play in our home, we're unlikely to ever censor their book choices. Yet when they were itty bitty, I did occasionally employ creative editing of some morbid lullabies and nursery rhymes.
If, like me, you've wondered why anyone would write lyrics about a child falling to their presumed death, let alone sing it to put children to sleep, perhaps you'd like my reworked Rock-a-Bye Baby!
Rock-a-bye baby
In mommy's arms
While you are here, you'll come to no harm
You know that I love you
And you know that daddy does too
Are there any songs or stories that disturbed you enough to change them when sharing with your kids?
Hi there. I missed you. I missed writing. Life, on the other hand, provided an abundance of distractions. Primarily health issues. Depression reared its ugly head with me again. And R and Slim had and have their own things. But neither are my story to tell, so I won't. I returned to journaling first, but I like sharing my words too much to give up on blogging. My blog break's over. I can't promise I won't disappear again, but I hope not. Now that I've given thought to what I can write about while still allowing my subjects a respectful level of confidentiality, I have a lot to say!
Happy World Breastfeeding Week! Twenty years ago, World Breastfeeding Week (WBW) was born! As it states on their Facebook page it was "Launched by the World Alliance for Breastfeeding Action (WABA) to focus and facilitate actions to protect, promote and support breastfeeding, [WBW] is officially celebrated annually from Aug 1-7."
In honor of WBW, I will be doing some breastfeeding themed posts on the blog.
First up, is one that I dredged from my old Myspace account. I had to reset my password, but yup, mine still exists. It's like an online time capsule! Back in 2007, when Slim was six months old, we took a trip (my first! and only) to Disney World. Really, Slim and I just tagged along during one of R's work conferences, but I couldn't pass up the chance to finally get to go. I was the recipient of a comment while nursing in the park and follows is my recap of what happened.
In making the commitment to breastfeed, I have also known that I would need to nurse in public. Nursing in public has made the news a lot lately - from the incident on a Delta flight to a mother being accosted by a security guard in the Berkshire Mall to several more cases that I'm sure moms have suffered in silence without going to the media. Slim's nursed nearly everywhere - restaurants, stores, people's homes, even on a steamboat at Disney and although the fear has never stopped me from feeding him wherever I am, I have to admit, I've always been worried that someone would make a rude comment about it.
Thankfully, my first comment was a positive one. Early into our day at Disney Slim got hungry. I sat down, got comfortable and nursed him. A woman with dyed red hair came up to me and said, "Thank you so much for breastfeeding in public!" I was flustered by someone approaching me while nursing and responded, "Oh my God, of course!" And away she walked. She made me so happy that it brought a tear to my eye. I asked R to take a picture of me nursing Slim right then to capture the moment. It's one I truly cherish.
Over the course of approximately four years of breastfeeding, I never once was on the end of a disparaging comment while my baby/toddler/child was at my breast. The closest I got was while flying solo with Curly and my seatmate asked if I needed a blanket and she'd press the flight attendant button since my hands were full. I responded with a polite, "no, thank you - we're good here!" and got a simple, "oh, ok" in turn. I truly think she was genuinely trying to be helpful, but also felt slightly uncomfortable. The Disney experience was my only encouraging comment from a stranger though.
In last month's La Leche League meeting, I paraphrased a quote (don't know to whom to attribute, but Google says Eleanor Roosevelt), "Other people aren't thinking about you as much as you think, so don't worry!" It sounds negative, but I meant it to be freeing and supportive of nursing in public. It's so easy to think that everyone is staring at you when you're latching your child on, but chances are, they don't notice. Plus, if someone is looking at you, it may be a woman like me, who is fondly remembering her nursing days! I've been known to give thank you comments of my own, but occasionally I just smile.
Happy Birthday Hannah! Today On July 27 (but I didn't post this then) you turn turned eleven!
Hannah, at 7 in 2008. This is my favorite picture of her.
On July 27, 2001, R and I moved in together, several states away from our families. So though we adopted you in October that year, we selected your birthday as one that we (who am I kidding? that I) would always remember for its significance.
It was only a few short weeks post September 11th and R and I were discussing wanting a pet. I think we wanted to fill the void in our hearts, we wanted something innocent to cherish and protect, we wanted a semblance of Rockwellian ordinary life, and we wanted to feel more like a family unit. Maybe. I don't know. We were on the young side of twenty, practically still kids.
The day we brought her home, in 2001. Still nameless at this point.
When we walked into the PetSmart adoption event, we actually were looking for a cat. After all, at the time we lived in a one bedroom apartment and both had full time jobs. I had normal hours, in a bank, but R was a restaurant manager at the time, and there was no normal. There were no cats that day, but several adorable puppies. None were siblings. All the dogs were different breeds. I remember another couple chose an all black dog and were wandering around the aisles looking for leather accessories - including biker jacket - for their new addition, Harley.
The moment you were placed in my arms by the rescue shelter volunteer, there was no giving you back. You owned my heart that quickly.
Choosing a name for you took a couple of hours. See, we'd picked out a name for a cat (Philly, after the city) but it just seemed silly on you. I don't recall all of the names we tossed around. But I know it was me who said, "Hannah?" while we walked you outside, on the apartment's common grounds, and you perked right up. It was settled. Hannah Banana Lastname was officially ours.
Like a seed, watch me grow. 2002
I love you. Even though I know you likely felt less in our eyes when we started having babies and adopted more pets into our menagerie. Even though you never did stop barking at every Tom, Dick, and Hairy creature that walked past our house or dared saunter into your yard. Even though you are a naughty, tricksy food thief.
A nanny dog for Slim, in 2006.
I'm not ready to say good-bye yet. And though you are not at a point where I'd have to, you are showing your age more lately. My puppy has more aches and pains and isn't quite so spry, my sweet girl can occasionally be like a crotchety old man. Just promise me, that when the time comes, you let me know. Shh, yes, I am crying, don't look at me like that Hannah. I hope I am giving you a good life. Because I know you help make mine richer.
Having a younger dog around helps keep her young, I think. 2011
I have wanted a tattoo for a long time. As in, over a decade. I've debated over what, if, where. One of my Pinterest boards is dedicated to inspiration and tattoos that please me aesthetically.
Cottonwood trees mean nothing to me, but I admire the way the leaves follow the contours of the body. I finally settled the debate; I want a leaf (or leaves) tattoo. But it has to be more than just a pretty picture. What leaf is tied to a memory?
When I was a little girl, I often spent part of recess making bouquets from the ginkgo leaves that fell on my elementary school playground.
And on my last evening LLL meeting in Kansas, as I walked into the hospital, I stepped over fallen ginkgo leaves. I picked one up. Then, at the park where Slim's preschool graduation was held, a place we'd been several times, I noticed the ginkgo trees. I grabbed some leaves. They are all now pressed in a beloved book. On my last morning LLL meeting in Kansas, a fellow Leader's son was wearing a shirt on which she'd embroidered a ginkgo leaf. Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. It's meant to be. The only question left to answer is when?
