Water-colored Lenses

Everytime I pick up a glass to take a drink, I clink it on my new glasses. And everytime it happens, I remember that it happened the last time. I haven't resorted to removing my glasses everytime I want to take a drink, yet. (Okay sometimes I lift them up off my nose.) Instead I just keep feeling like an idiot. Would there have been a training session for those "new to life with glasses", I would have signed up. Instead, they showed me how to clean them and sent me on my way. And in my innocence and ignorance I thought that was all I needed to know. But I am learning slowly and seeing things awash through my water-colored lenses.

Il Bacio

I have a picture called Il Bacio that hangs in my dining room. It shows three children. Two girls and a boy. The boy is sitting in the middle of the girls and is kissing the cheek of one little girl and the other little girl is scowling at him. I bought the picture because I identified with the scowling little girl. I wanted to be the one who got kissed but the boys always seemed to choose the other little girl instead of me. One day when my daughter was about five years old she looked at the painting and exclaimed, “Mommy! Look at that!” She pointed at the picture. I responded, “Yes?” She continued, “The little girl getting kissed is wearing SHINY SHOES!” She was right. That little girl was wearing patent leather shoes and the scowling one had on ratty sneakers. My daughter identified with and focused on the attributes of the girl getting kissed. I promptly replaced my ratty sneakers with patent leather shoes. I rarely scowl anymore.

Growing older, not as much fun as it seems sometimes...

Sometimes it sucks to grow old. And I’m not talking about just the physical changes you go through that indicate you are moving past your prime. I recently had to get my first pair of reading glasses. That sucked but now I don’t get headaches from too much computer work or reading. I noticed in the mirror that I have developed what I call “old lady skin” right at the top of my cleavage. That happened overnight! One day I had really nice, lustrous, soft-as-a-baby’s-bottom cleavage skin. The next day, it was gone. I don’t’ have to describe it to you, you know what old lady skin looks like. And, I’m not talking about how when after a nice couple mile jog through the park, your knees rebel as if you’d just finished a 100-mile hike through the mountainous wilderness. No, the physical changes are well documented and are not really all that shocking when they happen. They are not necessarily welcomed but they do not shock you.

What sucks about getting older is that death becomes a larger part of your circle of experiences. In my 20s, it was a time for attending weddings, college graduations, baby showers and baby’s first birthday parties. I remember attending two funerals in my 20s and those were for elderly relatives on my husband’s side of the family. I had never met them. Their deaths were just events and didn’t affect my outlook on life. Death still seemed very far away.

However in my 30s and now 40s, the occurrence of death among people I know is becoming more frequent. I told my daughter that is what I hate the most about getting old, attending more funerals than baptisms. And with every funeral I attend, it brings into a sharper and crisper focus my own mortality. I don’t want to acknowledge that I will not live forever. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I won’t be here to laugh with my kids. I don’t want to acknowledge that someday I will no longer be able to dance tango or to love another person with my body and soul. I don’t want to acknowledge any of those things. It hurts too much.

A friend called me today with news that a friend of hers had died yesterday. Her friend was young and left behind three kids. My friend is in shock. Although she knew her friend was sick, she still was in shock. Death of a family member or friend no matter how prepared you are still seems too abrupt.

When my grandmother died this year, it was too sudden. She was 94 years old and had been having issues with not eating enough food, not being able to see well, not having anything to ‘live for’ anymore. I visited with her one Sunday afternoon and we just sat together on her red velvet chaise lounge. I held her hand and we talked. It was harder for her to talk because she couldn’t find the words as quickly as she wanted to. I could tell she hated that. She sighed to me that she wished it was all over. That she was ready. I held her hand and pleaded in a whisper “but I’m not ready for you to go, Grandma.” She squeezed my hand and said “I know.” I was not ready for her to leave me and not be a part of my life. I still wanted her to be happy for me when good things happened. I still wanted her to smile as she listened to my stories or saw my kids. I still wanted to hear her tell me about growing up and how she was so smart that she skipped several grades in school and graduated high school at 15. I still wanted her to tell me about being the first woman on the executive payroll when women were supposed to be staying home raising their kids. I wanted her to still be able to take us to the swimming pool and watch me jump off the high dive. I wanted her to still be able to play bingo with us. I still wanted to be able to hug her and smell her cologne. I didn’t want her to leave me. I was not ready.

We had a difficult few months trying to get her to move into another apartment or assisted living facility. Well, difficult is an understatement. It was an emotionally draining, frustratingly painful, hair-pulling, eyes-rolling, no roll-over minutes left on my cell phone couple of months. And it hurt. It hurt to fight to keep her alive when she was ready to go a long time before. It hurt because I didn’t understand why my grandmother would want to leave me, to leave us. It hurt because didn’t she know we were only doing what was in her best interests. It hurt. It just hurt.

And then on one Saturday afternoon in November at 3 p.m, the call came. Grandma had died. What? My sister repeated herself. “Grandma has died.” It took several minutes to sink in. Grandma had been in the hospital. My aunt was holding her hand and told her it was okay to go, that daddy (my grandpa) was waiting for her in heaven. And Grandma took three breaths and died.

And that was that. She was gone. And I’m here still wishing she were with me. Still wishing I could hear her sing “Meet Me In St. Louis”. Still wishing I could hold her hand.

Instead I have to heal from the loss. I have to go through all the steps of the grief cycle. I have to get older, accept it and grow up. And that sucks.

That Flippin' Bird!

Have you ever had to endure that phone call from another parent informing you of some error in judgment committed by your child? And you are stunned because you had not been told about it by your own kid and secondly because of the superiority transmitted in the voice of the other parent? Where you know that parent is making judgments about your parenting skills, your education, your class, your child’s worth? When you have to fight the urge to lash back at that parent’s arrogance and want to tell them that perhaps they have sheltered their child for too long and that it can be a big, mean world out there and when someone is feeling like they are being ganged-up upon, they usually lash out? And you know that your child has a good heart and is a kind kid and is going to grow up to be a fine adult? But that this parent is going to use this opportunity to declare to others how much better a job she is doing raising her children than you are? When all you can do is say thank you for bringing this to my attention and assure her it will be dealt with?

No? I didn’t think so. Me neither.

28-day Storm

I survive a 28-day storm every month. It starts out barely visible off beyond the horizon. As the days turn into weeks, the storm builds. My normal, staid focus becomes increasingly erratic with new thoughts arriving the instant another leaves. I begin to fill up inside with stories and ideas and philosophical ramblings. I am prolific in my output. I have to get it all out on paper. The storm rages on for another week and I’m riding it, exhilarated. I’ve got my mental surfboard in the rushing waters and we are taking every wave. I like what I write, what I think, what I see. I feel like there is no end to my abilities. I’m in my groove and it feels good. And then, suddenly, the storm ceases. And I’m left standing there wet, with my surfboard in hand and no waves to ride. And I can’t force any stories to come. I am empty, sad. I put my surfboard away and watch the dry horizon for any sign of the next storm.