Apologies

She apologized to me for being “negligent” and out of touch. She felt badly that she might not have called or emailed as much as she should have. She wanted me to know she knew this – her misdeeds as she saw them – and that she really, truly felt bad about it.

She is 22, pretty much bald, wickedly cool and funny and smart, a very recent college graduate, who likes a cocktail and loud music and gossip, and she is back in the hospital dealing with the side effects of her battle against leukemia. Which she started less than six months ago. At about the same time she should have been whooping it up after four years of hard work that should have paid off into the fun of Senior Spring.

I get saying sorry. I have done my share of apologizing over the last 8 years or so. I apologize to my kids at least five times a week. The little sorries are easy, as in, “I know I said we could, but now we can’t and I am sorry.” The bigger ones suck (but have the biggest payback overall I think), as in “I am sorry I got so angry/yelled/made you feel sad about something you did do (that really didn’t matter)/something you didn’t do (that I thought you did)/or because I was just having a bad day and felt tired and grumpy and was crabby, and I feel bad about that, and I am sorry.”

Inevitably, the short-term payback comes in a sweet voice and gentle swipe of a cheek and a kid saying, “I know, mama, I feel that way too sometimes.” In the long term, I am hoping the payback will multiply, adding up to a human being who can admit fault just as well as she can accept a true apology, or better yet, find forgiveness when one isn’t even offered, which is, after all, the true secret to life.

But lately, I’ve been making apologies of another kind -- to my own college friends, who for better or worse, right or wrong, were often last on my list of calls to make or things to do, in the years that followed our own Senior Spring. I was married and a mother long before they were. When they were experiencing first pregnancies, I was realizing how much I hated my third. When they were reading books to newborns, I was tossing mine into a crib with a bottle that I taught him to hold by himself. When they were joining playgroups, I was sneaking out of all of mine. Plus we were thick in a lawsuit with a crooked builder, I seemed to be pregnant all the time, or at a meeting, was becoming if not so much depressed than manic with anxiety, and well, I just figured life was going on without me.

It was. They, pretty much on a similar timeline, had managed to keep their interests in line with one another. But me? Not so much.

Hurt happened. It went both ways I suppose, but I guess I didn’t really notice mine amongst all the other minor and major heartbreaks happening inside these four (not quite plastered) walls. I didn’t notice theirs, at least not enough. So over the last month or so, I’ve had to face up to that – the consequences of my absence – and while I don’t regret having made the choices (were they?) that I did, I tried to explain myself nonetheless. I took my lumps, and against the wishes of some very close friends (who say: and why? and for what?) I said: I am sorry. And I was, and I am. No matter what my friends say, I could have done better.

You gotta do what you gotta do.

Like when I say to my kids, APOLOGIZE NOW (!!!) about a million times a day, and MEAN IT, I add when they don’t (which is most of the time). Really saying sorry means accepting fault fully, and only a grown-up (at least one whose self-centered ways have been shoved aside) can do that. I get that these kids are little and maybe not yet equipped. But say sorry, I say anyway, after which they do so, half-assed.

But the “sorries” that fly in the nano-second after they have done something bad or mean or against the rules because they think just saying it (without being asked to) absolves them, which it doesn’t -- these are the only apologies I have, until now, really despised.

Now, I have a new one.

Listen up little sister, sister by another mister, my cousin. Rule number one when becoming a grown-up woman: we DON’T apologize for being busy when we are KICKING THE ASS OUT OF CANCER. We never, ever apologize for that. Ever.

In fact, and if truth be told this is the hardest rule to learn, Rule Number Two: we never apologize for doing pretty much anything that makes or keeps us healthy enough to do more ass kicking.

The world needs more women who follow these rules, so get to it. I’ve got two little girls who are counting on me to do the same – and you too.

Summer Bummer: In Six Acts

ACT ONE:
Morning, hot, approximately seven days into summer:

Me: We’re going to the pool today. After lunch, after errands.
Him: Where are we going?
Me: To the pool. Later.
Him: What pool?
Me: Same place you had swimming lessons, but outside.
Him: Oh.

ACT TWO:
During errands aka: wailing, whining, throwing-self-on-floor hour:

Me: You know, none of us will go the pool if you can’t pull it together.
Him: IWANTTHEPOOL!
Me: Get up then and let’s pull it together.
Him: Alright. I want the pool. (Sob.)

ACT THREE:
In the car, headed home for lunch and pre-pool prep:

Him: When are we going to the pool?
Them: After lunch.
Him: It’s MY pool.
Them: No it’s not; it’s for everyone.
Him: NO! MY POOL!
Them: No, K, everyone’s.
Him: MY POOOLLLLL!!
Older Them: Listen, it was your pool inside where you had lessons, but this is the outdoor pool and i’ts for everyone.
Him: Oh. I want it.

ACT FOUR:
Home, lunch which he doesn’t eat because he is too busy doing this:

Him: When are we going?
Him: I want to go.
Him: Are we going now?
Him: Let’s go now.
Him: IWANTTHEPOOL.
Him: Now?
Him: NOW! (sob.) POOL!
Him: Is it my pool?
Him: IT'S MY POOL.
(Them: Whatever, dude.)

ACT FIVE:
In car, packed with towels, sunscreen, tabloids:

Him: WHERE ARE WE GOING????
Me to self: Oh for fuck’s sake, I taught him to talk for what reason?

ACT SIX:
Ten minutes at pool:

Him: I want to go home. I’m hungry.

Happy summer all.

She Loves Me, I Love Me Not

This “Author’s Breakfast” for my daughter’s second grade class -- I did not want to attend. I am totally, almost politically against these end-of-school year things. I find them to be unnecessary, inelegant and generally a great waste of time – not to mention, a waste of donuts, mini-muffins, and gallons of coffee, that even I, an addict, could not drink all of if I tried. Plus, I have three kids, for whom I must rally the same oohs and ahhs, for which I must "be there" for, for which I must celebrate every little scribble made or song sung, and frankly, I'm tired and so I get a little pissy about it. They're good kids, I know; thanks so much for loving them, and teaching them, but you know, after all, guh'bye.

When I walked in, with K, the newly potty-trained gigantic three year old, I said this to a neighbor/friend, “Yeah, hey, hi; let’s get this fucking shit over with.”

Did I really say that? I did. But even as the words spilled from my mouth, I regretted them. I am sorry for being such a bad-ass all the time. I am sorry for trying to be so cool, cooler than you, even here in some second grade class, my daughter's, this girl who is so unlike me, and who I adore beyond words that the books have for adoration.

I wish I didn't see myself as the rock chick with black nail polish all the time anymore. I wish I could see myself more the way they see me, the way she sees me: a do-er, a mom of three, a hugger, a boo-boo fixer, a PTO mom who attends these things, even plans these things. That's who I am now; I became this for her. Graciously, gratefully I should add.

My daughter’s poem, the second-to-last of the performers, almost made me drop to my knees. It was copied from the format of a book they read, so not totally original, but yikes, I wasn’t the only one crying:

I love
I love a lot of things, a whole lot of things
Like
My Mom
She is very funny, smart and nice
I love when my mom helps me with my problems
She loves me and I love her
Honey, let me tell you that I LOVE my mom…
I love my Mom

It went on from there, but does it matter? The bill was paid. I was done. It was guilt beyond the guilt that regular people know. Only mothers know this -- that joy/pain part of parenting -- that Guilt.

Someday, maybe tomorrow, I will write back a poem to her. Hell, maybe I already have.

Open Letter to Carmela Soprano, My Girl

I’ve saved all your Christmas Cards, Carm -- loved the one you sent of AJ with the goth face and mistletoe (he was such a baby then), and who knew Tony liked a sweater with a reindeer embroidered on, with a bell? (That photo almost made me pee my pants!)

It was always a joy to read your long letters, Carm, the ones stuffed inside the envelope, with all the news of the Family; you have an excellent use of language – and God, you're good with clip-art too. Good luck with your adventures in contracting and house flipping! You go, girl! And if I ever need a lawyer, even though, as you know, I am not Italian, I will be sure to call Meadow. You Soprano women… You kill me.

You must be so proud of what you have accomplished. Troubles aside – oh those long weepy phone calls we shared (God love the Pinot Grig, right?) – I hope you can see, can you see now, how everything worked out?

If you taught me anything, it is that marriage is a long road – what did you say? It's a horse-driven carriage we ride on over bumps howling with joy sometimes but mostly, it’s just shit we smell in passing. You reminded me – especially during those long dreary days you spent with Ton at the hospital – to keep on keeping on. You were – you are! – so brave, Carm, so brave!

I have especially enjoyed how our friendship had little to do with our kids. Mine are still so little (just wait, you always say, just wait) and yours seem all grown up now (oh don’t cry, you lush!). But going through all that stuff with you with the kids? It has given me great fodder for the future. Like with Fin: I loved that kid -- I know, I know, it's the preppy in me -- but I would have just died had that been me (as the Mom) when it didn't work out for Med. God knows we want different things for our kids, but still he was cute! And sensitive! And Med seemed so inspired by him.

I'll never forget what you said when it finally ended: "A mother knows what is best for her daughter." I guess you were right; God, I hope you're right. (I still love Fin though -- hahhahahaha!)

Our friendship was never about our husbands either. Waste management (peeyooooo!) and advertising? Ton and That Man don’t have much in common, and I loved how it never mattered. That being said, they can both shoot off at the mouth like the best of them, right? Ha Ha! (Truth be told, I wonder how mine would be with a little therapy? How’s that going for Tony, by the way?)

Anyhoo, I am not sure where you are going – I get it, I get it, you need some space, especially with that big shake up for Tony at work, and the empty nest thing (kinda – that AJ! I’m praying for him! And by the by, the new car? Oh no you didn’t!). Still, I want you to know, before we lose touch forever, what you have meant to me.

It’s hard to put it into words really Carm, but I feel like I know you better than anyone. You are a real inspiration: mom, career woman, and long-suffering wife to a Powerful Man. It’s been pretty obvious from the beginning of our relationship that your problems have surpassed my own – damn girl, you have more funeral outfits than any one woman should have! (I hope you don’t take that the wrong way....) Besides the age difference of our kids and the hubbies’ jobs, and all the money you have (did I just say that? out loud?), I still felt like we always had so much in common. You felt the same right? I know you did. It kind of goes without saying, right friend? Right?

I am thinking, just a suggestion, and Lord knows you have a lot going on, but maybe you should sign up with the Internet and get one of those Websites and write down all the stuff you’re thinking about and care about and want to gripe about? I would read it; I swear I would, like every day.

It’s just a thought.

Until then, thanks again for the recipes (you are so, so thoughtful) and thanks for just, you know, being there.

It's War

We are about to engage in a tussle, my neighborhood gals and me. We are taking on the big guns in the small town to raise a ruckus for positive change. We are activists all, ready to rally ‘round a good and decent cause, to stand together in protest of a wrong. We have a letter of petition; we have a plan, a committee, and a mission statement.

We want Stop Signs. (Maybe speed bumps, but stop signs --much much better.)

Lest you think I am being slightly, somewhat, perhaps a little ironic or shall I say, cheeky, I am, and also I am not.

Stop signs are good! Slowing the speeding cars on this street that is overflowing with kids (who like to play outside, who’d a thunk) is good! Getting flipped off by those in said speeding cars is bad! Very bad, and we are coming for you.

Give me Stop Signs!

The cheekiness lingers, I know. It comes from the same part of me that smiles when I am carded. It comes from the part that still does not believe I pay a mortgage. Or bills. Or have a Will. (I will die you say? With something to leave behind?) It comes from the part of me that still chuckles a little at titles hurled at me like Mrs., like M’aam, like Mom.

This is not the protest of my youth. That was the early 90s and the first Gulf War and, um, grapes and laborers, but this is now. This is Stop Signs, motherfucker, and I want some.

I do my best to meditate on the Big World problems. I actively engage in all elections, contribute money to Veterans causes, and argue effectively with my NeoCon husband my opinions and beliefs. I hang an American flag (because I still believe in this place) and remind people to oppose the war and not the warrior. I am encouraged and delighted and surprised even that our next president might be a woman, or a black man. I ordered a bumper sticker, and when the time comes, I’ll stand on a street corner with a sign.

But I am not, like many of us, walking on Washington in protest. Truth be told, I am not affected daily by the war (though I bawled my eyes out at the funeral procession for a fallen father and son from our town, to which I hauled my kids, all under five at the time, because it was important) and I doubt you are either. Most of you. The Big World problems exist around my dinner table, but sadly, ashamedly, I have not, as of yet, taken it to the streets.

For now, it’s Stop Signs. On my street. Which will become I hope, a kindler, gentler, safer kind of street.

Think globally, act locally.

They're Wicked Smaht, My Kids

R to B: I watched a movie in art today.
B: What was it about?
R: Um. Art.
B: Oh yeah? Mozart?
R: Yep.
B: I loved that one.

Women In Art

Have yet to see the real genius in YouTube but this comes ridiculously close.

Oprah/Cormac

Cormac McCarthy was on Oprah today. Somewhere my father is testing the temperatures of hell.

After They Come Home

Why does this shock me every time?

Why does it it amaze me in fact that within ten minutes of all three coming home, after seven hours STRAIGHT of all three being gone (the miracle of the post-pre-school playdate), in which I was so wonderfully accomplished, polite and cheerful, crossing off the items on my list with an upward, gleeful brushstroke, folding all their tiny clothes with love and ahhh, smells so sweet -- why does it amaze me that it is not only the silence of my house that evaporates (the kind of silence that I hate to shatter even with the sound of my own stinking voice), but also out the window goes any idea of order, of clean, of me being the woman I just was, NICE and SWEET and KIND and CALM.

But there I am in some kind of slo-mo dizziness each time they re-emerge from their lives without me, there I am in the middle of countless VERY IMPORTANT school papers (ie: recyclables) and gooey tops of fuschia yogurts, water gun damage dripping from the seat I just sat in, shouting the things I wouldn't have dreamed of shouting ten minutes before: "Speak one at time!" "You will know I am ready to talk to you when I look at you and am not shaking my hand in your face!" "No you can not do that -- probably ever," "Does anybody pay attention to anybody else in this house? I said never!" "Put it down; it's a knife!" "FLUSH THE DAMN TOILET!"

There I am, hands on hips, hands on forehead, hands making that shoo-shoo sign which is shorthand for leave me the hell alone for two seconds, in my twilight zone episode of motherhood, experiencing this which I have experienced so many times before as if I were experiencing it all for the first freaking time. Was the house really clean? Quiet? Was I ever nice to anyone ever? Was it all just a... a... dream?

Winning

We won our first game today and I am way too happy about that than I should be.

Even though I cheer for the other team at a good goal or a good save, I still wanted mine to win. But those girls, a hodegpdoge of kids, they listened to me, and when I told each one that they had done something good, they believed me. I believed me: they were awesome. I love soccer. I love how I get to be when I teach it.

Soccer is a complicated game built for a player with skills of all kinds: the physical, but the mental mostly. It is a game of precision and control, but also a game that anyone can play. I was once moved to tears by this description by Sean Wilsey of World Cup soccer, which I paraphrase and edit here (and for which I hope not to be sued):

"Soccer's universality is its simplicity—the fact that the game can be played anywhere with anything. Urban children kick the can on concrete and rural kids kick a rag wrapped around a rag wrapped around a rag, barefoot, on dirt. Soccer is something to believe in now, perhaps empty at its core, but not a stand-in for anything else.

What makes the World Cup most beautiful is the world, all of us together. The joy of being one of the billion or more people watching 32 countries abide by 17 rules fills me with the conviction, perhaps ignorant, but like many ignorant convictions, fiercely held, that soccer can unite us all."

What an amazing thing to believe, in our wartime especially, that a game can be bigger than its players or the rules. When I read this again, in sharing it here, I was newly inspired: for soccer (obviously), for the kids that play it all over the world, and also for my own simple desire for peace.

Kick the ball, spread out into the places no one is, find a player to pass to, help each other, defend and offend in equal parts, no one scores a goal alone.

Politics, schmolitics. This is what it means to be a soccer mom.

Then The Question

My friend Sarah, her husband, and then two girls made a very conscious decision to leave their suburb and opt instead for a life outside the outside. The goal was to live a simpler life, a meaningful life for them. They found a house in a small town in which they knew no one, grew some vegetables, clipped their budget, and in time had a son in that home with a midwife present. (She, a nurse, chose to forgo the conventional birth, the medical birth, and wrote about the experience so beautifully to me that I convinced her to publish it -- and she did!).

Sarah asks a lot of questions of herself, and I wish I could be as thoughtful as her. Her Post Picket Fence -- it's as complicated as mine, not as idyllic as she hoped or wished but maybe nothing ever is really, not even the things one chooses deliberately. But she went there; she goes there every day, totally committed literally and figuratively. I am honored to know her.

For Sarah, a recent question in a writing class was this: What will your life look like in 20 years?

"In 20 years I will be 57. I am so unclear as to what my life will be like then. I’m scared scared scared to think about it. I know and hope that the constant will be my husband. For now, we spend all of our time building our home – our homestead – planting sapling heirloom apple trees and peach trees and blueberries; clearing poison ivy and choosing some significant, meaningful name for our place.

I so fear that all of this will be for naught – that we’re doing it for the wrong reasons – huh? What reasons? Resale value? To impress the neighbors? To give our children a vision of simplicity and a taste of our little vision of utopia? To have a place we’d survive in if we truly needed to be self-sufficient? A place that represents purity and hard work and love and acceptance?

I cry when I think of what the “playroom” might evolve into. What will sit on its shelves? Will we break down and put in a TV to lure the kids back home?

In 20 years I want to be an expert – a gracious one so that I won’t feel nervous and self-critical all the time. I want to be active, interested, in LOVE with my life and my Loves and the World. I want the world to change and meet me halfway so I won’t feel so frustrated and like throwing my hands up in the air and wondering if anything is worth it. I want to be living, eating those apples, watching my children become adults, and holding the hand of my Love, traveling down the path we can hopefully choose together."

Where will I be in 20 years, or you? I'll get back to you about that, but for now, what I do know is that I am the luckiest girl alive to have the friends that I do.

More Guests

Sarah was asked the question -- each child has a message for us: what are they trying to teach us that you resist? Or take for granted? -- and here's how she responded:

"My daughter is five years old. For me, that's old -- when I dreamed of having children I had a very clear vision of what they might be -- I'd have a girl, she'd be a Tomboy, active, interested, rough-and-tumble. We wouldn't coddle her, so she wouldn't be needy, we'd take her hiking, so she'd be tough. I had it all figured out. I pushed Colby, my dear, sweet, tender, sensitive girl. Instead of making her tough, we gave her frostbite. Instead of making her sporty, she chooses pink and frilly, and asks incessantly for make-up. I thought she was so smart we'd have her out of diapers before her little sister was born. Instead, she's just in the last month overcome her Fear of going on the toilet. She tests me, frustrates me, is challenging and so damn different than what I expected -- what was "meant to be."

And I'm so damn glad that she's stubborn enough to keep teaching me these lessons over and over again. The strength of this little girl, in her innocence and love and glittery, pink, tu-tu'd, spirited way, has taught me to open my heart to who she is, not who I thought she might be or who she was in my vision. She grows me as a parent and as a person. Yes, I wish I could change all those little and big things I did to my first-born that might stay with her as some question in the back of her heart that she's not likeable or accepted. But if she can stand it, she and I may become catalysts for one another to exponentially expand our little love for one another and I can one day impart to her how grateful I am for who she is -- and for her patience in opening my eyes and my heart."


How would you answer the question?