Motherhood and Daughterhood

So I just reread White Oleander by Janet Fitch, a book which I really adored the first time I read it and which I probably enjoyed even more this time around. It's about mothers and daughters and becoming yourself and all the people who teach you about yourself along the way. The first time I read it I was still embroiled in my confused feelings about my own mother (I'm still not sure where we stand exactly, but I finally told her the truth about how she has hurt me, so at least we are moving on to a new frontier), but now I AM a mother of a daughter and it just steeled my resolve to be an unselfish mother. I don't expect to be perfect of course, and I am certain that my daughter will have issues with some aspect of my personality and/or parenting, but I know for certain what I will NOT be: I will not be unkind, critical or self-centered (the reader should not assume that my own mother is any or all of these things. The mother in White Oleander is all of them, as I suppose many mothers are to some extent). I will not tell her "I-told-you-so" because I know that there is no need for that conversation. The daughter knows when her mother was right and doe not need to be reminded. I will not guilt her on purpose or make her feel responsible for younger siblings (should we be blessed with another child someday) and I will not try to make her be like me.
But besides all that, there was a particular passage that really stuck with me this time. I hope the author will forgive my reprinting of her work here without written permission, but it must be shared with anyone who has not yet read this amazing book. (And don't bother with the highly forgettable film version. Michelle Pfieffer was good, as always, but she is NOT Ingrid.)
OK. So the part I am quoting is from pages 402-404 and takes place when Astrid accompanies her friend, a teenage mother, to the hospital to give birth:

"I didn't know why she would call for her mother. She hated her mother. She hadn't seen her in six years, since the day she locked Yvonne and her brother and sisters in their apartment in Burbank to go out and party, and never came back. . . . And still she called out, Mama. . . . It wasn't just Yvonne. All down the ward, they called for their mothers. Mommy, ma, mom, mama. Even with husbands at their sides, they called out for mama. Nine hours ago, when we came in, a woman with a voice like a lye bath alternately screamed at her husband and called for her mother. A grown woman sobbing like a child. Mommy . . . I was embarrassed for her. Now I knew better. . . . But then I realized, they didn't mean their own mothers. Not those weak women, those victims. Drug addicts, shopaholics, cookie bakers. They didn't mean the women who let them down, who failed to help them into womanhood. . . . bingers and purgers, women smiling into mirrors, women in girdles, women on barstools. Not those women with their complaints and their magazines, controlling women, women who asked, what's in it for me?Not the women watching TV while they made dinner, who dyed their hair blond behind closed doors trying to look twenty-three. They didn't mean the women washing dishes wishing they'd never married, the ones in the ER, saying they fell down the stairs, not the ones in prison saying loneliness is the human condition, get used to it.

They wanted the real mother, the blood mother, the great womb, mother of fierce compassion, a woman large enough to hold all the pain, to carry it away. What we needed was someone who bled, someone deep and rich as a field, a wide-hipped mother, awesome, immense, women like huge soft couches, mothers coursing with blood, mothers big enough, wide enough, for us to hide in, to sink down to the bottom of, mothers who would breathe for us when we could not breathe anymore, who would fight for us, who would kill for us, die for us."

Now what can I add to that? A whole lot of nothing, except for a statement and a question: 1) I really want to be the second sort of mother, and 2) How long did it take for Janet Fitch to write that passage? Did it just flow out in one sitting after years of thinking it through? Did she write and rewrite it, struggle, read aloud, cut, paste, pare, expound? I wonder.

Accidental Shot

I took this picture on the Seattle trip, on our first visit to the Woodland Park Zoo, which is by far the best zoo I have ever been to and may be the best zoo in the country. Anyhoo, I was trying to get the odd salt-and-pepper-shaker sculpture in the foreground in focus, but since I am not a photographer by any means and I just use what I now know is referred to as a "point and shoot" camera and I don't even really know how to use it that well, I failed in that attempt. But, I am kind of glad that I did fail, now that I really look at this picture. What is in focus is the group of girls having lunch with someone's mom and brother in the background. There's more of a story there than in that bronze tableware. For example, one wonders what they are all looking at. Is it the black backpack with the yellow lining that is leaning, unzipped, against - well, what is it leaning against? And why is it open? And who does it belong to? Or, is there something further on that has caught all their attention at once? One wonders. It's fun to think about.

On Being a Writer, An Incident at Dinner, and Being Hungry for More Than Brownies

I am not sure I have the energy for an essay tonight. I prefer to write posts like that, complete pieces of writing, not just seeping of thoughts or emotions (or worse - a blundering toward some realization that stays just out of reach until I just give up and quit writing). Of course, sometimes the blundering is all I can muster, and while as a writer I find these kind of posts to be rather unsatisfying, as a person, I need them. That's why I started this thing in the first place, as a diary of sorts, with the titillating possibility that someone, somewhere might actually read what I have written. In this way, I can fancy myself an actual writer - if someone besides a teacher or professor reads what I have written. A writer needs readers, it stands to reason :). And, I think that my writing has improved with the knowledge that there are actually a couple of people out there reading it. I hope so, anyway.
So, ridiculously-long-introduction-that-is-pretending-not-to-be-an-introduction concluded, I dive into a couple of things that are floating around in my mind.
I had a lovely dinner with my husband and Baby Girl tonight. We go out for dinner as a family a couple of Sundays a month (fewer now that we bought the LV house, but I'll go into that at some later date - long story short, we are paying two mortgages and have less going-out-to-eat money) now that Francesca is old enough to enjoy the experience with us. Francesca is the only reason I am even telling this story, because something funny/gross/potentially disastrous happened, but turned out OK. First of all, we went to a nicer restaurant than usual just because my husband had the hankering to drive us there instead of to one of our usual lovely middle-of-the-road (boy, am I in love with hyphens tonight, or what?) places. So we are at this upscale-ish brewhouse/restaurant and I order Artichoke Heart Portobello Pesto Fettuccine (yes, it was as good as it sounds, maybe better), and Hubby orders Prosciutto-Wrapped Halibut and a basket of fries, which hardly seems to warrant capitalization, for an appetizer/something we know the baby will eat. So we start with the fries and Francesca of course eats quite a few, with more than ample ketchup, in a matter of just a couple of minutes. So, I don't know if it was because she ate them so quickly, of if she overdosed on ketchup, or if it was something else entirely, but she threw up those fries and that ketchup. Right there at the table. But, I am proud to say that I, Supermom (momentarily) caught all of those fries and all of that ketchup, in the fine linen napkin. Not a drop hit the table or even her bib. I am sure that the lady at the table behind me got a show she wasn't counting on, but everything was OK. Francesca didn't cry, I wrapped that napkin right inside another and warned the waitress (who has an 18-month-old herself so didn't bat an eye), and we went on with our meal. It was beautiful.
Well, as beautiful as it could be.
So this brings me to my next musing.
I didn't finish the ample serving that the restaurant served and brought home the leftovers for lunch tomorrow. Fine. That's normal. And since we went to the bookstore after dinner and got home at about 9:00 we relaxed for a little bit and then started getting ready for bed, leaving out my usual 9:00 snack. Again, normal. But, by 12:00 I was starving and by 1:00 the protein drink just wasn't cutting it and I had a brownie. Now the reason I even have the protein drink is that a friend who is a personal trainer suggested I keep it on hand for just this reason, as she says most people don't lose weight because they don't eat enough protein and are therefore hungry for carbs. OK. Intellectually I understand all of that, but here is my problem: even with the extra protein, I CANNOT KEEP MYSELF FROM EATING THE CARBS! I swear I am addicted to sugar. I do not WANT to be fat, but I just feel like I am drowning in a lifetime of bad habits. My family didn't eat well or exercise at all - my dad just lost 185 pounds in the last year because his doctor pretty much told him to get gastric bypass surgery or he would die. But that doesn't help me at all. I am nowhere near big enough for that kind of thing, and Weight Watchers just isn't enough for me. I sit in that meeting after starving all week to lose a couple of pounds and when the arguably well-meaning and sincere meeting leader says "Remember - Nothing Tastes as Good as Being Healthy Feels," I want to punch her in the face. Yes it does. Have you had a brownie? It tastes good. Better than a lot of things. Anything, maybe. And artificial sweetener is poison. And fat-free anything that is not naturally fat-free, like say, a potato or some strawberries, is nasty. But. Something. Has. Got. To. Give. And I'm pretty sure it's me. Because look - and this is the honest truth - I do not want my daughter to grow up feeling the way I do. I do not want her to hate her body. I do not want her to not want her husband to see her naked (even though I don't really want to think about her getting married yet and he will love her no matter what, the way her father does me). I don't want teenage boys to call her "fatass" in the street when they think she can't hear them. I don't want her to have to win people over with her sparkling personality or sense of humor or can-do attitude (though I want her to have all of those things too, I want her to be able to make a good first impression in those three or ten or however many seconds most people size-up strangers). I don't want her to feel trapped inside an overweight, lazy body and blame herself for myriad shortcomings every day. I want better for her, and the only way I can teach her anything, including this, is to show her. But how do I get over the overwhelming hunger? What am I hungry for and how to I satisfy that so I stop eating? Not entirely, you know, just enough to be thin-ish. Sigh.
P.S. I don't really want to punch the Weight Watchers lady in the face. She's nice. Maybe I just want to scream. Or cry. Or sleep a decent night's sleep two nights in a row sometime.

this is not a poem about michael jackson. it just looks like one.

i am desperately sad that michael jackson died.
i am sad that his life was so hard.
i've always felt an affinity for him.


besides his glorious music.


he always seemed so soft inside.
i am too.
he had a mean dad like i did.
we were both jehovah's witnessess when we were kids.



for some reason his dying is making me want to make up with my mother.


even though she's still a witness and kindof mean.


i think she might have done her best.





i hope he's in heaven.




(photo from virginmedia.com)

Grandmother's House

It took about 25 minutes to get from the Sea-Tac airport to Grandmother's house in the Green Lake area of Seattle. Actually, Grandmother, Aunt Liza, and Uncle Jim and Aunt Chris (who was gracious enough to get up early on her day off to pick us up) all live within a few blocks of each other in a neighborhood called Phinney Ridge, which is a beautiful city neighborhood of mostly 1910-1920s working-class (originally - now they are all worth $800,000 to ???) homes.

Grandmother's house is seafoam green with an overgrown garden and a garage underneath around back.
The floorboards creak, most of the windows are either painted shut or WAY too heavy to open, the baseboards are about 8 inches tall and the built-in buffet is Craftsman style (see last picture this post). In short - I love it. All of the moulding and inside doors are painted bright white, and the walls are various pastel shades which really set it off.

The cotton muslin curtains that my Aunt Liza made (probably in a matter of 45 minutes, knowing what a seamstress she is) are white, the lace shades are white, the bedding is white. The kitchen floor is a black-and-white checkerboard of 12-inch tiles, save one spot right in front of the sink, where damaged tiles were replaced with generic pale oatmeal heather tiles and the pattern is out of order. Every time I saw it I was dying to paint that one tile black to set the world right again. But alas, it isn't my house and Grandmother's landlord certainly doesn't care about such things.

My grandmother keeps her dry goods in jars- on the counter, on the island, in the cabinets. It's really quite convenient and beautiful.

All the furniture, except for the devastatingly comfortable beds (which are new), and the sofa (which is only 20 years old), are antiques of some vintage or another. They work together beautifully. The bathroom has a clawfoot tub that is white on the inside and burgundy on the outside and so much deeper than a regular tub. All of the fixtures and most of the doorknobs are original. The fireplace works.

This is a great house.

A Tale of Two Airports

Francesca and I are back from our lovely trip to sunny Seattle (no, I am not being sarcastic - it was sunny and hot the entire time we were there and even reached 90 on two days). It was a fantastic trip. We stayed with my grandmother and saw all of my aunts and uncles who live there quite a bit while we were there. (I started writing up the trip while we were still there because the sleepless nights follow me everywhere. I am seriously considering going to the doctor about it, but I will wait until there is something else going on as well, since I have already been living with it for so long. There's no need to waste a deductible.) Anyhoo, here is the first of my posts/essays/accounts of the trip:

Lou came into the airport with us, and thank goodness, because he remembered to ask the desk agent if there were any extra seats on the plane, something I was too busy being terrified of flying to think about. Turns out there were extra seats, and so she moved us to the very back row. (More on that to follow.) It also turns out that she happens to have the exact same Coach bag as I have (I know I am really becoming a hopeless bore about the bag, but it is absolutely the nicest fashion item I have ever owned and I love it), which, coupled with the fact that her niece has the same name as my daughter, made us instant friends. She also checked our 44 pound suitcase without commenting, which was nice of her, since I was rather embarrassed about packing such a big bag (but hey, clothes are heavy, and I WAS packing for two).

After check-in, I had a Green Tea Latte from Starbucks, which was nowhere near as good as I had expected it to be. Oh, and the temperature was pretty much volcanic, and I had to reach over the counter and get my own paper sleeve-thingy because the guy was talking to his friend instead of offering any customer service whatsoever. That reminds me - I hate Starbucks. Not because they are a cultureless behemoth of a company that represents the arrogance and self-absorption that annoys me about Americans(myself included, to be fair), but for three simple reasons that are by no means as political or noble as all that. No. I hate Starbucks because 1) their coffee tastes burnt no matter how you order it; 2) their prices are just plain stupid - $3.55. $4.10. - come on people - haven't you heard of quarters? Annoying; and 3) their uniforms. I hate them. Listen, baristas are supposed to have dreadlocks (or at least really mod asymmetrical haircuts) and tattoos and something way more interesting to do than make me a cup of coffee with extra sugar and milk, though they do that anyway, I presume in order to fund their art or music or college degree. Baristas are NOT supposed to wear bright green aprons that match their visors. In fact, they aren't supposed to wear visors at all. OK, well now I feel better about that.

After about 15 minutes of goodbyes with Daddy, Francesca and I got in line for security. The man directly behind us was either running late or just kindof a jerk because he impatiently informed me that it was my turn before my brain even had a chance to register the nearly imperceptible hand motion that the guard made to indicate that I was to step forward with my ID at the ready. The same guy was still/again behind me at the X-ray machine (there were 2 - why didn't he just go to the other one? I obviously had a baby with me and would require an additional 40 seconds to go through the line), audibly annoyed that I was apparently removing my baby's shoes, blanket, jacket and stroller at a glacial pace. (I was, in fact moving as quickly as possible under the circumstances.) "Can I just go ahead?" he asked the X-ray officer, who simply ignored this, as well as his demand to know "Where are my shoes?" while his shoes were clearly still being X-rayed. At this point she gave me a wink, which I interpreted to mean People come to the airport and lose their minds. Good call, TSA lady. In any event, she did NOT let him jump ahead or get his shoes until I had a chance to get my bag, so Ha ha, ya big bully!

It did take an extra couple of minutes to clear security after X-ray, since she then had to hover a tiny strip of paper over the baby's juice to be sure that liquid explosives do not now come in an Ocean Spray grape-cranberry variety. Personally, I really don't mind this level of security, as long as the agents are pleasant. It's called living in a Society. I am FOR collective safety. (And also manners.)

I made the requisite stop at Hudson News for a $2.49 bottle of water and, fortunately, a Time magazine with Michelle Obama on the cover. Lovely Michelle. I have to admit that during the campaign I wasn't feeling Michelle as much as I was feeling the President. I just couldn't read her. Now I have decided that she was guarded, and has now let down her guard. And I am very glad she let us in, because she is a dazzling woman. But I digress.

We boarded close to first with the other families with babies, went all the way to the back row and discovered that not only were we conveniently close to the bathrooms, my $5.00 mileage reward ticket had bought me 3 seats in all, a total value of around $1800.00. Nice. We sat across the aisle from a sweet, bookish 14- or 15-year-old girl names Mikayla and her parents (who slept the whole flight, while she read by the paltry light coming from the stewardess' alcove. She was kind to Francesca and wore beautiful long earrings.)

Thankfully, Francesca slept for the first couple of hours and was patient for the remaining hour-and-a-half. (Not so much on the return trip, but that's a story for another night.) We landed a bit before 5 am and by the time I seriously considered (but then decided against) a greasy breakfast from the Seattle Airport Burger King and made my way to baggage claim, all of the other passengers had claimed their bags (maybe I was deliberating for longer than I thought) and ours was sitting off to the side, with the car seat, ready to go. No one offered to help get them onto a cart (I guess they don't do that anymore), but years of playing Tetris finally paid off, as I was able to arrange and balance the (again, giant - I'm not kidding) suitcase, fold-up stroller, diaper bag, car seat, purse and oh, yeah, Baby Girl(!) on the luggage cart. I found a coffee shop (not Starbucks), got a muffin, and found a semi-deserted area near a clock and a door where we could wait for my aunt, who was due to pick us up at 6:30.

Francesca eventually discovered that an airport provides an exceptional echo for a little girl's voice, and she finally decided to kindof run in a circle while screaming, an exercise for her body, brain, and voice, as well as my patience after being up all night. Naturally, my patience wore out before she did, so I decided to take her outside for some fresh air. Not so much, it turns out.

There were 'designated smoking areas' 25 feet from each exit door, along with an Orwellian barrage of announcements alternating between a reminder that smoking is prohibited by law outside of these zones and a thinly-veiled threat to call the police lest anyone wait in the loading&unloading zone for longer than, say, 3.5 seconds. I'm not sure who was to summon the police should such an infraction occur, but I can assure you that no one, police or otherwise, was enforcing the smoking ordinance. Smokers parked themselves in various postures all along the walkway, including right in front of the doors. So fresh air was not to be had, but it felt good to be moving my body and I kept her moving in hopes that no smoke would settle around her. We were followed by a pack of sad/tired/wary eyes as we walked up and down the walk about 20 round-trips (my aunt was late), and every so often someone would say Hi to her. I think we gave them something to look at besides each other and the sidewalk.

We got in my aunt's car about 10 til 7 and headed across town to my grandmother's house in the Green Lake district.

To be continued another night, as it is now a bit after 2 am.

Off We Go!

I am taking Francesca to Seattle in a couple of days to meet her great-grandmother and great-aunts and uncles. Fortunately for visiting purposes (and certainly not for their own convenience or preference in any way), all but one of my mother's siblings and her mother live in one city. In fact, we will be staying most of the time with my grandmother who lives, by design, within walking distance of Uncle Jim and Aunt Christine (my mother's brother and his wife), and Aunt Liza (my mother's eldest sister whom I have admired since I was a child and who - I have discovered in my adulthood - can be a bit acerbic, is not nearly as mean as my mother can be, but that is an entirely different story and I am frankly not sure why I am bringing it up right now). My most adored (not acerbic in the least) Uncle Tom and his sweet, sweet wife Susan live a bit North of the city and work during the week, so we will be staying with them on the weekends.
Now that school is out and my classroom is packed away, I have been able to concentrate on getting ready for the trip these last few days, and I have a few more days before we leave on Wednesday night. Actually, it is this mental preparation (the lists, THE LISTS!) that is keeping me up a little tonight, though I have only been writing for about 20 minutes and the typos I am making tell me that I am already getting tired enough to go back to bed.
So, this post is short for several reasons 1) I meant for it to be a quick explanation of what will be a lack of posts for the next several weeks, 2) I AM tired and so my writing is crap and I can only bear to record so much for posterity, 3) I am resisting the urge to write out any of my brain-lists here (except this one, of course), 4) I physically wrote out a packing list last week so that compulsion is abated, and 5) I need a few minutes of cognizance to read Cheryl, Susan and Ruth's most recent posts, as I will miss them while I am gone.
I will post pictures, memories and impressions of our trip when I return in mid-June. 'Night all!