Spring Funk: an Act of Complete Self Indulgence

I have been in a springtime funk. . .and then I get funky about feeling funky. I found out two days ago that it's normal for somebody quitting smoking; apparently your brain chemistry changes and when you don't get the consistent "pleasure" of cigarettes, the brain says, "hey. . . I need something good". . . sweets, writing like a banchee, talking to my family. . . ANYTHING that's satisfying. That's why I have no cravings for nicotine at work. It's simple; I like it. If you don't do the good stuff, then your brain says, "crawl into a little cave and stay there; sleep, then get mad at yourself for sleeping and being unproductive".

That has been the course of my more recent weekends probably helped along a little by genuine fatigue. That's what I call a "funk". Being a cancerian, that is my tendency according to the stars and moon anyway. There is enormous relief in knowing that I am not "overly" menopausal, having a "weak-willed" craving for chocolate chip cookies and ice cream drumsticks or just a middle-aged lady whose life is going downhill unless I find a puppy soon. I travel too much to get a pet anyway because it would not be fair to the doggy.

I also complicate funky days because I am genuinely optimistic and generally happy. They scrape against my natural tendencies like sandpaper on raw skin. I will escape this shell with the reassurance that I am not lazy, crazy or doomed to being a shut-in. I also found out that my knee is not broken, the ligaments and cartilege are in good shape, but I have a "bone bruise" that appears to have been caused by severe trauma. Yes, I alone whacked my knee on February 1st on my desk and would not recommend that swift and unconscious act to anyone:) I do not think that helps any because it is stressful to be in pain. And I do not want to forget what it feels like to be without it. Forgive me, but I guess this post is my self-indulgent "pleasure" for the night. Crab, crab, crab:)

Eastward Ho to A Hard Knocks Town

The girls and I had loaded our household belongings into cardboard boxes that would be dollied and heaved into a Bekins moving truck. I implored the drivers to please stop by my small office in the now disassembled building that stood as the former Department of Communication at University of Utah. In the chaos of moving, I had completely forgotten about my books. A beloved mentor, Mary Strine made a mad dash to help me in her sensible shoes, skirt and jacket. I had acquired a library over the past four years and would need all of it. Somehow as the Bekins guys finished hefting full cartons, Mary and I sealed the last box almost simultaneously.

I watched the long haulers drive away with nearly everything the girls and I owned, trusting we would find each other again at our final destination, 824 Forest Avenue, Evanston Illinois. It was a red brick third floor walk-up with a beautiful sunroom, bay windows, two and a half bedrooms and two baths. The girls had made the trip to Chicago with me to help pick out the apartment and see a bit of the city so that the transition would not lead them to an entirely unfamiliar place. We were less than a block away from Lincoln Elementary School, where the neighbor kids their ages would also attend.

The last evening in Salt Lake, I had been invited by my friends to participate in my one and only public go at Kareoke. Four years earlier my fellow grad students had invited me to a first night out. I surprised myself and everyone else who had just met me by hula hooping my way to a prize of unlimited, flowing champagne for my group. On the night of departure, I sang Supremes songs, complete with gestures, accompanied by my girlfriends. Unlike my entry into wild Salt Lake City night life, I didn't need much egging on because I had memorized that whole album full of lyrics at the age of thirteen. I had lived and died by "Can't Buy Me Love," "I Hear a Symphony," "Can't Hurry Love" and other great Motown records. I don't remember if it was because I had no other albums or it was the only one I liked.

We slept in our apartment that night, empty of all but ourselves, a few blankets and pillows and Sophie the bunny. I was confident about our drive because my Honda was in good shape, the girls were happy travelers, and Sophie the bunny would be contained by his cage and toys. We made our way eastward as far as Wyoming and stopped for the night, resting, eating and buying cheap audiotapes because we were sick of our music. We had heard Billy Idol's "White Wedding" one two many times, no matter how much I still love that song because it belongs to Steffie. Our choices were limited because of where we were, so we ended up with the Judds, InXS and John Cougar Mellencamp. In the next fourteen hours' drive, we would wear through those songs too, till they had no soles left.

The weather had cooperated with us through Wyoming, Nebraska, Iowa and most of Illinois until we were about five minutes' drive from our new address. The sky opened up with the greatest torrential downpour I had ever experienced. Fatigued, at the back end of a 14 hour drive, nearly blind from the sheets of water pummelling our windshield, and a little lost anyway, I hit a fork in the road that required a choice to go right or straight. I went right, but the police officer behind me believed I should have gone straight.

I learned that day that Chicago can be a hard-knocks town. The officer used his lights to pull me over and then kept me, my daughters and the bunny waiting in the pouring rain for approximately 45 minutes. When he approached the car, he asked me to turn over my driver's license, explaining that I would get it back when I appeared in court. I protested because I needed my identification to get the keys to my apartment, open a bank account, register the kids for school and to secure my employment contract. He then explained that I could pay him 70.00 to keep the license.

Completely naive to the special "ways" of Chicago traffic law, I did not agree to turn over my license and thought I was being bribed when he asked for money. As it turns out, a "ticketed" driver does actually turn over their license and "drives on a ticket" if identification is needed. As well, the only way to avoid driving on a ticket is to admit guilt then and there, pay the alotted fine and go on with your day. HOW WOULD I HAVE KNOWN THAT? I had Utah license plates, a bunny and two blond elementary age girls in the car, and have never been told I look like a hardened criminal. I may have looked a little haggard, but it could not have been that bad. Because I questioned his authority, I was invited to the local police precinct to work the matter out with a higher authority. I was able to keep my license and agreed to show up for a court date. When it came, the arrogant, bully officer actually showed up to argue the case. Once the judge heard what I had to say, she said, "no ticket, no fine, case dismissed". The police officer never got to say a word.

That was the day I learned that Chicago is a city that dishes out hard knocks, but also has a heart. The same person who is tailgaiting and honking their horn at you will once passing, notice you are lost and stop to help you find your way. The people on the street walk quickly, do not look you in the eye and seem detached. Actually they are being polite by staying out of your business unless you feel like engaging them. In a city with so many people, it is important to avoid causing minor annoyances and to give others space.

There is nothing that could have prepared me for living in Chicago except having grown up here. The weather is as extreme as it is changeable. The public transportation is excellent and you can get anywhere you want to go for a few dollars. Museums are free on Tuesdays. We have an aquarium, broadcast, sports, historical, science and black history museums. There is an architecture tour, a beautiful river, a lake that looks like the ocean. Every kind of public figure passes through here and many come from Chicago. President Obama, Rahm Emanuel, Ann Margaret, "Ross" from "Friends", Roger Ebert, Hilary Clinton, Vince Vaughan, John and Joan Cusack, Jeremy Piven, Gary Sinise (of CSI NY). Most Saturday Night Live comedians got their start with Chicago's Second City. Music emerges out of various "scenes" and genres here--Death Cab for Cutie, Smashing Pumpkins and nearly every great Blues artist. If you want it, you can find it; go to the Green Mill for jazz, Blue Chicago for Blues, places in uptown for local or hard rock, and to Ravinia in the summertime for the wine and cheese crowd.

We have award winning athletic teams in any sport you could imagine--Da Bears, Da Bulls, Da Cubs (Da S. .)--not a fan--da Hawks, da Fire, da Sky and the historic Wrigley and Soldier Fields. We are home to ESPN, NBC, Fox, WBBM, WTTW and Harpo Studios. We have a thriving theatre district that runs every good play that passes through Broadway and then some. There is an Art Institute that has famous paintings from Monet, Manet, Picasso, Renoir, and visiting exhibits of global importance. There is more to say, but the point is that with opportunity and cosmopolitanism comes difficulty, hard-edged rules, and a lot to remember.

Between November 1st and April 1st, I have to park on the east or west side of the street on Tuesdays and Thursdays between 8 pm and 7 after a two inch snow. During spring, summer and early fall, I have to park on the west side of the street on Tuesdays and the east side on Thursdays for street cleaning--that is, between the hours of 9 am and 4 pm. I need to buy my "city sticker" in addition to my car license registration in January. If I forget any of these things and/or do not see a sign, I will be ticketed, booted or towed--and I have had all of those things happen to me. I pay for parking to work at my job; I am able to get the "pay" in pre-tax dollars, so that is my reward.

If a person does not start out "ahead" in Chicago, it is difficult to "get ahead". It is possible to live a quality life, to experience wonderful things, to enjoy summer festivals that are free to the public and happen around town every day. However, it is also necessary to bundle up, pay attention to the weather and parking situation every day, to abide by changes in rules and become flexible in driving routes. It is common here for major construction projects to close down well driven roads, city blocks, or expressway off-ramps without warning. In the mornings, to avoid traffic jams, westbound lanes of the expressway are turned into eastbound lanes with only a few bright orange pilons. If you don't know this, you will wonder why others are going the wrong way in your "westbound" lane. But it's Chicago. . .

This is a land where they dye the river green on St. Patrick's Day, at any given moment in a grocery store line, you can ask another how the Bears or Cubs played and they'll know. It is a place of energy, vibrance, colleges, univerisites, tech schools, arts academies, formally educated people, corporate executives and good hearted working people who can all come together for a Cubs game at Wrigleyville, and it is difficult to tell who's who. That's Chicago, too.

Letting Go

There are at least two kinds of letting go. One ends with a bit of a whimper, a few fond memories, maybe embarrassment, mild indifference, genuine affection and no real hard feelings. A second requires time out, a shut and locked door or tightly closed box to hold in all that has been experienced. Real love gone by the wayside belongs in that place of containment for self protection and an ability to move along.

This is how I have learned to care for meaningful memories and the sacred parts of my life with others who are important to me when a time to say goodbye comes. I have wondered if I am afraid of intimacy and have come to the sensibility that I am not. I have fled to that place of safety that is solitary so that I can regroup, reflect and try not to impose my healing heart onto others. The second kind of letting go creates the pulse from which growth and learning is possible. I fail to find words to describe all that is in those tightly locked rooms of memories and maybe that is why I think of them as sacred, whether they are devastating or things that were a source of great elation and fulfillment.

Love is a big thing. And it is much more than a feeling. In his widely read book, The Road Less Traveled, Scott Peck argues that loving is about "doing"--being there even when you don't want to be, loving another even when they are not behaving in a lovable way, and making a choice to commit to making it through difficulties. "Doing" love means taking a partnership or parenting relationship seriously enough to choose to be there. Yet that gift of love becomes a kind of masochism for the tenacious one when another has already let him or herself loose from genuine commitment.

That is the tricky part. For me with family members, that commitment is lifelong. There is no question and no letting go. In relationships of choice, there is an everpresent opportunity to enhance or destroy what is there. While the same opportunity exists with familial ties, there is no good that can come from doing things that destroy relationships with people who will in the end, be the ones to lean on when everything else seems to be falling apart.

I have been loved unequivocally by certain people at my best and worst moments and hold those who have done so with a felt tenderness that is immeasurable. I believe these folks know who they are. I cannot explain what boils down only to an overly sentimental sounding description of a place where souls meet and I have been "known" by that other with pure acceptance. This is the best approximation of the experience I am trying to convey, but it is still inadequate and cheesy. Another way to put this is that they "get it" and show me love anyway. These gifts have come often enough at just the right times to allow me the freedom to let go when I have needed to. I don't know if I will figure out the rest of it, but knowing I have places to go where I am loved, accepted, enjoyed and appreciated makes life more meaningful than anything if all else from daily living is stripped away.

One Plus Two and Then Some

I hold my parents entirely responsible for providing me with a stable home, childhood, family and deeply rooted belief in each. I was "one" in the midst of five, and if they messed a few things up, the whole of it is good. My mother is responsible for digging tight fisted tentacles into the ground of Camarillo for eighteen years as I navigated small but significant dramas of childhood, adolescence and transition to adulthood.

She was the "ghost" of strength, meaning that the other four of us didn't give her enough recognition for her hard work, restraint at the right times and ability to say no. I hold my father responsible for my belief that men are good, caring, loyal, playful, happy, hard working and devoted. Both of them have always been there to pick me up when I skinned a knee or showed up with a shattered heart. But if I ever called broken-hearted, my father would immediately hail, "Doris, Bam's on the phone."

I was born with a little bit of my father's daily restlessness that led him to be on the move at all times. I inherited my mother's curvy build and laughter. Yet she was heavy-hearted (for good reason) and my father, light-hearted, while showing rare glimpses into tough territories he had managed to negotiate. My stubborness is a mirror of both of them. Another way to think about this is that I inherited hard wired tenacity, optimism and a distinctly maternal approach toward others. These have proven to be strengths and challenges over the course of my adult life. I have been gifted or burdened with a bit of wildness--a pioneering spirit full of leaping risks while simultaneously exercising a commitment to familial and economic stability and an ability to say no when it became clear to me that I needed to.

The last part of that sentence is important because I found saying no to be easy with toddlers, children, teenagers and students. I had fairly clear ideas. I had grown up on beaches in sand, and drawing lines was a matter of hunkering down, activating a finger and crafting that line. In other matters, that clarity confounded me or came late because times, places and persons were sprung out of that safe nest into a new familial structure of "One" plus "two".

I was the lone adult in a household of three females and felt responsible for teaching my daughters what I knew when I was making some of it up as I went along and trying to pass along lessons about what it means to be a lady of quality. I had learned these things from my mother, brother and his friends and other women in my family. Having been launched into a world outside of a nuclear one, I did what I could to protect that "three".

I remember driving in the car with the girls when at age five, Amanda asked me, "Mommy, where do the poor people live?" I came up with some answer that seemed to satisfy her, but at the time I was relieved that she did not think it was us. I had very little money, a long term plan and my own questions about whether or not I could actually get to a secure sense of completion.

As I carried out that plan, I met up with new friends and tested romantic interests along the way. It is not easy to date, hold a family together and carry out a long term plan for security to completion. I made my biggest compromises in the realm of dating, whether by expecting less than what I deserved, compartmentalizing that part of my life or getting myself into a deep hole that I had to climb out of. I was off the beach in deep waters that had their own tides, seasons and shorelines--murky, tangled, separated from or overwhelming solid ground. But the best way to get out of a bad current is to flow with it and give it time. At some point the current will weaken enough so that it is possible to swim away.

There was a thoughtful and artistic cabinetry craftsman rooted in my home county who knew better than I did how much I needed to carry out my trajectory when I left for Utah. He was my rebound, ten years my elder and probably knew it though I enjoyed his company, clever and earthy ways, guitar playing talents and the songs he sang. He had a house full of plants that looked like they'd been tended to lovingly, a giant album collection and his own wooden craftsmanship. He had also raised two boys by himself.

If he met the kids, it was as a friend who accompanied us to a Cal State Northridge softball game as I swung the bat, caught and threw balls and celebrated the completion of my M.A. Around the same time, a good looking Jewish guy took me roller skating and invited me to a home cooked gourmet dinner where he read Shakespeare aloud to me. We talked about life, teaching, classes and our dreams. These were both nice distractions from the mounting responsibilities I was taking on. I had preferred the man to the boy and am not disloyal to myself or another person, so I guess I learned the difference at that juncture.

In Utah, there was an Economics Ph.D candidate, father of one of Stephanie's friends whose wife had traded him and both of their Mormon upbringings for her secular Finance dissertation advisor. We were neighbors that should have remained friends who found comradery in our respective single parenting (he was raising his daughter). We had some good times, common political views and a shared dumpster where we unloaded our household trash. Those green dumpsters became a very awkward place when it became clear that he was rebounding and I was not interested in carrying his baggage along with mine. The weight of our relationship had been friendship that probably would not have deteriorated had we both not been naive enough to consider otherwise. A year into my graduate program he left for his position at UNLV and I was able once again to freely dispose of my household trash without social anxiety.

About three years later, he paid me a surprise visit as part of a twelve step program to make "amends" with me and admit his former alcoholism, which came to me as a huge shock for someone who had a beer with him once in awhile. Maybe it was the Mormon version of alcoholism. As of this day, his daughter is grown, he has added to his family and just recently married a third time. "They" always show up unexpectedly again.

I have never dated anyone who has not returned to the scene of our mutual "crimes". I am not sure if it is because of a genuine desire to see how I am doing, to see if they made a mistake, to see if I am interested in reuniting (that ship passes the first time it happens for me), to guage how I have "aged" or to determine how their "successes" measure up to mine. It is probably a combination of motivations, but amuses me and gives me reassurance that my choices were not altogether wacky or blind.

Still in Utah, a girlfriend set me up with an Argentine cellular molecular virologist, who was a friend of her boyfriend. We had a "double date" where I and my neighbor Geri cooked for the guys. Jose spoke to me sparingly throughout the evening, but then after the others left, became intensely interested. Put off by that, I shooed him out the door, not expecting to hear from him. He called me that week, asking me to lunch. I was not interested.

Yet he had a swagger in his walk, a broad, white smile, a fun accent and looked like a cross between Al Gore and Ray Romano at their best. I imagined a lunch could do no harm, so as we dined I explained that I was busy with my family, graduate studies and teaching. I had little room for much social life. I guess this deterred him for a couple months. One quiet New Year's Eve day when my kids were in California with their dad and his family, I decided I'd like to go skiing and he had left that invitation open. I called Jose against the best advice of my mother, who had always said I should never call boys. That phone call led to some great days in the snowy mountain landscape in Utah, great political discussions, lessons about how science and cooking are similar activities, my delicate consumption of several great Argentine dishes, dinners and breakfasts in little cafes up the Wasatch front, in Park City, trips in tandem to local music festivals and a relationship that I kept entirely separate from my daughters' lives.

After about two and a half years, he met them and we took a trip to the park together. He had grown up with four sisters and had great fun with the girls. That day may have been a turning point for both of us in distancing from each other. I was looking for jobs, then accepted my job in Chicago, and his boss's lab was moving to U.C. Irvine. He had to go with the lab and grant money that ensured his employment and U.S. residency status. He had been a veterinarian in Argentina, but loved science. He had prints of virus cells on the walls of his living room, subscribed to every science magazine out there and had a quirky love for the old t.v. show, Hogan's Heroes and British comedies. He loved Captain Klink. I loved Jose.

But I had found my first tenure track job after six long years in graduate school in two states qualifying myself for "the job" I was offered in Chicago. It was one of those crossroads that would have required radical sacrifice on both our parts to stay together. So I let the the land between us grow fallow and he didn't argue. He called me the week before I was to leave to take me out to dinner. He stood me up and then showed up on moving day with tears and embraces that I accepted because I got it and it was too late anyway.

I think of my years in Utah as the beginning of the middle of my life. I spent them launching a profession, learning to be on my own, not being so far away from my family that I could not get to them in a 14 hour drive or a short plane ride, and striving to create some stability in a family structure of one plus two. We would leave that way, having had some great fun, valuable experiences, having made lifelong friends and escaping just in time from a land of conservatism that would not have been good for my daughters once they reached adolescence. I had healed a bit, kept my dignity as a woman and found that the passions I had trusted that led me there in the first place were right-minded for creating a strong professional life. There were also choices and trade-offs as there are in any life when a crossroad is reached. I brought phase one of my long term plan for my family to completion and am proud of that.

Makin' me smile

I picked up my phone and knew from the 876 area code it was Jamaica calling. On the line I heard him singing to me in a recognizable voice that is never in tune, but always precise in its lyrics. The songs are usually 'oldies' but goodies from the 70's or 80's with a good island vibe. "Lady in Red. . . is dancin' wit me. . .cheek ta cheeeek". It makes me laugh because it is such a unique and charming gift of self to sing badly for another, know it and do it anyway. It takes a little swagger, confidence and internal happiness.

Every now and then I get real island reggae, "don't worry. . . bout a ting. . . cuz everlittleting's gonna be alright." I have heard that voice every day since last June and have come to rely on the rhythm and tempo of that sweet voice to make me smile. The songs come sporadically--we usually talk to each other--and I can say anything that's on my mind. He speaks earnestly and directly. In that, I think we are a little alike. Once in awhile I am greeted by a recording of someone else's song he likes but doesn't know the words to yet. Other times it's "what'sup sweetie?" "What's hapnin'?" "I'm in da kitchen cooooking fresh fish", or "I'm sittin' on da beach tinking 'bout ya".

Music, natural surroundings, fresh cooking, rum drinks or a little beer are staples of Jamaican life. Its simplicity is endearing and a reminder of how this woman living in a complicated city doing a complicated job requires more of me than what is most essential. Fresh air, music, beautiful landscape, sunshine and another's care.

They're moments I hold dear, that bring me joy and lighten everything in my world over thousands of miles, a satellite signal on a little pink handheld where I keep parts of my life--work e-mails, a phone book, random photos of my daughters, grandaughter, sunsets, my best girlfriend and other family members. It also carries ring tones that do not have an ounce of the same kind of charm. There is both swag and sweetness in that voice, gentle worry and kindness, optimism and or minor concern, "I can't reach you, what's up wit ja-girl?"

Before he had ever sung to me, he asked me to sing something for him. Stumped, resistant and nervous, I came up with "Silent Night" because it was one of the songs I used to always sing to my daughters. I figured I had nothing to lose. Mind you, it was June. I guess he liked it because he's still calling and still singing to me. Go figure:)

I am charmed. I am happy every time we talk. And we are in very different places with very different lives and miles away in other ways than geography. But one thing I have learned is that time gives answers; I am occupied, and everyone I know and care about has come into my life at that time for some reason because of something I needed to learn. I'm rolling with the moments, ring tones and charm because I have faith that there is a lesson in his joyful perseverance, clever charm and my ability to just be. Me.

Patience

I know a lot of patient people, and I am not one of them--at least that is not my natural inclination. I could write a list of all the people I know who tend to be naturally comfortable in waiting, beginning with my mother. It's a double-sided quality, useful, good for those who are consistent and tenacious, mature, generous, accepting and generally calm.

Patience is a skill I have had to learn over and over again. To be professional in my work, I cannot choose to be otherwise. It is an exercise in restraint with other people, despite how wrong, outrageous or petty I may think a situation is. Writing calls for a different kind of patience--the tenacity to start an engine, keep it going and drive somewhere without a map if you want to say anything worth saying. Then there is the matter of completion; one cannot be too patient to actually bring a project to its close.

Then there is the patience required in waiting for an outcome. This is probably my greatest challenge because outcomes are never immediate, may not be clear when they do happen, or may not make themselves apparent at all until long after something has been accomplished.

My father's general inclination is not to be patient about certain things--fixing a problem, addressing a situation that needs attention, and so on. I think these are positive qualities because at the age of 77, he is always doing something. There is a certain tenacity in that. This is what confuses me about patience.

I have more I'd like to say about this confusion and maybe shouldn't even post such an incomplete set of thoughts, but maybe that's the point. I wonder about how others are inclined to think where patience is concerned and what matters most to be patient about. So maybe I'll leave this question hanging. . . hmmmmm.

I Am Not Superwoman

I have always held myself to high expectations--probably unreasonably high, and having children only increases what a woman expects of herself whether she works in or outside of the home. Women of current living generations are subject to the histories of our mothers and grandmothers. We hold ourselves to standards of cleanliness when life and nutritional needs create cycles of meal making, diaper and linen changing, keeping clean towels for all in the household and setting standards for dressing, hair hygiene and so on. If you add up the minutes of the day those seemingly small tasks take, those seconds of effort turn into hours of labor.

Every mother figures out how to do that, making choices about what to bring to standards of near perfection and what to hide in closets, storage spaces or garages when others come over. At some point we figure out our compromises and the things about which no compromise is possible. This is but one example of the daily labor of mothers and wives who ensure the household has something for all to eat, that cars have gas in them, that dry cleaning is picked up, there is cash on hand for things that need to be purchased, mail is handled, and others from that household at least appear as if they have a mother or wife.

I never compromised on my daughters' clothing. When they were babies, they were bathed and clean, as children, dressed tastefully (though they may disagree with some of my choices:), and as teenagers, allowed the creativity to dress themselves as long as (and these are my words. . .) nothing looked "hoochie". I am proud that my daughters held themselves to those standards and do so today.

I may have compromised on certain mealtimes and cooking is not a great passion of mine. Still, dinner was our time to come together. We sat around our kitchen table, whether we were having a home cooked meal or taco bell. One time Amanda told a friend of mine who was making pancakes from scratch about the wonderful microwave pancakes her mom made. I was pretty embarrassed, but guess since she liked them, in retrospect it was okay. As the girls became teenagers, it got harder to find those times when we could all come together, but all else failing, Sunday evening was our time to share a meal. A kitchen table is important, and we made Christmas meals, gifts, and wrapped presents on it, created celebratory moments with cakes or bowls of fresh fruit and made time to be with each other.

I also tried never to compromise on showing up for the kids' various events. This meant being there for flute and oboe competitions, making sure they had homespun Halloween costumes, going to school open houses, parent-teacher conferences, swim meets, plays, holiday concerts, dance concerts, LaCrosse games and every other kind of childhood activity that meant something to my daughters. Some of my favorite memories are driving them at five a.m. to swim practices four days a week. Each of them somehow decided to be chatty in the car with me with their respective turns at that activity. It taught me that when I had one daughter alone in the car, they would talk about themselves and the things that concerned them. This place of conversation continued to be a way to find one or the other alone at times and to give each of them my undivided attention at least some of the time. I used to take detours and drive the long way around. They probably noticed, but never complained because I think they enjoyed it too.

There were times I had to compromise. I missed an oboe concert once and had enlisted my friend Phil to be there for Steffie so that she would have someone in her audience. I enlisted the help of my friend Chris to watch Stephanie while I taught a class when I was in grad school. She persistently asked him to take her to the drinking fountain, which had a coke machine next to it. At about the fifth request, she asked again for him to take her and lift her up; he gave her a look that showed his displeasure at her repeated requests, and she replied, "well if you buy me one of those sodas, you won't have to lift me up anymore".

I can't remember if he complied, but it was apparently what she had wanted all along. She always loved vending machines and what seemed like the magical appearance of a treat for a few coins. Steffie was sick one day, so I left her for an hour in our apartment in University of Utah student family housing. She was young to be left alone, but it was a fairly safe place and my friend Joni was going to be there all morning two doors down to check on her. I left Joni's phone number with Steffie, who called her. She sat silent on the line, and Joni asked, "what are you doing?" Steffie replied, "watching Flipper". "Do you need anything, Steffie?" Steffie answered, "got any cheese?". Those are the funny and heart wrenching episodes that stand out in the mind of this mother more than any time I could be there for my daughters.

Amanda came home one day with news that she had "won" a bunny. This beautiful little german lop eared fuzzball had hopped toward her in a circle of kids sitting indian style. It was fate and she was to have that bunny. I consented and the bunny came home with us and traveled through several states from Chicago to Utah in the car with us. Amanda named her Sophie till we found out the bunny was a boy because of his demonstration of natural male habits on top of a small teddy bear that lived in the cage with him. We changed the name to Sophocles, but never call the bunny anything but Sophie. It seemed like when other kids came over, that was the time that Sophie went into his embarrassing display of natural instincts. I never said too much about it and the kids just laughed.

Another time Amanda came home one day with a cow's lung. I am not kidding--a real, red, straight-out-of-a-butchered cow's body. They were studying biology in her third grade class, and she brought home this red-stained, thick clear plastic bag with the lung inside it. It was about twice the size of a rib roast and ugly as hell. She was supposed to dissect it and at the time I was shocked and taken aback at what she was doing at school because she seemed happy with her teacher. I called my friend Barb, who had a background in biology to see if she might come and help. She came over that evening and took Amanda through the technical lessons of dissection and parts of the lung. Apparently Amanda's teacher lived in a rural area of town with farm animals and clearly I had NOT been paying enough attention to what she was doing in school. I didn't like it and called the teacher the next day to ask her about it and politely request that she consider the age of my child. Amanda seemed unaffected by it, but she always did. She was the bravest child I had ever met. While she may have had fears and pain, most often as a young child, she behaved as if nothing phased her.

I can remember one important time when she gave me enough information to go to bat for her. Amanda was showing the space where she had lost a tooth to a girl her age(that I swear to this day was a bad seed if there is such a thing, and I am convinced there is). Tiffany took her fingernail to it and pressed hard. I was so angry that she could have done such a thing that I talked to the after school care teachers and Tiffany's mother. Tiffany has probably wrought havoc on all she has met by this time in her life, but I am so proud that both of my daughters have learned to be thoughtful and caring people, and Amanda a wonderful mother.

There is nothing worse than watching your child suffer the more painful growth experiences of childhood, and there are some times it is necessary to step in. On the other hand, there is nothing more rewarding than seeing your children rise to challenges and feel proud of themselves--making a work of art, a wooden step stool, a ceramic turtle, their first sewing project, being in their first play, riding that bike without training wheels, riding a scooter, skating down the sidewalk on roller skates, helping pitch a tent, taking a five mile hike with you in the middle of nowhere, roasting a marshmallow, having their art displayed publicly.

Having had two very different children, Steffie needed little nudges into a world toward other kids her age, and Amanda needed mysterious things that often came to me after-the-fact, and as well, the reins pulled on her radical willingness to run into adulthood. When she was two, five, ten and fifteen, she spoke as if she was an adult herself. She carried on conversations as if she were any adult's equal while still having the experiences of childhood all around her. When she learned to ride a bike, it was in her grandparents' cul-de-sac on a little green stingray her grandfather had bought her. She didn't start like most kids with wobbly fear and panicky feet. She started behind the neighbor's hedges at an incline only to appear at top speed toward the end of the cul-de-sac with mother, grandparents and sister hollering at her to come back.

That is one of the most indelible imprints in my memories of Amanda's childhood--fearless, speedy, wind blowing her hair as she steered the bike, looking back at all of us as she waved happily, somehow confident that her hands on the bars would take her where she needed to go while everyone else held their breath till she turned the bike confidently back to safety. My view of Amanda has always been one of awe for her courage, strong-willed independence and apparent fearlessness.

Each of us has our strengths and challenges. We also have areas of necessary compromise and lines drawn where no compromise is advisable. At the same time, we are subject to human limitations, what we know at the time and individual growth and change. My daughters helped me grow and I witnessed theirs, always hoping I was guiding them insightfully, allowing them to be who they were and never forgetting the imprints of their lives on mine. I miss them every day. I love them every day. I want the best for them every day. I hope they are happy every day. And I am not sure I will ever let go of the maternal inclination to save them from suffering or hope they understand my dedication to them. In the end, though, I would like them to know that as "super" as they are that they too have limitations, will have to choose their compromises wisely and draw lines for themselves where no compromise is acceptable. Happy Easter, Amanda and Steffie.

Changing Shape

At the Dr's office yesterday I sat across from a woman who had probably attended a Good Friday sermon. She had on a straw hat, tan skirt, jacket, thick support hose and orthopaedic shoes. Her ankles were thicker than the top of her calves and she sat primly with her purse in her lap. Her face was so strong and weathered it could have been on Mt. Rushmore, but her body was a little stooped and frail. That face could have carried any body through another several years. It had the hardness of a strong man's face and wisdom of a woman's.

I wondered when my ankles will be wider than the top of my calves and if I will be as strong when I reach what I guessed were her nineties. She was accompanied by a daughter or niece who I imagined was about my age or younger. She was dressed for church, still soft, round and tightly packed in all the right places as she guided her elder with the utmost care. The woman holding her up may have had youth on her side, but the woman in her nineties was clearly the strongest person in the room.

We smiled at each other, chatted a bit and wished each other a Happy Easter as she departed and my name was called. The imprint of her face must have touched many people as it did me. I mused about her and the cycle of life all day.

As a young girl, I was always critical of my body, which was too chubby, too round and even when I tipped the scale at an ideal weight, I was never happy with it. That is, until I had my children. In my early to late thirties, I had a body I was proud of because I thought it had done something remarkable, so the minor stretch marks I got from two consecutive pregnancies and my changes in shape morphed into a new attitude from self-criticism to genuine acceptance. I carried that attitude with me from that time forward, despite number gains and losses on that dreaded scale. I don't think I have lived a single day since I was thirteen that I have not thought about my need to maintain a healthy, mobile body. Whether or not I do anything about it is an entirely different story. I can remember laying on the couch watching a Jane Fonda workout tape.

I have had periods of time where I walked an hour and a half every morning with hand weights and a heart monitor on to make sure I was at the ideal number for burning calories with no results. At other times, I've slimmed down without any changes in habit. I have "plateaus" that hit about every decade and my body has "failed me" or I have failed it in significant ways. I am less focused on size than health, and becoming a smaller size has never been a motivation for exercise or eating right. Activity (whether you call it exercise or training)helps a person's mood, energy level, internal health and overall attitude toward getting dressed in the morning. I have had very real medical issues, weather conditions and occupational interferences that have affected my level of interest and motivation for doing the right things every day even though I think about how essential it is to actually do it.

Yesterday, I tried on a pair of jeans and my behind looked pretty good in that rear view mirror. Somehow the structure of the denim and cut of the britches were kind to me. Then I tried on a pair of light gray cotton sweats and the mirror told a different story. I have acquired one of those bottoms that women in their fifties get. There are valleys in the middle, hills at the hip level and pouches of sand at the creases by my legs. I wondered when I got this butt.

I've been feeling it coming on, but somehow what used to be a peach shaped body part has morphed into something that looks more like a pear--not even a good shaped pear, but one that has been cut in two with a flatness at the center and the contours I have described. I am not surprised, but it was somehow an unexpected sight to join the ranks of middle aged women who are identifiable in large part by the shape of their booties.

I am honestly not that vain. I would rather have good looking skin, a face that conveys a youthful attitude and be energetic and mobile than to have the perfect body for someone at my stage of life. I have never particularly worried about wrinkles and there are easy coloring solutions for gray hair. I figured those are signs of life I have earned with my own sweat and blood and a little bit of help from others. But I miss my big, peachy butt. It is so ironic because it is the part of my body I never liked, always wished was smaller, yet over the past several years I've taken comfort in it because it balances out my top heaviness.

No matter how big or small I've been, I have always been proportionate and thank good genes for that little blessing. Yeah, my legs are shorter and stumpier than I would like them to be; in fact, I am shorter than I would like to be, but have seen this world from my barely five-foot-two place and cannot imagine seeing it from any higher. I am now intensely aware that sitting at this computer is flattening my butt even more.

Maybe my entry into "rehab" will be an entry back into a fitness routine that will work for me. A long time ago I had a neck injury and the treatment consisted of getting hooked up to a traction machine and getting some kind of ultrasound therapy to stimulate nerve conduction. A few years ago, I injured my back and the treatment was to get on a treadmill and do stomach and yoga ball exercises, all of which were entirely unexpected--you mean your therapy is to make me exercise? It worked, though. Physical therapy had come a long way from "treating" a passive patient.

I will find out Monday at noon what is in store for "knee rehab". It would be nice to heal this thing and maybe get an exercise routine out of the deal. And maybe a more peachy butt.

Spring Rehab

It snowed in Chicago last week. The last two days have been hot enough to open windows and sport flip flops down the sidewalk. I still am not walking well, but my pink painted toes will be free for a few days.

Working for a Jesuit institution means that Good Friday and Easter Monday are official holidays. It is remarkable what two extra days can mean in the life of a nine to fiver when there is no division of labor. Today I made health care rounds, getting routine but necessary blood tests and scheduling physical therapy appointments. I gambled on some nine dollar hair spray--it's the sort of thing I use rarely, but this brand's claim to fame is "brushable, flexible hold". I hope that doesn't mean it won't work. I found a ten dollar cute slouchy cotton bag for the no-show socks and yoga knickers I will wear to knee "rehab". I should have had the blood draw in February and had I started physical therapy six weeks ago, I might be done with it. I am still wrapping this knee each morning and wearing flats for office days.

This spring rehab goes well beyond my knee and this new blog template, which is lighter than the last one that looked like the pages of a dark, dusty book, which it probably is. If anyone's been reading, I have more than a couple unarticulated experiences in me, but like this new template, they will come in dots, light and dark placed gently around these pages.

I am still struggling with disorganization of time. It is a tranquil hour, four in the morning and I haven't been to bed yet. I watched a cute but meaningful "coming of age" movie and an indie film that was a lot like watching a bad accident that you can't take your eyes off of. Sometimes I feel that if I sleep I will never wake up. That is how tired everything inside me is. A sensible person would say, then "go to bed!" In some things I am sensible, but "doing" time is a gritty challenge. If I don't feel I've accomplished much during the day, I think if I just stay up late enough, I will do so in the wee hours of the night. Sometimes I am successful in that, and it is a learned habit that is dying hard.

I spent much of my life doing homework, studying for Ph.D exams and wirting my dissertation after the babies, then kids were in bed. I wrote papers, graded papers, prepared classes and worked on my tenure portfolio after teenage phones and doorbells had stopped ringing and I found a quiet time and place to think. They went to bed later, which meant I was up later. Doing so has meant eighteen years of employment security. I never knew how much that would mean in unstable times, but I do now.

I do not keep my own calendar anymore. Doretha does it for me and I look at four hour increments to see where I need to be for the next meeting, classroom observation, lecture, gentle finger wagging with a student or "sit-down" to discuss next semester's schedules--all thirty teachers, prerequisites, classrooms, and some hundred and fifty classes. The coordination that calls for is an exercise in gymnastics or completing a Rubic's cube. Fall 2010 is already here and I am barely into my second day of a free pink toes spring.

Easter has always signalled the beginning of warmer, longer days and my new bathing suit for the year (which went by the wayside about the time I stopped wearing bikinis). It also often meant a family camping trip to get some fresh air and forget about everything. My heart is in too many places right now, so that, this exceedingly busy end of semester crunch and my bum knee lead to travel paralysis. It's a mild version of Sophie's choice. I did have a good conversation with someone who's important to me and felt a weight lifted for now that everything is as it should be, and I am happy about it.

It is now five a.m. and I will set the alarm for noon. Heaven forbid I should be lazy on what is supposed to be a lazy weekend. So I will allow myself those seven hours of sleep and see if I can get "it" done tomorrow.