- Fitting In -- Regina Walker
- Falling In and Out of Love With Your Father -- Elizabeth Thompson
- The Fig Tree - Gerry Di Gesu
- Snakes and Snails, And All That Jazz -- Joanne Detore-Nakamura
- The Graduate -- Jim Turner
Showing posts with label June 2005. Show all posts
Showing posts with label June 2005. Show all posts
JUNE 2005
Fitting In
I don’t fit in again.I am standing in the middle of the book fair at my 8 year-old’s school. He has seated himself on the floor and is engrossed in a book based on the TV series, Dexter’s Laboratory. I am looking over the books designated as “for the parents”. There are a multitude of cookbooks, Chicken Soups for the various souls, and a large, coffee-table book extolling the gloriousness of the Reagan years.
I groan audibly.
Zachary is a good student with an astounding vocabulary. When I asked him about something or other recently he responded “I have minimal knowledge in that area mom.”
“Better brush up then, huh?” I responded jokingly. He solemnly nodded in agreement. Humor is not always his strong point.
He is, at times, like a grown-up in third grader clothes. But only in some ways.
Zachary is not terribly affiliative nor have I ever been. Hence, I feel profoundly awkward at the book fair and he has lost himself in the first book he can grab. I should be teaching him more. I should be teaching him how to fit in and be part of the group. I want to teach him to feel comfortable in his own skin. And proud. Proud of the fact that when he doesn’t know something, he still sounds really smart admitting it anyway. It is hard for me to teach what I do not know myself though.
I am not working now and although that has only been true for a matter of months, it is the longest I have been without work since graduate school. I am now a non-working, working mother. I don’t quite fit in with either camp. When I see some of the other working moms they ask “So when are you going back to work?” The stay-at-home moms don’t quite get why I am around so much more lately, and the members of the PTA just scare me.
So I am between worlds and in a way, that is how I have always felt. I have usually been fairly good at conforming but not necessarily fitting in. And Zachary seems to be very much like me in that way. Once I know what they are I can follow the rules and tow the line but my internal landscape consists of a lot of conflict and unforeseen valleys and hidden landmines. I think Zach’s does too though I only catch a glimpse of it during the rare times he lets his guard down. Otherwise Zachary maintains a good poker face. “Everything’s fine Mom” is his mantra.
Sam is different from Zach and me and seems to revel in not fitting in -- in being different. It is who he is and he as yet to be bothered by the expectations of others. Sam came home recently with a photograph from school. In it he is in mid-dance and his classmates are seated and looking on. Sam is beaming in the photograph and proceeds to show it to everyone over and over again. “Sammy dancing” he says with an enormous grin.
Zachary takes me aside and half whispers “I would be too embarrassed to dance like that.”
“I know you would Zachary and that is too bad” I tell him. “You are a wonderful dancer.”
And yet I am like Zachary. I would be too embarrassed to dance too.
If Zachary can’t do something expertly from the start it is difficult for him to persist and transcend his self-consciousness. To enter the unknown and unfamiliar. He is ashamed to evidence weakness. I think it frightens him to make mistakes. I know it frightens me. I explain to him that the flaws are what make the gem uniquely beautiful. Without them they would simply be ordinary.
But Zach still strives for the validation inherent in what is perceived by others as perfection. Sam rejoices in the messiness of it all. He dwells in the process -- in his experience of the extraordinary and the unknown. Zachary and I hold our breath until the conclusion. We are cautious and careful. We miss a lot.
Zachary finishes the Dexter’s Laboratory book and I ask him if he wants to buy it. “No” he says, “I already read it.” We leave having bought a science encyclopedia to donate to his class.
“What’s next, Zach?” I ask. “Want to run away and join the circus?” I ask him this though it something I could never do.
Zach laughs but quickly explains “Mom, I have a lot of homework tonight. It is Wednesday, remember?”
“I do remember Zach. But at least promise me you will consider it. Maybe some time in the future, you know.”
“Yeah, right Mom. Sure I will.”
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Copyright 2005 Regina Walker
Regina Walker is a mom and writer living in NYC.
Falling In and Out of Love With Your Father
By Elizabeth Katkics Thompson“One advantage of marriage is that, when you fall out of love with him or he falls out of love with you, it keeps you together until you fall in again.” ~ Judith ViorstAnd that’s the easy part.
I’ll be totally honest with you -- raising four children in a seven room house after nearly fifteen years of marriage -- my husband and I have found it necessary to come up with innovative ways of keeping the passion alive in our relationship. Often times the simple act of kissing for an uninterrupted and extended length of time, say 30 seconds, without one of the kids screaming, “Ew, gross!” or the dog poking his nose into my backside, becomes a most gratifying act in itself.
So, how do we do it? How do we keep the home fires burning for one another, at home, so to speak? What makes our marriage so damn hot?
(adjusting breasts)
Well, all I can say -- without embarrassing myself or my husband too much -- is that I don’t have a freaking clue!
No, really.
Even after the birth of our children, though the level of frequency has decreased considerably, my husband and I are physically inseparable. We actually look forward to each other’s company and couldn’t go a day without touching or kissing, whenever we were near enough to each other to do so, although those times have also grown far and few in between.
As engaging as our relationship may sound, I can’t sit here and tell you that it is all good or that we don’t have our share of unhappy moments.
In fact, my husband and I repeatedly dislike each other, and badly.
Unfortunately, the greater part of our dissatisfaction with each other-- as well as nearly all of our less than grown-up moments -- typically happens in front of, and while dealing with, our children and normally ends with the same affront.
“You’re just like your father!”
What is it about our fathers that cause us to react so negatively whenever one of us brings either one into a quarrel? Well, probably because it’s true and we both refuse to recognize the fact, to each other.
Not only does the truth hurt, it usually stops the argument dead in its tracks.
My father is an enigma --quick-witted and often offering words of encouragement and strength while exhibiting his terrific sense of humor one moment -- brooding, pessimistic and refusing to believe that he will physically or financially recover in time for my mother’s retirement by blurting out, “These are supposed be our twilight years?” and “Golden age, my ass!” I’ve read about people finding it difficult to adjust to retirement, but after two years and nine operations, my father pretty much has given up on adjusting and lives his life as always -- from day to day, not expecting too much and functioning purely on an emotional level.
It’s like looking in a freaking mirror.
My father-in-law, however, is anything but unpredictable. He analyzes, investigates, and provides a rough-draft before acting on EVERYTHING. A creature of habit, he still buys his meat from the same butcher, and an apple crumb cake from the same bakery for the last fifty years and does his banking and shopping every Saturday, even though he’s been retired for nearly ten years now. A respectable and proper New Englander, nothing rocks his boat -- except the unpredictable and incalculable little things in life.
Ditto for my husband.
So, when his sister originally tried to set us up, and encouraged him to call me, I understood his hesitation to get together. His sister was a bit of a wild child, and a cause of most of those unpredictable little things in my father-in-law's life. And any of friend of hers, well, you know.
And, judging by her description of him, I felt pretty much the same.
Eventually, and essentially to get his sister off his back, we did get together and it still amazes people, even today. Mainly people are shocked because we are so vastly different with many opposing views and opinions -- particularly politically (don’t even get me started). And more shockingly, while raising four children -- we are still very much in love with each other and even hold hands in public. Simply put, according to many people, we are just plain freaky.
After all, the statistics are pretty grim when it comes to marriage. Uh-oh, look I’m speaking in data -- he’s gonna want some.
Quite honestly I'm taken aback by some people’s reactions to my relationship with my husband. According to many of my mommy friends, we are just plain weird!
YES, our marriage (as well as most things in our lives since children) has become more complicated. YES, we are totally like our fathers, and NO - we don’t always agree.
Yet, there is at least one thing that we both could not deny -- We couldn’t have done any of it -- without each other.
Oh, and even though I don’t profess to fully understand or will ever be able to explain exactly how we do it, there is one thing I do know to be true. Opposites most definitely do attract -- sometimes even vigorously -- and every now and then in the most unconventional of means.
Happy Father’s Day, sweetie. Thank goodness you are so like your dad!
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Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson
Elizabeth Katkics-Thompson is a mother to four children and has been married for 13 years to her husband, Pete. Liz also writes a weekly column entitled, Married With A Whole Lot of Children at Just For Mom and has had essays posted at The Imperfect Parent. You can read the ongoing adventures of her life at This Full House, the blog. Liz lives and writes in New Jersey.
The Fig Tree
I yanked and tore at the large weed which would not let go of its hold in the earth. Finally, I got it half way out, but it was stubborn and I was exhausted from the struggle and quit trying.
My father had died two weeks earlier. It was the first week of November and I was clearing out his beloved backyard garden. I thought about leaving the dead plants and unharvested, rotting vegetables until spring, but ached each time I saw the wasted plants. My mom must have felt the same because she asked if I could find time to clean up the garden. She couldn’t bear the constant reminder of dad each time she looked out her kitchen window.
“Oh, Lord, what happened to Daddy’s fig tree? It looks as if the frost has heaved it out of the ground.”
Mom had come out of the house to check on my progress. She gently touched the “weed” I had been struggling to pull out a few minutes earlier. A sick feeling in my stomach pushed into my throat as I knelt beside the plant. I hadn’t known. It looked like a weed. Dad’s friend had given it to him two years ago and my father had nursed it and checked its progress daily because he wanted a fig tree the same as his father had when Dad was a boy growing up. It had grown only a few inches but had produced some leaves with the promise of more growth. “Wait till next year,” he would laugh when we teased him.
“The kids were probably digging out here, Mom,” I choked. Never could I tell her how I had struggled to pull it out. The dirt around it was loose, so I patted it back around the exposed roots. “We’ll see how it is in the spring.” I took mom inside for a cup of tea. Sick and guilty, I couldn’t continue my work. I never finished the garden that fall. Through the winter, every time I visited Mom, my eyes were drawn to that solitary stick in the middle of the garden. Unspoken guilt and shame engulfed me since I knew it was dead.
In May, I returned to the garden which was now overrun with weeds. At least they hid the tree from view. Mom had sold her home and was moving in another month. I couldn’t leave the mess for the new owners. Dad would want his plot to look neat and well kept. Furiously, I ripped and tugged at the strong, healthy weeds. Although the sun shone brightly, I felt as cold as stone. I was saying goodbye to my dad, my yard, my childhood.
I reached to pull out the last row of brush and stopped. In front of me stood the fig tree. The tiny stick was covered with leaves and new shoots reached up from the ground. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I stroked the leaves. One word sprang into my mind — resurrection. Dad was here with me in his garden. God had given new life to this stick I had yanked from the ground and left for dead last winter. The core of bitterness inside me slowly dissolved and was replaced by a warm feeling of acceptance and hope.
I dug out the tree and carefully wrapped it in burlap to transplant it into my garden. That was almost thirty years ago. Today, I picked the first fig of the season and knew Dad was with me as I savored the sweetness of the fruit.
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Copyright 2005 Gerry Di Gesu
Gerry is a retired school secretary whose joy is her husband, three children and four grandchildren. Her essays and poems have appeared in a variety of publications, journals and anthologies including The New York Times, Catholic Digest and Cape Women Magazine. Her recently published collection of essays – “Keep Quiet, You’re Only A Girl” – is available on the web from iUniverse.com, amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. E-mail Gerry at digesu7@comcast.net.
Snakes and Snails, and All That Jazz
That's What Boys Are Made OfI watch as my son picks up a tiny doll in a pink dress from the toy bin. What will he do with it, I wonder? Will he hug it? Kiss it? He shows it to me. "Oh, how nice," I say to him. Then he bites its head. My daughter, Emily, who is seven, sees him and rescues the doll, "No, no, Cheekie," her nickname for my husky son, Luke, now 13 months old. "Don't eat Sarah!"
Until I had a little boy, I thought that girls and boys were about the same. I'd studied gender theory for fifteen years. The experts mostly agreed that the way boys and girls turned out was more about nurture than nature. Mass media was really the cause of the destructiveness of boys, not some innate temperament. I'd watched as Emily defied some of the girl "rules" (See my "Girl Power" column) and thought that I'd figured it all out.
Then I had Luke.
Emily would stay in one spot for hours and play with the toys around her. She rarely ventured out on her own. Now that he's started to walk, Luke tears through the house like a boy on a mission –- of destruction. He's suddenly in the kitchen where my daughter is now eating her breakfast. He reaches up and grabs a piece of toast from her plate, laughs, and pops it in his mouth. "Cheekie!" my daughter yells in exasperation. "That was mine!"
Then he's in the family room where the dog is lying peacefully on the sofa. Buddy the dog lifts his head and eyes Luke suspiciously. I'm right behind him the boy now. I don't trust any dog with a baby, even a really nice one like ours. He reaches for Buddy and touches him on the stomach, gently.
"Oh, what a good boy, “I say. "That's it. Pet Buddy nicely."
In a lightening move, Luke grabs Buddy's leg and squeezes.
"Yelp!" Buddy protests, looks at me, and retreats to the bedroom, scurrying under the bed where he's safe.
"No, no Luke! No squeezing."
Luke shakes his head back and forth vigorously and squeals with delight as if mocking me.
I scoop him up and put him in his high chair for breakfast. I cut up pieces of banana, a few bits of a Gerber graduates breakfast bar, some Cheerios, and a tiny portion of scrambled egg. Unlike my daughter Emily, Luke will eat just about anything put in front of him, including the dog's Kibble if I let him. Luke grabs a piece of banana and shoves it into his mouth. Ah, this is going well, I think. I grab a cup of coffee, while Emily sits at the table watching Luke. After a few minutes, Luke has put the banana and scrambled egg in his hair.
"Mommy, he's gross," Emily says, looking at her banana-encrusted brother.
"Oh, you did the same thing," I tell her. "All babies do."
"I did THAT?" Emily asks in disbelief.
"Yup. I've got pictures to prove it," I tell her.
But suddenly surprising both us, there is a barbaric grunt, "Errrrr!" Luke, with his brow furrowed in a sort of Incredible Hulk grimace, takes all the breakfast bar bits in his tiny fist, and squeezes, "Errrr!" Then he laughs hysterically to himself.
"Oh, my gosh!" Emily says. "He looks mean!"
And so it goes.
My friend, Lisa, warned me about boys. She has three of them. "You wait until you have a boy, then we'll talk."
Well, that was the theory any way. We haven't had a complete conversation in over thirteen years -- the age of her oldest, son. I'd call her and throughout the conversation, I'd hear, "J.R., don't punch your brother!" Then we'd talk for a few more moments interrupted by a sudden, "Do NOT run your bikes over those flowers! I just planted them! Andrew!!!" Then, we'd get a few more words in until finally, "I've got to go. They are destroying the whole garden. Bye!" Dial tone.
That's sort of the way it's been. We gave up on the telephone years ago and now just e-mail each other.
Still, no little boy is all snakes, snails and puppy dog tails. Despite his penchant for destruction, Luke is more lover than fighter. Ever since he was born, Luke has sought the hugs and attention of anyone and everyone, especially women. When I was first able to walk to the nursery after my c-section, I tapped on the window and presented my I.D. number. I thought the nurses would go and retrieve my son from among the group of little glass bassinets, but then I realized that Luke was the baby in one of the nurse's arms.
"Oh, this one loves to be cuddled. He's a regular cuddle bug," she said. Reluctant to give him back, the nurse said, "Are you sure you don't need more rest? We really fell in love this one."
My daughter loves to cuddle too, but her hugs and kisses were reserved for immediate family only. My son is another story. He's a regular Casanova. I wouldn't have believed it unless I'd seen it for myself. Luke flirts. My husband and I took the kids to a local restaurant for dinner. We had a stash of Cheerios, toys, and other items to amuse the little guy. After ordering, I noticed that Luke was smiling and waving madly. I turned to see who he was waving at. Incredibly, the objects of his affection were two little girls ages one and three. The oldest one waved back reluctantly; the youngest one wanted nothing to do with him. Then the waitress came with our food. Luke bent his head to the side, smiled coyly, and I could have sworn, winked at her. "Isn't he the cutest!" the waitress remarked. My son cooed, smiled, winked, and waved at every female in the restaurant from the youngest to the oldest all night. Who needs toys?
"You'd better watch out," one older woman warned, "He's going to have all the girls!"
He seems destined to be the kind of guy voted to be class president. He's captivated by people and conversation. Of course at this point his vocabulary consists of mostly dolphin-like clicks and squeals, some jazz scats, and only about three human words. But what he lacks in vocabulary, he makes up for in nonverbal language like gesture and facial expression. He can slip you some skin, wave bye-bye, kiss and hug, nod for yes and no, clap, and flash a smile that puts Tom Cruise's to shame.
He seems on his way to becoming well-rounded too. He enjoys taking things apart and figuring out how things work. An old-fashioned door stopper in my office kept him occupied for ten minutes – up, down, up, down. In addition to his mechanical side, he's a lover of music. Play some music and he's dancing and singing along. He's a sweet little boy, too, despite his love of pulling hair, biting, and pinching people. He's my noble savage, in need of socialization, love, and guidance—not too unlike his sister . . .really.
Yet I can see with his every bang on the piano, every bite of a dolly's head, every mountaineer-like climb of the sofa, every wanderlust trek of the house, every baby Godzilla-yell, that life with this little guy will never be boring.
At the end of the day when I rock him to sleep in my arms and we sing lullabies to each other (his sounds more like a monk's chant- ah-h-h-h), he is still my beautiful little baby in need of all my love and guidance. I feel so incredibly lucky to have him after waiting so long to have him.
One thing I know for sure and what I've learned as a mother is to take it one child at a time. Just as the old nursery rhyme, "Sugar and spice and everything nice," doesn't describe every little girl, neither does "Snakes and snails and puppy dog's tails," describe every little boy. I've found that raising children is less like cooking, where we try to determine the right amount of this or that ingredient until we get it right. What happens if our soufflé doesn't rise and falls flat? Society is stuck with that one for life.
Instead, I've found that raising children is much more like making music. I'm glad that I waited to have children until I could solo. I had time to discover who I was, to know what my "bag" was, to have the opportunity to play my own "gig."
When we've got the theories down cold, we'll know how to break the rules when necessary. Children are like jazz compositions, with lots of variations on the theme and mostly improvisation. A couple of sour notes won't be so bad if we're able to pull it out in the end. I'm looking forward to some really "jamming riffs" and one "solid ride" with this one. He's already got scats that would make Ella jealous.
Yes, I'm ready for motherhood—for the mothering of little girls and of little boys -- and for all that jazz, the unexpected and unrehearsed beauty that is life.
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Copyright 2005 Joanne Detore-Nakamura, Ph.D.
Joanne Detore-Nakamura, Ph.D. is enjoying her summer with her children and husband during her break from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in Daytona Beach, FL, where she is an Assistant Professor of Humanities and Communication. She's also finishing up her book, From Victim to Victor: the Friendship Plot in Contemporary Women's Fiction and Film, under contract with Mellen Publishing for a 2006 publication date, and she's catching up on all that laundry and housework.
The Graduate
She was my first-born, our experiment with being parents. Each new thing that she learned was a triumph of the human spirit in our eyes. She would dirty her first diaper and it was a feat with which we could tell the world. She would learn how to smile and giggle and the whole world would disappear around us.
Today she is wearing her cap and gown, and explaining the finer points of what the purpose of the tassel and the significance of the moving of the tassel from right to left. She went on ad naseum with her little brother as he stared at her like she was speaking a different language. She then went into meat of the graduation program, telling us all the names of the other children and reciting each of their lines. It is surreal to listen to her as she talks about her own life and the day-to-day happenings.
As she entered the stage for her graduation program, I noticed she was the tallest of the group. She is a year younger than the rest of the children in her class, but is a few inches taller than the next tallest child. She turned to the audience, and my heart welled up in tears of joy and pride. She looked out over the audience and spotted her Mother and I and waved a little tiny wave so as not to upset the balance of the program but to let us know she had seen us standing there with pride in our hearts.
They began their program by putting on a play, a western about Black Bart stealing all the schools books. She had a large role in the play, and belted out her lines in perfect monotone fashion. She had memorized them perfectly without inflection or without emotion. I was still very proud, in spite of the humor I derived from the scene. The music began, and the tone never changed. As they shouted out the lyrics, I thought I could hear her voice above all the others.
I looked around to see all the other fathers and mothers also hearing their child above all the other participants. I suddenly thought about the stereotypical parent at the school play, the one that you see in all the movies -- the ones that want to stand in front of the rest of the crowd to get that perfect money shot of their daughter or son singing or saying their lines.
I can remember when she was a newborn, looking into her face, looking into her soul, promising her the best of everything I could offer to her, never actually thinking of the day when she would be able to write her name, sing a song, and recite lines for a play. All of that seemed light years away and seemed impossible at that moment, but I knew this day would someday come. Now that it had arrived, I had no idea the emotion that would burn inside me, and the pride I had seeing something I had created actually doing what I thought was only a dream. Looking over at her mother, I could also see that she was beaming and tearing up knowing that something she had created was performing on stage.
dictionaries or a thesaurus, cannot help me invoke words of that feeling that you derive, seeing it unfold before you. There are many things you must experience in order to know the feeling.
Like a birth of a child, a death of a loved one, or a child standing on stage and the administrator bellowing her name as he hands her a diploma.
only a possibility, as did her graduation into first grade when she was born. I also have three other children that will be going through this process, although we are about to give up hope
for my son. I’m beginning to wonder if he will turn out to be the only child left behind. Like skydiving, there is always the first time it is experienced, the first time is always ultimate experience that cannot be replicated.
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Copyright 2005 Jim Turner
Jim Turner is the father to Annika (5) and Jake (4) and newborn, Aidan James. Jim keeps a daily blog called Genuine in which he shares his whimisical musings on fatherhood.
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