Sideways Moment, With Bono

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

I miss my Mom. It’s not that I didn’t expect that, to some extent… but I guess I’m more surprised by the hair trigger moments when that emotion seems to hit me, in varying degrees. It hadn’t occurred to me that each time I drive up certain streets now (and probably for a while longer), I would feel a determined instinct to drive over and see Mom. For three+ years now, I have taken a specific route to visit her. The fact that that route involves streets that I frequently travel for other things, didn’t hit me as powerfully as it did when she was alive. Then, I was often avoiding a visit… feeling guilty when I did, but torn as to how to watch her changes, sit with her patiently, how to enjoy my mother.  Now, I just want to sit with her, and when I drive those roads, it’s hard not to automatically head in that direction. I’m missing my Mom.

There is still that determined heart, wired to pull me toward the fresh flowers at Costco, to pick something out for her. I bough fresh flowers for her several times a month, for those three years… It’s hard not to find my cart headed in that direction, each time I’m at that store.  Tonight, shopping at Fred Meyers, I instinctively found myself looking at certain looser fitting clothes, that she might like. I noticed the chocolates that she loved to keep in her nightstand drawer… even after the resident Labrador had to be taken to the vet, having found Mom’s stash. Each time I drive past the road to Hospice, my heart clenches; my jaw tightens. I miss my Mom.

There are still so many little details that pop up daily. I finally closed her checking account, sure that all bills had been paid and there was nothing left to do with the account. The banker who has helped her and me for three years, paused when I told him why I was closing it. “I’m sorry. You and your Mom were always so nice when you came in here.” There is a two day wait, once you officially request to close an account. “I’ll take care of this personally; you don’t need to come back in here.” He smiled benevolently, and as I thanked him and I choked down the emotions that rose in my throat. There are the checks to shred. The clothing that I keep finding, that I have to donate. Things that she had in her drawers (pictures the kids painted for her, cards people sent) that all must be disposed of.  I know that I don’t want to hold on to these things, but letting go of each one is a tiny heartbreak.

There are people, sometimes in the most unexpected places, that I have to tell.  Her hairdresser at Super Cuts and the lovely woman, Lee, who did her nails, at The Sunshine Salon, have each called to ask if Mom is ok, because they hadn’t seen her in a while. It is not any easier, each time I tell someone: She died in December. Each time I speak the words, and try to maintain some calm… I stumble over the reality that she is truly gone. I don’t actually cry often… but the emotions, rise up and then I push them back down.  Such a very long time that we all suffered with her; such a very cruel thing to watch and live with… and yet, the relief is not as palpable as I expected it to be. I simply miss my Mom.

<– Near the end, I often just lay in bed with her. When Smart Guy took this, we both were as happy as we could be.

There are times when the last moments: those last breaths she took,the sound of it; the dimness of the room; me counting the intakes and exhales and talking to replace the fear she clearly felt and the shock I felt; each tiny detail, jumps up at me and I can’t close my eyes and sleep. It’s not every night anymore. Some times, it’s in the day. But, those moments come back with such incredible clarity and I am shaken. I try to think of something else, to fill that space… but it isn’t always possible.  I know that I’m healing, even as these moments continue to ambush me.

I feel the positive shifts as well. The loving memories that I can now reflect on, and not feel the bitterness of a different reality. I can remember her when she was lively and beautiful… not tied down to her ticks and choreas. Before she had aged far beyond the 68 years she was, when she died. I am lighter most days, than I was for so many days in the fall. That is a relief. The sleepless nights are not gone, but are less frequent. My brain can slow down at night, more often than it did in weeks past. Things are getting put away and settled, and I feel the relief of not having them linger. There are old wounds, and old issues, that somehow melted: simply disappeared, with my mother’s last exhale… that I didn’t anticipate.  That is sweet beyond description. I’m healing, but I still miss my mother.  (^^ When my mother, sister and I were younger… and couldn’t imagine what lay ahead.)

I miss the moments when only she laughed at my sarcastic tone, my playful teasing, regarding the very unfunny condition that she lived with. Others sometimes gasped silently, when I’d make a comment to Mom about her being bitchy. Or, telling her that she looked like a homeless person, when she refused to wear her bra.  Not PC, not kind, but my mom got it. She grinned; she laughed; as others around us tried to figure out whether I was serious. I was. She got it. The times when she would suddenly say something with such clarity and awareness, that I could see my Mom again, through the Huntington’s Disease. Those were sublime moments, when I could let my guard down a little and just enjoy my mother. Not weigh the jerky movements, the empty look, the silence… such sublime moments. They were much fewer than the moments when I just resented it all, and wanted to avoid gettig too close to it.   <– Mom’s final birthday dinner… a month before she fell, and ended up in hospice. I was teasing her, with the waiter… and as usual, she got it.

So last week, I had a moment with my mother, thanks to Bono and U2. Anyone who has read this blog more than once, knows that music is my oxygen.  There’s a song for every thing, every memory, every emotion, each day.  When we get playing “if you had to live without…,” music is not something I could live without. I’d probably sacrifice a limb, before I’d agree to a life without my iPod, my CDs, radio station… music.  So, it will be no surprise that it was a song that brought me down, on a snowy hill.

I was skiing with Denmark and a friend, at Sun Peaks. As I’ve openly admitted (Stink, Stank, Stunk); I am wasn’t the strongest skier in the group. So, as usual, I was at the back. They were waiting for me to get down a hill, that was proving a little harder than I’d expected. I ski with one iPod ear bud in, and generally set my iPod to random. What ever pops up, is what I ski to. I’ve also shared that Bono’s song Sometimes You Can’t Make It On Your Own (or watch this version), strikes a powerful chord with me. It always has, not just since Mom died. Bono has shared that he wrote the song when his father was dying, and sang it at his funeral. He and his dad had shared a very complicated relationship, and the song speaks to that. My mother and I shared a very complicated relationship as well. I’m sure some of you have picked that up, in these posts, but I’ve never really hid that fact either. The lyrics to the song, are so very true for our relationship.  At the end, I thought of that song most days.

So, there I was skiing.  Snow was falling; I was trying not to fall. I was tired; and trying to keep up. The song came on and I felt myself shift into a deeper place. The words just hit me so powerfully again, as I worked my way down that hill. I paused and looked up and the sun was a white ball, obscured by the snowy sky. If I were to paint it, there would be grays and whites, and a ball of light, as the snow flakes fell. I’m not a religious person. I’m spiritual, and as you have read… I believe in signs. I believe in the mystic. Those moments you can’t explain. And in that moment, I felt my mother right there with me. And let me be clear: skiing down a hill is not something my mother would do. She broke her leg skiing, as a kid, and I don’t remember her ever skiing when we were kids. The song just caught me and dragged me sideways.

A giant ball of emotions and tears came up so quickly, I couldn’t swallow it; I couldn’t push it back. I couldn’t unzip my jacket to change the song. Denmark and R were waiting below me and I could see them take in the shift in my face. They called out to me, but I couldn’t answer; I couldn’t really hear them. I stopped on the hill and just let the emotions sweep me away for a moment, and signaled that I was coming, as Bono sang on… for the both of us, and I tried to move again. We both missed a parent that we didn’t always understand, that we didn’t feel the clarity and ease, we’d have liked to have felt. Despite that, I loved my Mom, and I miss her. That song says so much of what I feel… not all of it. It truly was and remains complicated. There isn’t one song, or any easy phrase, there isn’t a simple explanation… but as I skied down that hill, with that song playing, as I looked up at that white sky, the white all around me, I just missed my mother so much.

When I finally got down to Denmark and R, my goggles were foggy, and it was clear I was crying. I had to explain that I hadn’t hurt myself; I was just hurting. Both know that I haven’t spent a lot of time crying, and R, simply put an arm around me and said… “don’t stop.” Oh that sweet spot that friends can touch. As we stood there, me trying to pull myself together, a total stranger came to one of those perfect snow stops a foot from me and yelled to me “beautiful day, eh!”  As soon as he looked at me, he turned to the others and said “Well, maybe I asked the wrong person in this group.”  Oops.  We all laughed, and I assured him that it was indeed “A Beautiful Day,” coincidentally… another U2 song. For the record, I’m a fan. I’ve seen them live twice and have not been disappointed, but last week, on a snowy hillside… I had a sideways moment with Bono; and it was beautiful.

“Cause it’s you when I look in the mirror. And it’s you when I don’t pick up the phone. Sometimes you can’t make it on your own… Can you hear me when I sing? You’re the reason I sing.”  

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page:https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Dying, Honest observations on many things, Musings, My world, Personal change, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments

Versatile Baby!

Posted on February 24, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

This is a quickie… for real. And hopefully, one of those quickies that leaves you smiling… I am honored to be given the Versatile Blogger award again. This is the third one, and it really doesn’t get old!  However, I’m taking a few short cuts this time. Sorry, it just has to be that way for now, but I am very grateful for the acknowledgment!

A Big thank you to Jean, at jeandayfriday (“Silly ramblings from a silly girl”). She is a clever writer, who I really enjoy reading. Thanks Jean; you made my day!

If you want to know who else I would recommend, scroll down on the right of my blog, and you’ll see “Blogroll.” That is where I list blogs that I like to follow. I would hand an award to any one of these wonderful writers! Recently, I’m really enjoying Eleanor’s sassy posts, at How The Hell Did I End Up Here. Her Big Mama posts Crack. Me. Up!  The current one is sobering, but still funny… but if you scroll down 2-3 to the one on some of the current Republican candidates, you may wet your pants. For real.

7 Things about me? I’ll make this quick and easy, with the possibility of passing on some fun nonsense.

1)  LOVED the Hunger Games series. Read all 3 books while sitting with my mom, in December; now excited to see the Hunger Game movie, coming out in March.

2)  NEED to go to Costco today: it’s a friday and raining. Can’t think of anything much less desirable at the moment. But, it must be done!

3) Thought that Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close was one of the best movies in a long time!

4) Found The Artist amazing! Who knew that black and white, and silent… could win an Oscar. Bets on.  I am a huge Oscars fan, so this is a big weekend!

5) Addicted to PBS’ Downton Abbey… hate to see the season end.

6) Starting a new novel… hoping to see something happen with the first.  I write, therefore I am.

7) I eat too much sushi. I’ve actually had my mercury checked… but still eat too much sushi.

So again, thank you Jean! Check out her blog and see what she’s writing: jeandayfriday.

Then, check out some of the other wonderful writers, who I’ve come to really enjoy… and in some cases, count as friends… across the wire.

Note:  Who said I couldn’t write a very short post?  Done.   The post I’ve been working on, will come this weekend.

Note 2:  Please check out my Facebook page:  Tales from the Motherland, and hit the like link there.

Note 3: As always, I’d be ever so grateful if you would hit Like on this or any of my blog posts. It makes me smile!  And please pass it along. Share this blog, it makes me grin from ear to ear!

 

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, how blogs work, Musings, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Busted!

Posted on February 21, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– “These colors don’t run; but we do.

We are a family that got our Nexus cards a long time ago. With a son attending high school in Vancouver, at the time, there was no way we were going to wait in the Border line-up each and every weekend. For those of you who know what a Nexus card is, you also know that Nexus holders rarely agree to carry non-Nexus holders in their car. Crossing the border without stopping to answer questions, without dealing with the mega-lines that form at the gate between us and lower British Columbia (BC), is like winning the lottery. I get giddy each time I cross, with my Nexus.  No one gives lottery winnings away, and it’s easy to start thinking that it’s just not worth going at all, if you have to stop. Admittedly, we had become a bit selfish: No Nexus, no ride with us.  Not anymore though. We have China and Denmark now, and that means we have to live like the others and stop to answer questions. In fact, we have to answer a lot more questions. Apparently, it’s a very odd thing for an American family to have a Chinese “son” and a Danish “daughter,” living with them for a school year, despite reams of paperwork that says it’s ok.   In fact, apparently it’s almost criminal in appearance, because we had the re-entry of our lives yesterday, as we returned from our wonderful ski vacation (note: I added the extra photos that were promised).

After a horrendous drive home, down the Coquihalla Highway, where conditions were slushy, raining, snowing, totally gray, fogged out– all that, and shared with psycho trucks, who blaze by you (Me! Who drives faster than they ever should!) and blind you with their spray as they do! It was H-E-L-L. It reminded me why I prefer to drive to Whistler.  I did the driving, and we reached the Sumas border ready for burgers and fries at Bob’s.  My shoulders were heading into spasm from the stress of such a long drive; and we were all tired and hungry, when we pulled up to the Border patrol booth. Our friends pulled into the one right beside us and we all signaled that we’d see each other at the restaurant (we could see the place… we could smell those burgers). I rolled down all the windows, as expected. I handed over all of our Nexus passes (proof that at least our family has been checked and double checked by US security) and the passports, visas and student visas of our two adopted kids. It had been so easy coming into Canada, we expected a “welcome home.” Cue screeching tires. I shouldn’t say this, but I will:  The US border guards are not the nicest people. And I so hope they don’t read my blog!  Just in case, let me back peddle:  I know they have a very difficult job. We do have a pretty serious drug trafficking issue between our area and BC.  We still have security threats. They deal with all kinds of issues all day: people with expired visas/passports. Canadians dragging gallons and gallons of milk back from our Costco, no doubt some hidden fruits and meats. Americans and Canadians trying to bring things in without paying taxes… they don’t have fun jobs. I get it. However, it seems that all the really grumpy ones were waiting for our SUV last night.

Back to the booth: Windows down, passports and cards presented, smiling faces (from us) and polite answers to all questions. And then, the officer asks where China’s “I-something-or-other” is?  Um, what?  Those are all of his papers right there sir, I stuttered. I admit it, those guys scare me. “He’s missing his I-something-or-other Mam.”  We tried explaining that his visa and papers were all there, politely, cautiously. We tried assuring him that these kids were in fact meant to be with us (documentation in his hands). We assured him that we were upstanding citizens, and all we wanted was burgers that we were nothing but compliant. But, he told us to pull in, that he’d send our documents inside and that all of us should go in for inspection.  The stress level in our car went from 4 (hungry teens, tired mom) to 10+ instantly. Smart Guy and I reminded the kids to do as little talking as possible. We told them to be polite, answer the questions and not panic. Then, as my shoulders tightened further and I began to panic, we went inside… where there were numerous highly armed men, in black uniforms and bullet proof vests. I’m pretty sure China has never been that pale. My shoulders went to full spasm instantly as we approached the desk, I smiled, and the (unsmiling) agent said: “Mam, you are missing an I-something-or-other for one of your passengers.”

<– There is lots of informative reading material inside Border patrol.

The officer we got appeared to be a newbie, and determined to follow procedure… to the letter.  I’m sure he’s a really nice guy in real life, but his job is to make us all sweat a lot and, apparently, tell us each and every rule that we may or may not have been breaking, or might ever break in the future… if we got out as free people. As the driver, I was the one being questioned, along with China and Denmark. Immediately he noted that the three Americans had no IDs… Panic! What? They should be right there sir. We handed them to the guard at the window. I could feel my deodorant fail. “Well, I only have Weis… Wex… Wix…”   We call him C. Or China.  He looked up, carefully. “China?”  It’s easier than Wex..n. “Right. Anyway, we don’t have your Nexus passes. We have China’s and K’s (Denmark’s name is easy to say) passports here.”  We calmly explained that we’d handed them to the officer in the booth, that he’d said he’d bring them in… now we all waited as Newbie went out to find them. China got paler, Denmark got redder, that’s what she does when she’s excited/upset/tired/cold/angry/scared… We all waited, and any thought of burgers was replaced by images of prison cells, and China being hauled away for interrogation.

Newbie returned with our Nexus cards but continued to insist that China was missing his I-something-or-other, a “big issue,” he explained. We continued to insist that it was right there, in the passport.  Finally, Newbie unfolded the very visa that both officers had told us was missing and that had landed us inside with the heavily armed sour pusses. Ahhh, Thank goodness. We’re starving! So glad it’s all ok, I said cheerfully, grinning, and sure we were in the clear. Nope.  “Well mam, as the driver,  it’s your responsibility to present all Identification at the border, for the passengers in your car.” I did officer. I handed all of the papers that you’re looking at right now to guard outside. And, then again in here. A bit meeker now. “Well, we didn’t see them. It’s your responsibility to present all papers, clearly.”  Hello? I did!  My head was beginning to spin, my shoulders were screaming. I smiled. I’m sorry Newbie fool officer.

Ok… I rant now:  Really? Really! It’s my job to hand you, burly border guards, who are geared up and packing, all of our paper work and then what?  Reach into the booth and actually unfold the paper, that you’re holding, and read it to you??? Or, if I do that, is that confrontational and I’m in trouble?  Is it also my responsibility to make sure that both officers see the papers in their hands?  It’s not enough to state that the papers are right there, in the passport. It’s not enough to remain calm and polite and state again (and again) that the papers are right there… I should reach across the desk and lift it up to your face?  Were we so threatening, with our Nexus cards presented (you have our finger prints, our entire history, you know us!) and scary looking Denmark and China?… Who looked like he might faint any moment!  Really?  (I will now step off my soap box and continue with our interrogation.)

Of course, all paper work cleared, we all assumed that burgers were in our immediate future. We just hoped our friends were ordering beers too. Nope. Newbie says: “I should probably have agriculture inspect your car.”  What!  Really?  Why? Why?  We had already claimed anything that we knew was in there… key word Knew. I’d claimed what was left of my Cheez Its. I told him about the small piece of mozzarella (because I’m too cheap to just toss it).  I claimed the tiny bit of vodka we had left and the few beers. “Did you buy the alcohol there? If you buy x amount…blah blah… we need to tax you.”  No sir, we brought it up with us, from home. “But you have some left?”  Clearly we didn’t drink enough.  He smiled, but I am certain he did not get my sarcasm. Smart Guy did and shot me the look. So, Newbie wandered over to a much tougher, sourer looking agent, who was reading, and he looked us over, and decided that we did not need hamburgers any time soon… we needed to be inspected.  Now, I can say with total certainty that we were all sweating; that China might have thought he was going to Guantanamo and Denmark might be too. Little Man was slumped on a bench, looking miserable. He has a Nexus, this wasn’t fair!  Sit up, look like an American for God’s sake! And nobody speak!  I hissed.

<– Caution: never bring beetles across the border!

Newbie felt that this was the time to chat with us, and to inform us of any possible paperwork we might ever want to read, while his buddy did a cavity search of our vehicle.  IF China wanted to return (doubtful at that moment) to the US, after his five year visa expires, Newbie told us what he could do. He explained why Denmark can come any time she wants (we play well with Denmark apparently, not as well with China). Why we should never bring fire wood back: beetles.  And as we listened to him, we all panicked a little more and began to think of what might be in that car. We’d packed in a hurry; we’d thrown everything in without really looking. We’d packed with others… others who were probably eating burgers, while we waited in security hell.  Wait! I have some eggs too!  I confessed. “Eggs are fine mam.”  “We have gummies!” Little Man cried out. “Gummies?” Newbie perked up. “Candy.” Smart Guy clarified.  And as I stood there, I vaguely remembered that there had been one last apple in our condo… where was that apple?  “Brownies! We have brownies.” Little Man shared. No, I gave the last one to S. (a boy in the other family), I stated.  “What! You gave the last brownie to S!” Denmark, China and Little Man simultaneously exclaimed!  Pandemonium ensued as all three kids interrogated me about this breach in brownie etiquette. I’d shown favoritism to the wrong kid. All the other heavily armed guards began to watch us, not smiling. Don’t speak! I glared.

Meanwhile, Smart Guy was watching the other guard, who was checking our car, and suddenly he blurted out (loudly people, loudly!) “Oh great! He just spilled our stuff on the ground!” with clear disgust in his voice. Clear disgust.  Um, that’s fine. Totally fine. He can dump whatever he wants, on the ground. I groveled. I began to fear for bladder control as I held Newbies’ blank gaze. “So, how did you end up with China (he actually had begun to refer to him as China) and K. anyway?”  Seriously?  He nodded. Well, honestly, I went to the Farmer’s Market one Saturday and three days later I had two new kids. I told them no, multiple times, but somehow we just ended up with them. “Really? You went to the Farmer’s Market and came home with two kids…” Really. I couldn’t make this stuff up sir.  And  then, he smiled.  I could feel him warm to me. I knew he liked me now. Putty.  I can’t lie, I smiled back. I considered winking.  He backed off the story he’d told us earlier about a family that was fined $300 for one orange, and began to be nicer. “If they do find anything, I can always tell them that you packed with other people (true) and that you did tell me you had lots of stuff.”  I smiled again. We all waited as Smart Guy stewed about which items had landed on the ground.

<– Terrifying, but not so forbidden fruit.

And then, I saw him… scary, burly, Sour Puss returning to the building… with a single, yellow apple in his hands. Now we were in trouble!  Now we all panicked for real. Smart Guy looked at me, glared I might say.  We were going to prison. No burgers. Hours of interrogation perhaps. Worst of all: we were losing our Nexus cards! We’d be in lines forever, from now on. We all looked as pale as China. “Did they claim this apple” Sour Puss asked Newbie. Newbie looked a tad flustered too, but then, he pulled through for us, and my flirting payed off, as he said:  “Well, they said they weren’t 100% sure. They packed with another family (long gone, we nodded, throwing them under the bus), but they did tell me they had several items in there.”    Thank you, thank you, I silently sent my appreciation over the counter. “Mam, as the driver (That again?! I will never drive again!), you are expected to know what’s in your car. As it turns out, this is an American apple. If your fruit has a sticker that says BC or USA, you should always claim it. You are allowed to bring it in and out. If it says Chile…. blah blah…”   As Sour Puss read me the apple riot act, my head was spinning and I just stood and humbly nodded, and apologized, a lot.  He put the apple down on the counter in front of me. Just set it there, inches from me.  Um, should I take that? I asked skittishly. I am not generally skittish, but I was afraid of that apple.  “Yes Mam, the apple is fine.  You can take it.”  I’m free to take the apple now? We’re done? We can go?  I remained skittish, paralyzed even, lest anyone draw a gun, as I took that forbidden fruit.  From behind me, China said cheerfully:  “Can I eat that apple? I’m very hungry!”  Don’t speak!  I shot him a look. On the way to the car, Denmark sidled up to me and desperately whispered: “I have another apple in my back pack! I was afraid to say anything.”   There are cameras everywhere! They may have bugged our car. Get in the car, don’t speak! 

And we drove away… my shoulders and neck in full spasm, our stomaches growling, no one touching that apple.   Our friends were waiting just beyond the gates… no doubt trying to figure out where to get an immigration attorney… or whether to eat without us. To their credit, they were true blue. They waited, and we all entered Bob’s starving, ready for drinks, telling our tale, and laughing again… Only to meet Sour Puss’ female alter ego:  our nasty waitress.  Welcome home folks!

Note: I love my country. I love our border. I love the men and women who guard that border. This was all said in jest…. just in case any of you read blogs.  And that was not my apple!

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in 9/11, Blog, Car trips, Foreign exchange students, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, road trip, Sarcasm, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 10 Comments

Stink, Stank, Stunk… but Oh the Fun of It All!

Posted on February 19, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– (The gang, at the top of the Crystal Chair. Goggles in place to protect privacy. I’m far right. Good looking pants don’t really help, but they can see me coming down)

I’ve come to think of myself as someone who doesn’t work “off the grid,” “unplugged:” without my computer, cell phone, Facebook… but ah, I was wrong, for the most part.  Headed out of town four days ago and have not thought about any of that since. I brought my lap top, thinking that I’d post my blog, keep up with happenings on FB and with friends, via email and on line, and instead, I’ve been lost in a white haze of snowy fun. We headed up to Sun Peaks, BC with another family and a few extra kids and have found ourselves skiing our legs off (some more than me, the obvious weak link in this chain), coming back for food and beverage, heading back out for a while and then hunkering down for a night of games, movies, drinking, eating, and laughs. It really doesn’t get better than this.

China and Denmark (for newbies: our foreign exchange students, with us for a full school year) were over the moon to finally cross over into Canada. It had become a magical, mysterious place to them, as we were all hesitant to risk testing the stamp on China’s special Visa, that reads “Single Entry,” despite the reassurances that we could in fact come as often as we’d like, until June. This ski trip was planned months ago and no one wanted to drive up to Vancouver for a day (a quick 1 hr drive from us) and then not be allowed back in for our ski vacation. At the border, we were reassured by a very confident Canadian border Patrol agent that we were welcome back any time, as long as China does not leave North America, between visits. Ahhh, such elation as we zipped up the Coquihalla Highway. As we crossed the lower areas before the pass, Bald Eagles were everywhere. We saw six in one tree, against the ethereal hills, shrouded in low clouds.  Despite my previous comments about Canadians (read Oh Canada), make no mistake: I love Canada!  Smart Guy and I brought our kids to Sun Peaks every year for about five years,when we first moved to Washington state, but have not been back since they got bored and we moved on to Whistler, our favorite family ski destination.  If you watched the spectacular images of last year’s winter Olympics, you know why we love it, why we live where we live.  We agreed to return to Sun Peaks to join friends, who still come every year, but it’s been a delight in every way.

(<— View from the entrance, snowy day, perfect skiing)    The mountains (Mt. Tod and Mt. Morrisey) are much smaller, the runs a bit easier than Whistler. The village is a blip on the screen compared to Whistler’s amazing scene, but… with friends and masses of kids, it has been nothing but fun and more fun. I’m a solid blue run gal. Having spent the past couple of months sitting with my mother, I arrived pretty out of shape and the weak skier in the group, but this mountain is benevolent and I managed my first black diamond (Broadway, for local readers), with no falls and not too much lagging behind my speedy friends. China has been in heaven as he improves his moves on his snow board. Given that he just started this year, he’s remarkably good and has a wonderful attitude about it, 24/7.  “Ma, I dream about snow boarding… I love it so much!” He whoops and hollers as he shoots down the slopes. China is happy in the snow… it will be so much harder when he goes home to his hot, humid, mountainous home, where there is no snow.  However, he apparently didn’t get the memo that “Ma/Mom/Me” doesn’t really like enthusiastic cheers and encouragement as I fumble my way down the slopes, trying to keep up with my far superior group of ski buddies. I like to listen to my iPod (one ear only, to hear speed monsters approaching) and just get down the hill, in my own private snow space. As I worked my way down my first Black diamond (2nd go at it), he kept stopping to yell: “You look great Ma!… Great job!…  You can do it!…”  I know, I should celebrate his joie de vivre, his enthusiastic encouragement, but I’m not that mom. This particular run goes directly under the lift. So, while I don’t think people know who I am, I am aware that there are people watching me fumble my way down… as China continuously yells to me. There was no helping it, I finally yelled:  “Don’t talk to me when I’m skiing!  I’m fine without the cheering squad!”  Audible laughter from the lifts made my trip down that much more interesting.

Denmark is graceful and confident on skis, having spent much of her life skiing in Europe. The powder we have here is new for her, but she loves it and zips down the hills with the posse we’re here with. Days are spent keeping track of specific jackets and helmets against white, as we all zip down at our own levels and comfort zones. The boys and Denmark are beautiful to watch. Confident and at ease on their skis and boards, they shoot into the trees, and down anything that’s vertical. I can’t help but pause over and over (not to just rest my burning legs) just to watch them all and smile. China is using Middle Man’s (my 19 yr old son) old snow board jacket and I remember watching that jacket go down so many slopes, in years past. Makes me miss him that much more, though we are enjoying the new boy wearing it. This trip is also a reminder that our family has changed.  Middle Man (19) and Principessa (22) no longer are here for “family vacations.” We have Little Man (15) and these two foreign exchange students, and while I miss them and remember the fun times we had up here… we are all moving into new spaces, new runs.

<— (The sink, after it’s been “cleaned.”)                   So what’s the stink, the stank, the stunk? That comes in the form of a room that contains five teen boys (14-16 yrs old), and their debris. The room has become a man cave of disgusting proportions.  The room is a cacophony of toxic levels of testosterone, piles of clothes (clean mixed with dirty), smelly socks, more nachos than seems conceivable, dirty glasses of Tang and more Tang, wet towels, sweaty ski clothes, boys’ legs and feet sticking out from the piles, empty wrappers, Ramen noodles devoured but still perfuming the room, sarcastic jokes and jabs that only boys can launch and survive, rap music that should probably be illegal, and the sound of laughter and more laughter. They have owned this room, and we are not really welcome, though the adults feel compelled to check in from time to time. I walk in and feel an immediate urge to ground someone, or fall on the ground laughing… if there was a clear spot to fall. There isn’t. No doubt the hotel will send in a hazmat crew when we check out.  They warn against smoking in a room, but say nothing about mixing that many smells in one small place.  In a room with one king bed, one pull out, they sprawl about on any and every available surface… and then get up to eat some more.  They are the stink, the stank and the stunk of our vacation. It’s a deliriously splendid boy thing. These boys are the same boys that take on the mountain as if it’s an extension of their personal cave. More places to explore and play, the room just where they rest and revive … for more fun.     (Faces are blurred, to protect the guilty. Yes, those are human legs, and rumor has it there’s a floor in there.)

<– A ridiculous amount of Tang was consumed, along with other junk caloric food stuffs.

I’m not the passionate skier that the rest of them are, but I love the fun and camaraderie that we all enjoy on the hill, and then back in the rooms. Our two families are a perfect fit: respecting the differences, needs and levels of the various individuals. I’m always at the back of the pack, but I know that patience and a smile waits at the base of each run. No one pushes anyone else beyond their comfort levels, and we all laugh a lot. This is what a great vacation is all about, and here in this white wonder land it is bliss. Even in the stinky, dark, cluttered space that the boys have owned and marked as theirs, there is humor and smiles. Boy’s and their  mess, empty glasses and piles of dirty plates sit on any empty surface, as they make the space their own, the adults not part of their personal terrain park. We wander in, bringing more food or instructions for the day, meals, but we stay for a minute and wander back to our orderly rooms, our glasses of wine or the grapefruit cocktails that I brought along (upon request, out of necessity)… We compare weary legs, stories of the good runs and the ones that were harder, and we all laugh some more.  It’s all good, in heavenly white.                                                                                                                                    (No surface was left clear.^^)

Note:  Pictures will follow, so check back. Lack of wifi, access to my camera and time to do it… I’ll add them in 24 hrs.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  Check out the Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland.  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in Blog, Blogging, Car trips, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Teens, travel, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 9 Comments

The Middle… How it Went; 25 and a Day.

Posted on February 15, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Who knew that one blog, besides the the one that was Freshly Pressed (Grass is Always Greener…), could pull in so many hits! In 24 hours, my last post, about my 25th wedding anniversary (Understatements of a Quarter Century, or My Funny Valentine), received just over 600 hits!  Six Hundred hits, that is something to gloat and strut about. So, I spent much of this morning strutting. Strutting in a middle aged, sore from yoga yesterday, no-one-home-to-see-it-gloating strut.  Served me right, that I was doing this strutting, in my night shirt, when I looked outside and realized our contractors were here! I am certain they didn’t see me, but it was the get your act together whack I needed, to check back into reality and move on with my day. The rest of the day, I just felt married again, and happy that so many people took the time to read what I had to say about February 14th.

As for the anniversary itself, it was all that I might have hoped for, in the place that we dwell as a couple. Smart guy was extra smart and sent me the most gorgeous bouquet of red roses, on the 13th. When I cynically suggested that perhaps he’d done this to save the $17 Valentine delivery guarantee fee (that I paid) he firmly put me in my humbled place and told me that he’d “deliberately sent them on the 13th, because he wanted to be sure that I had them all day on our anniversary, and not for just part of the day.”  Ok, cue the collective ahhh.  That made my gesture of 2 dozen irises and red tulips, with chocolates, delivered ON Valentine’s day seem almost contrived. Damn that Hallmark Valentine’s thing.  He also presented me with my favorite cream puff, from Avelinos (aside from the one T makes!), for breakfast. Way to make a girl feel good… I ate it after dinner… what was left, after he had his part.     (Gorgeous roses and one kick @$$ cream puff… almost ate it before getting this shot!)

<– (Meaningful card from me: meaningful because Smart Guy memorably told me, when we first started dating that he “just didn’t have a song in his heart.” That was in response to the fact that I can remember and sing any song, and he couldn’t. I asked why, and got that reply. He has since taken to singing, pretty regularly.)

When it comes to things like thoughtful cards, Smart Guy is the one who generally scores. He tends to buy meaningful cards, with soul. I tend to get caught up in the wording of cards, and then find myself empty handed, when it matters. Funny cards: I love them. I chortle and snort in the card aisles and buy more than I need, because I can’t settle on one. Card stores are a money hole for me.  Serious, I love you, you’re important cards: and I stand in the aisles looking hopeless, for ages. I edit endlessly in my head:  Well, I do love you, but not like that. Or, I felt that way x number of years ago, but not now. Or, I wouldn’t go that far. Or, That’s sappy/over the top/not exactly enough/silly/Oh for the love of God!  … etc. It’s hell for me, trying to find that card that says what I think it should. And no, I’m not really a make your own card girl. I grew out of that when my kids did.  Given that it was our silver wedding anniversary, however, I made a concerted effort.  I bought into the occasion enough to (in addition to the flowers and chocolate, delivered to his office) place an assortment of funny and meaningful cards, scattered along his incredibly predictable daily route:  Garage–>mailbox–>kitchen counter–>downstairs—>bedroom/bathroom–> closet (to change)–>Dinner out (special).  Card companies did well on us this year.  (One of  Smart Guy’s favorites. I labeled them with our names, edited out here.  At the bottom, it says: “She’s doing all the driving. I’m just the one behind the wheel!”  Fair is fair. I’m not the best passenger; and I do have red hair. He’s not bald, but give it time.)

We celebrated our anniversary with three other couples who we love (two couples cancelled, with bugs that kept them home), in lieu of a bigger party where we could include all of the friends we love. A night for celebrating marriages, not just ours. We all were happy to have a reservation for Valentine’s Day (no doubt I helped out a few husbands there) and we were happy to celebrate with them a marriage that they all know well, and were honored and happy to share with us, for what it is: no more, no less. It felt so real and unembellished. No pretense, no over-the-top statements or toasts, just the real stuff, shared with good friends, who we love.

<– (I can not lie: this card makes me snort with laughter. I love it.)           What struck me most is how much we’ve all experienced the amazing impact of time. All of us can remember twenty-five years ago so well, and all agree that time seems to have warped past. Of the four couples: one has been married 40 years, one 25 years (us), another 16, and the other 6.  What a representation of marriage, in its various stages and forms, and all filled with so many memories and experiences: some which are similar and others which are so very different. Two of the couples married very young, two did not. Two have grown children, two do not. We all agreed that marriage, in itself is an adventure and experience that brings so many different things to our lives.  How the husbands view these things was distinctly different than how the wives do, but the places that we overlap was clearly in our perceptions of our children.  Mother, father, young or older, we all have measured the years most consistently, by the memories of our lives as parents.

Those precious memories of adorable things our little one said. The embarrassing moments when they pointed out someone’s girth, or the things that all adults notice, but have learned to edit and delete from conversation. The moments that they wrapped us around their tiny pinkies, with a comment that only a parent could love. The memories of binkies (pacifiers), “characters” (favorite stuffed animals and toys), the sweet times when they crawled in our beds, or wanted only us for comfort. Those sacred moments and experiences made for absolute level ground in our group, the place where all of us connect and relate. Each of us shared our collected memories of our babes, when they were babes. The one couple, married six years, has a three year old and while they could not contribute to some of this, they are smack in the middle of that delicious (and exhausting) time, when their hearts swell with each tiny toothed smile, each breathy hug and cuddle.

So, now I’m married twenty-five years and a day, and it honestly doesn’t feel that differently. I have a headache, which     may or may not have to do with champagne consumed last night. I didn’t drink enough to cause damage, but no doubt very good champagne, cream puffs, rich dinner and all the other excesses (too much laughing, too much cheering: excess) is bound to cause a hang-over of some impact. The fact that aside from a few missing friends, the day was just what I would want, that we got a reservation and the place turned out to be perfect for the group, and the occasion, and that we felt the way we did on our wedding night: surrounded by love and good cheer, made for the perfect celebration.

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Freshly Pressed, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Sarcasm, Women's issues, Wonderful Things, Writing | 2 Comments

Understatements of the Quarter Century… Or, My Funny Valentine.

Posted on February 13, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

<– We are not that Valentine’s couple!

This post could be called either of those two titles, because both so absolutely apply to the topic:  my twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, which is February 14, 2012.  Yep, Valentine’s wedding; and not at all for the reasons that immediately pop into anyone’s head, when we tell them it’s our anniversary. Let me be very clear about this: 25 years ago, Smart Guy and I were not romantics who wanted a pink and red wedding, and heart shaped reminders each year, as to why we got married. We did not anticipate fighting for dinner reservations each year, when our anniversary comes up. We did not think about the pressure that would be incumbent upon both of us, to keep up with the rest of the world, who sees this day as:  a chocolates, flowers, over-the-top syrupy romantic Valentine cards, dinner out and love-filled day. We were practical students- he in medical school and I in graduate school- who got tired of our families messing with our wedding dates, debating over who should/could/would come, and so we just flipped the table and picked a date that we both had three days off from school.  The facts that we decided that less than two months before the date, that our parents were both unhappy about these changes, and that we would be forever linked to Valentine’s day… did not occur to either of us at the time. Seriously.

Smart Guy came back to our apartment one day, found me on the floor crying (over yet another wedding snafu with parents) and said: “I’m off on February 13th. I have three days off. Let’s do it then.”  I opened my black planner (which was my lifeline to all things planned) and noted:  A) That I had that date off too, and  B) That the 13th was a Friday.   “I’m not getting married on Friday the 13th. That’s bad luck,” I told him. “I don’t believe in superstition. We’d have four nights away.”  I knew that Smart Guy and I were different, on too many levels to list here, but I  was not going to test the theory of Friday the 13th on my wedding. “I won’t get married on the 13th,” I told him firmly. “Ok, the 14th then.”  He said it; I agreed, and neither one of us gave a single thought to Valentine’s day… until we started telling people that we had a final, final date. By the time they all started saying “ahhh, that’s so sweeeet!” or “you guys are soooo romantic,”  it was too late.  We had put our feet down and taken the reigns regarding our wedding, and now, Valentine’s be damned, we were following through. But, we were not romantics!

We were practical, driven “twenty-somethings,” who got married on Valentine’s Day and didn’t have a clue what that would mean, year after year. It is the first big understatement: to say that each year since, we have both fumbled with this initial over-site. We aren’t Valentine’s people, either of us, but we do celebrate our anniversary. It’s something to be married this long, and we do know that it deserves proper acknowledgement. However, we are both inherently last minute people too (hence the first mis-step: waiting until last minute to take those reigns and being stuck with February 13th, 1987 as the first date we could nip all the familial stuff in the bud)… So each year, we are fighting an upstream battle to get a dinner date, for our anniversary, and not let Hallmark overshadow us.  All the really cool places are booked long before we think to call; and by the time we find something, we’re often pissy about the hassle of it all. Cards, candy and flowers? Feh.

Once we put our collective feet down, we ran with the Valentine thing. We picked “My Funny Valentine” as our dance song, and hired a local music school major to play piano all night. We trusted him when he told us he could “play anything,” and that he’d learn Funny Valentine.  But the boy was no Ella Fitzgerald (which is what we had in mind), more understatements, and he lied. He could not play our song, and we got “Lady in Red,” instead. Ok, the color was at least right. Right? Red, Valentine… we are not romantics. It wasn’t actually a bad song, and it worked. We danced.

     

(My Mom walked me down the aisle. Mom, my sister and I.  Man and Wife. The Bride)

It would be another understatement to say that neither of us thought of how flipping cold it might be in February in Connecticut. The day dawned crisp and Cold. Capital C, Cold. By the time of our nuptials at 5 PM, it was 17 degrees, with a wind chill of minus 7. Seriously cold. And boy did we hear about that!  For years, when the topic of our wedding day came up, inevitably someone would say: “Man! It was so damned cold that day!”  We were married in the (200 yr) Old State House, in Hartford, CT.  Walking to the building, I didn’t dare put a coat on, lest it ruin my dress or my wet hair (once a last minute girl, always a last minute girl), which my sister had braided so nicely. It was cold! That is no understatement… or maybe it is? It was freezing!

<– Only two remain from this photo, but oh how lucky we were that we had our grandparents as long as we did.

Twenty-five years later, there are endless understatements that strike me. We were young. We were idealistic. We had no idea what we were in for. We had no (real) idea that the people we loved so much, who shared that day with us, would not always be there. We were young. When I look at the photos, in our neatly organized photo album, oh how I wish I’d known just how fast the time does go by. I wish I’d known to stop and take it all in a little more. Take all of them in, a little more. That time flies, that twenty-five years seems unbelievable, is one mega understatement! One slow, lazy blink: Three kids. Blink: Three kids grown up. Blink: We are now older than our parents were in those wedding pictures… and they seemed so old to us then.  When I search the picture of my mother and I, that day, I can’t help but compare lines and wonder what the next twenty-five years will hold. I don’t have Huntington’s (as she did) and I don’t smoke, and while I don’t work out at all much, I’m in better shape… maybe there’s hope that I won’t age as quickly?  It’s scary to see how much I looked then, as Principessa (our daughter, for new readers) looks now… and then see the difference jump out from the mirror. Hard not to make that other leap to my mother and what another 25 might look like on me. It’s actually not a vanity thing, really. It’s a mortality thing. Seeing those photos is a hard copy reminder of my mortality… understatement. (I’m now 6 yrs. older than Mom was then)

But perhaps the understatement of the Quarter Century (I’ll keep you posted on the century), is that marriage is hard work… and the kids in those photos had no clue. No clue. Get married? Sure. Valentine’s Day? Well, if we have three days off, sure. Make it work for twenty-five years, raise three amazing humans, keep working at it, keep trying to smooth the edges… no clue folks. I had not come from a long line of long marriages. On my dad’s side I do, but I wasn’t raised with them. My dad’s sister, my aunt, and her husband are no doubt THE most romantic, cutest couple I’ve ever had the privilege to know. They’ve been married forever and still call each other “lovey,” and fit together like two halves of the same magic coin (see the magic here). If I’d grown up around that, well, I might have gotten married on Valentine’s day, to be romantic… rather than practical. On my mom’s side, divorce was not a foreign word. I couldn’t imagine twenty-five years, I was barely twenty-five years old at the time.  For the record, Smart Guy’s parents were married 52 years, when his mom died two years ago, but I don’t think Smart Guy was any smarter than me, then (or now, for the record. Wink, wink). We were in love. That was it.

We are very different people, Smart Guy and I.  He’s Nerdy and science minded; I’m Artsy and emotional. He’s athletic; I am not. He’s practical; I’m passionate. We’re both driven, but often in different directions. He’s an organized planner; I’m a fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants, impulsive, free faller. He likes to climb; I need to fly. We’re both- these things to a fault, and to our credit. Perhaps we compliment each other, otherwise, we might not still be together. No doubt we’re both tenacious, because we’re celebrating twenty-five years, and that takes tenacity for sure. There are those golden couples, who reach this milestone much more easily. They are still “best friends,” or “madly in love.” I am always impressed with those people. As I said, my aunt and uncle: Blow. Me. Away!  It’s a beautiful thing to see. But, I think Smart Guy and I owe tenacity for our longevity. We have worked at this thing called marriage. There have been some very rough times along the way. No sugar coating that. No making it sound better for the sake of a blog post, or for the sake of this big anniversary.  “Our Song” is With Or Without You, for a reason. It fits us well. We chose it because of a very romantic night, and I can say with absolute certainty, that when that song plays, we both could tell you most of the details of that night. I was deeply in love, and that was one of the greatest slow dances of my life. Still. (live video) But the words do suit us. We (often) can’t live with or without each other. (^ Us, the year we got married. A good friend who I modeled for in Cambridge, MA, took these when Smart Guy came by to get me that day… We were babies.)

<– (Retraction- Biggest understatement: These three are the best thing to come out of these twenty-five years!

Around the time of our wedding, Smart Guy’s grandmother had given us a “living inheritance,” money given while you’re alive. She said: “Don’t just pay your bills, do something really special that I can hear about and enjoy too.”  We were poor students at the time with a 7 year residency ahead of us, where we knew Smart Guy would be making less than a full-time McDonald’s employee (yes, really). So, we took some of the money and took a no frills honeymoon trip (right after we both graduated, a year after we got married) to Hawaii, and then used the rest for our move to Chicago and to pay our bills for a while. Grandma Fritzi was happy, and we knew that someday we’d be able to do the things we were missing then.  On our honeymoon, I met a really cool dude in the baggage area in Kauai. He had just returned from Palau, near the Phillipines. His stories so amazed me, that I said: “For our twenty-fifth anniversary, we should go to Palau.” I think Smart Guy thought it was a joke, frankly. But for all these years, I’ve been saying… Palau, Palau. This year, for our big twenty-fifth, we had actually planned to go to Palau.  We started working on the details late last summer… researching the location, the prices, etc.  But life happens. We ended up with two amazing exchange students and life got a little more complicated. While we were in Chicago in October, it occurred to us that the logistics of going to Palau with three kids, two of whom are not our own, were just not realistic. Palau will wait. Smart Guy and I decided that we will go when  life is a little quieter again (as if)… Blink.

A few slow, lazy blinks and here we are. It will be our twenty-fifth anniversary. We won’t be in Palau, but we will be with good friends, no doubt laughing about how we’re still together, and celebrating our tenacity, our effort, our love. I’m sure you thought I’d overlooked that: love? Look, whatever the details, in the end we still love each other. It’s not an easy love. It’s not that “best friend/madly in love/life is so perfect” marriage, but it’s lasted. Marriage is hard work. Damned hard work. That is indeed the understatement of this quarter of a century. We have spent these twenty-five years building careers, raising children, laughing, fighting, growing up, growing older, figuring some things out, missing some others… and trying to get a reservation on Valentine’s Day.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in Awareness, Daily Observations, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Parenting, Wonderful Things | Tagged , , , , , , , | 19 Comments

Ode to Girl Interrupted

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  First: I am aware that this is not truly and Ode. I’ve used that title three times now, and all three have not been formal Odes. Whatever.   Second:  If you don’t know a lot about Judaism, there are some links in here worth clicking.  Finally:  My daughter, Principessa (not her real name, duh), has forbidden me from using her pictures. I’ve honored that, until now. I am putting her little girl pictures in my blog. I have even slipped a few older girl ones in too… I have tried to pick ones that don’t really show her. But, I needed to write this one… it’s been brewing for months.  I’m posting this on Shabbat, so that at least she can’t get annoyed until Sunday. She’ll get over it. We all do.


<— Once your little girl, always your little girl.

Yesterday my little girl called me a half dozen times: to share frustrations about school, to tell me that things don’t always go the way she thinks they should, despite her efforts; to tell me that she’s excited about graduation… The phone rang over and over, and each time she said “Hi mummy! It’s me again…”  I feigned frustration with the interruptions, but I smiled all day.  I had this beautiful glimpse of my girl, before we were interrupted. Interrupted by life, changes, the fact that she ignored all of her five year old promises to me, and grew up anyway. What made the day especially poignant, and made every sappy song (hadn’t heard this Nickle Creek song before; it’s now on replay) on the radio sound like it was about her, and me, and us… and thus make me tear up… like a foool… was that it’s been a long time since she called me like that, let alone six times in one day. This is my Ode to (my) Girl Interrupted.

<– This Spring will be the third time she’ll wear a cap and gown. Here, she graduates from Montessori.

Principessa will be 22 years old next week, two days after our 25th anniversary.  She graduates from  Mt. Holyoke College, back east, in May.  Mt. Holyoke is considered a “Women’s Ivy League,” as if there should be separate ones. It’s an amazing college , where Principessa has truly found wings and soared. A few weeks ago, as we drove her to SEATAC, after winter break, she said to Smart Guy and me: “You know, this is a very meaningful drive.” Um, well, yes… we are staying up way past our bedtime; there will be no kids in the car on the way back, and I can snooze. That’s what I thought. “Ok, why?” I asked. “Well, this is the last time you guys will drive me to the airport, to go back to school. The next time I see you, I will be graduating… and going out into the world, for real.” The fact that she just spent an entire year in Israel, touring much of the Middle East on her own, or with people that we didn’t know, entering Gaza, Palestine, Jordan, Egypt, going to Paris for winter break… I had, frankly, considered that pretty much out in the world for real. The fact that she spent three full months in Africa, her senior year of high school, where we could not call her ever, and could only wait for the sporadic phone calls (often missed) and limited emails… well, I thought that was pretty much out in the world too.  (Here she is, with grammy, just before High School graduation.)

<– Fiercely determined, from a young age.

However, as my girl said this, from the back seat of the car, yep: I teared up and joked down a great big ball of  Oh my God, she’s really going out into the world.  I flew back with this same girl for both her freshman and sophomore years, to help move her in to her dorms. I flew out at the end of her freshman year and moved her out of her dorm. I diapered her perfect little bottom and nursed her for fourteen months. I watched her pack up her “suitcase” and tell me she was going on a trip, at age two. Really. That girl has been taking off into the world since the day she could move on her own. She has marched to her own drum (usually set to African or Middle Eastern beats); she has followed her passions; and she has kept me on my toes always. I should have seen this coming a mile away.  When she was little, I said over and over: “All that determination and stubborness that drives us nuts now, well I hope she holds on to it. As a woman, it will serve her well.”  Yet, as she stated these simple facts, “This is the last time you guys will drive me to the airport, to go back to school,” as we approached the airport, I felt totally blindsided.

Principessa has been a force to be reckoned with for all of her life. As a newborn, the nurses told me that they could not keep her in the nursery (for the few hours I did want to sleep, after my C-section), because she cried so loud “it disturbed the other babies.”  She was difficult and dramatic until age four, then easy, but expressive and determined from then on. She was political from the earliest age. She refused to sing the very religious Christmas songs that our misguided Michigan public school put in the “Holiday” concert, in first grade.  She told the teacher and principal that she was Jewish and didn’t sing about Jesus. We didn’t know any of this was happening, until our tiny girl stepped away from the group, ON STAGE, when the song began. She stood there stoically, and waited until the song was done, then stepped back with her group, giant, smile and holiday wiggles back in place.  In pre-school, she was that kid who ran to the front of the stage, peered out into the dark audience, hand shading eye, and called “Mommy? Daddy? Oh! There you are!”  And waved enthusiastically, as the pre-school teacher scooped her up and herded her back to the flock.

<– On her last day of high school, still boarding Bus #40

In high school, she refused to drive a car and road the bus until her last day of Senior year, to not add to her carbon foot print. She snuck into the school after hours and plastered the school with flyers about recycling, ride sharing and caring about the planet… we hardly had the heart to point out that a few trees died for that cause. She went camping on Lopez Island with her best friend, and skipped prom, because she didn’t want to go “unless she really cared,” and she didn’t.  Senior year, she found a program for girls in Africa (The Traveling School) and wrote letters, did research, and pushed us until we relented and agreed that it was made for her. Off she went, missing Homecoming, and all the things that happen in that first part of Senior year… that I cared about, and she did not.

  

^^Principessa in Africa. Luckily, we didn’t know that she was nearly drowning (sucked down to the bottom!) in the Zambezi River. Itt was just the beginning of her travels. By high school graduation, she and I had been to India, and she had traveled much of Southern Africa.

Through all of that, Principessa and I had an unusually close relationship.  For most of her twenty-two colorful years, I was fortunate to be that mother, whose daughter actually tells her everything. We talked openly, and often. We had our normal, to-be-expected power struggles and disagreements, but we never went through some of the tough things that many mothers and daughters do. She never went through some of the phases that girls her age did. She didn’t date a lot, she got caught trying to sneak out once and it didn’t happen again. She wasn’t a big partier or the kid trying to get stuff past us (see Ode to the Middle Man, for that story). If she told us something, we generally knew it was true. Our adult friends all love her and always found her engaging and interesting. When she went off to college, I knew she was ready to fly but I missed her terribly. I felt lucky to have had such a good run, and I felt lucky to have such a good connection to my daughter.

When she got to college, she just exploded on the scene. Her first semester of college was the made-for-movie start most parents wish for their girls, going to a school far away. She made friends right away. Good friends, from different countries and interesting back grounds. She went to mixers and parties and felt like the Belle of the Ball. While she had felt a bit out of place in high school, at college she shined. She got involved in groups on canvas and actually took leadership roles right out of the gate. When we visited for parents weekend, just two months into her freshman year, we were struck by how many young women on campus called out greetings to our “girl.” We were stunned by how many of them were “honored to meet (Principessa’s) parents.”   Academically, she found her groove.  She exuded confidence and joy, and we were so happy and relieved.

<– All roads lead here… for now.

So, it had to end, right?  Kids are wired to grow up and cause some struggle early, or cause some struggle later…right?  And in the way Principessa has done everything in her life, it wasn’t going to be boring or simple. When she finally threw us a curve ball, it was bound to be something truly noteworthy.  It was; and it all comes back to Israel. Yep, that tiny country that everyone seems to fight about, is where my girl got interrupted. It’s where our relationship took a hard right. First, she went on a two week trip for Birthright, the winter of her freshman year of college. There, she fell in love with an Israeli man (can’t even try to use boy here… he was a beautiful, Israeli soldier). Then she fell in love with the country… And then she fell deeply in love with her faith. Our daughter told us that she was going off to study in Israel her junior year, and she came home deeply immersed in a faith that we barely recognize as our own.  Smart Guy is Jewish, and we’ve raised all three kids in the Jewish faith, but our faith is the Reformed brand. The watered down, less strict, simpler brand of Judaism, which (I admit) does what’s easiest, while still remaining Jewish.  We raised our kids in a Jewish faith that called for years of Sunday school, Bar and Bat Mitzvahs and attendance on the High Holy Holidays.  Our faith leaves room for bacon, Dungeness Crab, driving on Fridays and Saturdays, using light switches, and calling ourselves Jews even though we do all of those things. Principessa has gone a different rout on the road to Jerusalem.

Principessa has embraced a very Conservative Judaism, that we do not share nor do we entirely understand. Intellectually, we get all most of the edicts that she now follows. We have come to accept that when she’s home, she will leave our house Friday night and return Saturday, staying in the generous and loving care of her Chabad Rabbi and his family. We know she is safe and loved, but we won’t see her most weekends. We know that she will no longer eat the meals I prepare, as none of my dishes, pots or pans, let alone oven and stove, are kosher. She cooks on a small 2 burner stove, that sits at the end of my our kitchen island, reminding me daily that I can no longer feed my girl. In the beginning, when all of this first started (for the most part, this past summer), that cook top chastised me daily. It seemed to sit there and yell:  Your not her Mom anymore! You can’t feed her like me, you don’t understand her like me, she needs me! You’re all washed up! But wait, don’t wash her dishes… they’re kosher, you’re not.  So, in all of these previous blog posts, when I talked about a rough year, I bet you didn’t figure that I was referring to a talking cook top?  (For “the record,” this was just part of the rough year)  Yes, that stupid cook top called me out daily. I tripped over her kosher dishes, I got all tied up in knots each time I planned dinner, wondering if maybe I could make one little thing she likes, and pull her back into the fold. I automatically planned things that she couldn’t participate in, baked the gluten free things she liked, only to remember again, that my pans were not kosher. My oven wasn’t kosher. I wasn’t Jewish, let alone kosher.

Before you start reading into this and thinking that my whole relationship with my girl ended up being about food and cooking, it was much bigger than that.   (Though there’s plenty of jokes about Jewish mothers and food!)  While I never converted, I changed my whole life to raise my kids as Jews. Foolishly, in my youthful mind (I was in my twenties when I had both Principess and Middle Man, now that seems very young!) I thought I had to toss aside all of my previous traditions and rituals, to show my family that I was raising Jewish children. No more big family Christmases.  I never brought my kids back to see family at the holidays, and Smart Guy’s family has never entered my home and seen our Christmas tree (I clung to that one ritual, and still do). No Easter baskets: that had made my childhood so colorful and exciting. No bunnies and fancy clothes each spring.  And yes, I embraced all of the things that I thought were Jewish, from a Reformed state of mind… much of it around cooking and family centered holidays. I wanted to be a true Jewish mother, without formally converting. I spent twenty-one years thinking I’d really succeeded at this one big thing. My three kids were Jews, despite my background.

<– The city she loves; where she found her path. The Holy city of Jerusalem, Israel. (view from her dorm there)

So when Principessa went to Israel and found out that she wasn’t really Jewish, in all eyes, our whole life turned upside down. Our relationship turned upside down.  She came home from Israel and said that she couldn’t eat my food anymore,  that she would leave our house each weekend. Then she started dressing much more conservatively;  she began praying several times each day and refusing to go to restaurants with us (only on rare occasions now, and she does not eat), and did not attend a good friend’s Bar Mitzvah, because she couldn’t walk there… Well, it was the curve ball of all cure balls! It was a curve ball I never saw coming: so it hit me right in the face! The girl who I had always been so close with, was suddenly a young woman I could barely speak to. We argued most of the summer, and the spring/winter before. I felt an urgent need to turn her around, get her back, convince her that she was going the wrong way. She was set on showing me that this was her life. That seems an obvious thing, until you’re facing it.

All summer, I was still fighting this change, and I threw up questions and challenges at every turn. I felt rejected and hurt… ME, personally. I felt like I’d done everything I could to be a Jewish mother, and now I wasn’t that at all. The fact that her 100% Jewish father wasn’t Jewish enough either, didn’t really register as much. The fact that everything we do as a Jewish family, wasn’t Jewish enough now… or that this  was impacting grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends of the family, her friends… registered, but was merely a blip on my screen. What burned the most, was that my girl: the girl who told me everything, the girl who seemed to think everything I did was great (as much as any girl can, none of this is truly rose colored)… MY GIRL, was gone, and a new girl was here in her place. And we live in different worlds.

A good friend has pointed out several times: “Aren’t you glad she’s absorbed in something she really believes in, that she’s passionate about?”  Rather than some vapid endeavor. Yes, I am; but it’s still painful to see her headed in such a completely opposite directions from us.  I felt like I was thrashing in deep, choppy water, for months.But, we’ve moved through it… for now. I’ve gradually learned to sneer back at the cooktop and, when Principessa is not around, I give it the finger. I don’t let it call me out anymore. I do the calling. I demand that it be kept clean and tidy. I give it the respect it’s due, because I love my girl, but no more. I don’t try to think of meals I can make; there aren’t any. I don’t try and convince her that it’s hot out and long (modest) sleeves and long pants are foolish,  that my (pork) spare ribs are still amazing, that lobster once a year is a glorious, and that taping the light switch in the frig off, for Shabbat is crazy odd.  These are things she lives by now, whether we accept them or not. So, I’m trying to get past them.  When we started planning our big trip to S. America this summer, after her graduation, Smart Guy immediately found a guide who could provide kosher food for Principessa for the entire journey (even the 3 days of back packing on the Incan Trail). We will anchor the sections of our trip in major cities, where she can observe the sabbath from an Orthodox synagogue and home, while we sight see. I have come to accept that I can’t reach her from Friday at sunset until Saturday at sunset, no matter what the urgency. When her grandmother died recently, I had thought it would be wonderful to have my daughter there too, as we washed her body and said goodbye, but it was Shabbat, and I had to let that go too. I told her grammy was gone, a few hours later, when she arrived at synagogue for a Bat Mitzvah.

My girl and I got interrupted, right in the middle of what has been a twenty-one year love affair. We got interrupted right when I most wanted to share her adventures and see where she’d go. I wanted to hear about the dates she’d have, the challenging and exciting courses she takes, the parties she goes to… some of that is still possible, but much of it has been lost this year, in wrapping my head around this new girl woman, who lives a very different life than mine. I have had to pull back the reins on my injured heart, and try to find a new rhythm to enjoy with her. It’s been really hard. I have struggled against it for much of the process, and only recently started to accept our new “normal.”  I am trying to accept that I my family wasn’t happy with my choices, and here I am 28 years later still with Smart Guy and three fabulous, fill-my-heart-with joy kids, who I love more than I ever dreamed, back when I was fighting my own battles. (Note: there is some pretty big irony in the fact that I fought to marry a Jewish guy, whose family did not approve of a non-Jewish girl, while my own daughter is fighting to be more Jewish. Karma man, it sucks sometimes.)

I know Principessa will find her own path, whether it’s the one she’s on right now, or another that she hasn’t seen yet. I know that I will do whatever it takes to for us to work our way back to the groove we once had, everything I can, so that we can enjoy things together. Obstacles may remain, but we’ll figure it out. When I heard that Nickle Creek song yesterday, I found myself singing (for the rest of the day):  “You have to chase a dream, one that’s all your own… Take every change you dare, I’ll still be there… when you come back down.”  This, is my Ode to (my) Girl Interrupted.

I am honored to have this post featured on Carnie’s Corner. To read other posts featured By Le Clown™ on Carnie’s Corner, click the link below.

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Posted in Awareness, Blogging, Daily Observations, Death of parent, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Sarcasm, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 20 Comments

The Middle… Anyone Know How to Recycle Teeth?

Posted on February 8, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

So, the warning:  The following content is not for everyone. I’m sure someone (or more than one) will find parts of this thoughtless, disrespectful,  or offensive. Strangely, that is my life right now and that’s what I write about. So, while some will go “eww,” or, “that was out of line…,” you’ve been warned.

<– This very full bin, and a few odd bags, has haunted me for weeks.

I did it! I finally sorted through the giant bin of my mother’s things, that has been sitting in a very awkward spot, since she died five weeks ago. In my last post (Change…Boot Straps), I mentioned starting the job but being stymied by a sweater. That was just the beginning of the discomfort!  Two days ago, I finally decided that it was just time to power through it, and get the job done. As I’ve explained before, my mother had already let anything of real value go; there wasn’t anything to really consider, other than which donation pile things should go in. A few small things were set aside, but the rest was destined to go to other women, who needed clothes that were brand new.  I’d taken her shopping just before she broke the elbow, that killed her. She never wore most of it, but I’d already put her name tags on everything.

All I had to do was sort the stuff; but that job was just so much harder than I’d anticipated. It wasn’t just the one sweater that smelled like her; everything did. I felt surrounded by my mother’s smell, as I pulled the name tags out of each item of clothing… so that some other woman wouldn’t be walking around with name Carole Q. ironed on to each of her lapels or waste bands. Tearing those labels out was brutal. Watching the little pile of labels grow, and then throwing them away, was awful. The smell of Mom, all around me, was cruel.  I kept finding myself holding an item and wanting to just hold her again. Then, I’d pull it together and get through the next pile of stuff. Deciding what to throw away was unbearable. Even the underwear, that no one would take, it felt like a violation to just toss them in the trash. Then there were the silly things that even Mom didn’t really want, but someone else took the time for: a holiday pin that some nurse or activities person made with care. There it is sitting in the pile and no one I know wants it, yet throwing it away seems so callous.

In the end, most things could be donated… but a few difficult things remained: Her remains. Her glasses, which were as much a part of her as her skin and hair, are hard to part with. Then, at the bottom of the bin: her teeth. There they were, sitting in a cup. I couldn’t just toss them, but a search on line of what to do with dentures, was very off putting. The garbage seems so disrespectful. So there they sit… on a counter…where I try to lay mail and other items on them, so we don’t have to look at them. There is the broken vase, that holds the fake remains of Mom’s beloved pug, Meea. There, I said it: the fake remains. The story is a long one, but if I do go to hell one day, it will be for those fake remains. (Or, that will certainly be one of the reasons!) Smart Guy, my husband, came home that night, saw the vase and said, “Well, we can throw these away now,” and I nearly tore his arm off grabbing them back. “No! I’m not ready yet.”  He stared at me. “But, they aren’t even real.” I wanted to cry, for the truth in those words. “Well, she thought they were real, and so they feel real now. I can’t just toss them away. I feel like we should mix the fake remains with Mom’s and then scatter them together.”  Smart Guy knew enough not to say anymore. He’s smart, sometimes.  (This broken urn holds my ticket to Hell.)

<– I keep Mom next to some of her favorite things. For now.

Strange to get to the bottom of that bin and be done with it all. It was truly awful to throw that pile of name tags away, and toss things that at some point meant something to Mom, yet I can’t keep it all either.  Yesterday I donated what I can. The Y was very grateful for so many useful things. We’re not all tripping over the bin anymore; it’s not hanging over my head.  Mom’s ashes, her remains, are tucked away in my dining room cabinet. She loved nice things, the china had been her’s at one time; it seems a good place to keep “her” until we scatter them. I didn’t have the heart to tuck them in a closet, or hide them away, but I didn’t want them in an urn either. She loved to go sailing, and that is what we’ll do. We’ll charter a nice boat, when the weather gets nice, and combine her ashes with those of her two beloved dogs (one set of ashes being, not real), and scatter them in the Bay. She would love that. But the teeth…what to do about those?

Have you had to sort through your parents things? What was it like for you? What was hard to get rid of, and what was not?

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business).

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Honest observations on many things, Life, Mothers, Musings, Personal change, Women's issues | Tagged , , , , , , | 14 Comments

Change: Pulling Up My Bootstraps…. Alas, Which Boots?

Posted on February 5, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it’s me.  ~Author Unknown

The phrase “pulling up my boot straps,” has been running through my mind for about ten days now. It pops into my thoughts out of nowhere, and I’m reminded (again) that I’m working on change, and it takes some movement. Not just off the sofa (watching Downton Abby and catching up on DVRs), but out of a rut that takes some patience and thought. The bootstrap reference is a funny one, given my love of boots, and the lack of straps on most of them. But, there’s a pair of boots for each task and I just need to figure out which ones to wear, pull them on and move forward.  It’s not exactly about the boots, it’s about the places they take me.

Things do not change; we change.  ~Henry David Thoreau

As many of you know, I’ve been dragging along through a year-long “shit storm.”  I haven’t shared all the details, but if you’ve been reading these posts long enough (I started June 28th, 2011) you know that it’s part mid-life crisis (for lack of a less clichéd term) and part personal catharses. Change. This past year has been all about change for me. Moving through some hard stuff, figuring out what direction I’m headed in, taking on personal challenges and trying to do the best job I could, caring for my Mom in what ended up being her last months of life. It was a very hard year, and I can’t say I’m sorry to see it end. Lot’s of great things came out of 2011 as well: writing successes I didn’t anticipate, seeing old friends, caring for Mom, and an amazing trip to Yellowstone, that was a true game changer. Still, over all, it was a lot of challenge and struggle.

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves; we must die to one life before we can enter another.  ~Anatole France

Relationships, and situations, that I’ve counted on for years, people I love, morphed…. I morphed. I haven’t been someone who really “lets go” easily, and it was an entire year where that seemed to be the prevailing message: learn to accept change, and let go.  I can’t hold on to those who are dying, they die eventually, and I go on without them.  I can’t make friendships stay the same, or fix them when they’re broken. Learning that some relationships aren’t healthy for either party, is a tough one, but seeing ones I’ve cherished languish and change, really took me down for a while.  I can’t expect family to always be the family I thought they were, or want and wish them to be, but it’s that much harder to accept change in  family relationships that I’ve believed in and nurtured. Hurt feelings heal slowly.  Kids grow up and change, and I can’t mold them anymore, or keep them little and near me.  I never intended to, and always thought I was that mother who doesn’t cling. But when my kids began moving in entirely different directions, I learned a lot more about fight or flight, than I’d anticipated. My own fight or flight instincts. They’ll never fit into the adorable little boots I still keep by the door (that they each wore, and wore, and wore some more), but I like to remember that they once fit them. I bought Middle Man some cool new boots for Christmas, a sign of moving on, right?

Those who expect moments of change to be comfortable and free of conflict have not learned their history.  ~Joan Wallach Scott

<– If I relied solely on pulling up boot straps, these are the only ones with a strap. I need to consider different options.

Loss and change go hand and hand.  Seems I’ve been stuck for a long time, when it comes to certain kinds of change.  This past year, I’ve been learning, the hard way, how to let go of some of these things and move with the flow. But it hasn’t been pretty: I stewed. I cried. I reached out. I raged. I retreated. I wanted, wanted, wanted to hold on and fix things, over and over; only to learn, over and over, that it can’t always be done… and often, shouldn’t be. So I cried some more, I raged some more, I withdrew some more… and then, I began to come around. The month of December came to symbolically represent the entire eleven months before it. As I sat in my mother’s hospice room day after day, I began to feel some clarity move into the darker spaces I’d been stuck in.  I worked on my manuscript.  I sat and watched old episodes of The Waltons, Little House on the Prairie, The Big Valley and Bonanza, usually nestled in bed with Mom. Watching shows from my childhood, gave me a chance to revisit old patterns, and sit with them a little. I sat quietly and thought, while she rested. I cried, a lot.  And at the end of it all, when she died, I felt a lot of feelings shift and lift away. Some of the things I’d struggled with seemed to simply melt in the days around and after her death. Others, I continue to work on, but ahhh, such relief in the release.

He that will not apply new remedies must expect new evils; for time is the greatest innovator. ~Francis Bacon, “On Innovation,” 1597

So all this change, has me finally pulling up my metaphorical boot straps and starting to move forward again.  I haven’t exactly spent the last five weeks, since my mother died, sitting at home crying, or licking my wounds. I’ve actually cried very little; having gotten a lot of it out in that final two months, when I seemed to cry with each shift of light, in a given day. I’m not stewing anymore about things, in general. I’ve just been trying to sit quietly, as things settle around me. That, in itself has not been easy, with five kids in this house until the middle of January, all of whom are not aware of the internal workings of a morphing mom. They notice when I’m bitchy cranky; they notice when I don’t make dinner; but the fact that my life is changing, seems to be a blip on others’ screens. And I get that. This past week, was the first full week that I could just plan some alone time. Theoretically. As it turned out, there was a lot of stuff waiting to fill the time slots. Health stuff that I’ve put off, had to be dealt with. Notes to write (in gratitude for many kindnesses), meetings to go to, piles of stuff to sort through.

Every possession and every happiness is but lent by chance for an uncertain time, and may therefore be demanded back the next hour.  ~Arthur Schopenhauer

I still have not sorted through my mother’s things. Such a small bin of things to sort, really, and yet I picked up the first sweater, smelled her on it and got no further.  Many of you know exactly what I’m talking about. The smell of an old boyfriend/girlfriend; that blanket you find, that still smells like your child when they were three (oh to cuddle that sweet neck, that sturdy little body, again);  the item of clothing that you keep tucked away, because you can still smell someone you’ve loved and lost (my grandmother’s sweater, my mother’s).  The sweater had been washed; all I had to do was fold it and put it in the donation pile. But, there I was holding it close and smelling my Mom, her scent as woven into the fabric as each cotton strand that made it. I didn’t smell her death, or her last days. I smelled her: waiting in my kitchen for dinner. I smelled her sitting on my deck, drink in hand and watching the water. I smelled my Mom, who I miss. So, I put the sweater away and left the bin for another day… when I have some sturdier boots on.              (Sturdy boots required->)

Change always comes bearing gifts.  ~Price Pritchett

<– Some things just take finesse and the courage, to wear the right boots out.

I find that after a year of reflection and change, and a new year to try on new things, change is gonna do me good. I am not waiting for people to help me feel better, anymore. My mother’s death clarified, in my own mind, that the family I’ve made around me, is sometimes tighter than the one I was born into. I knew that before, but I resisted it and kept hoping for something that clearly wasn’t real anymore. Now, I’m happy to know that I love who I love  and they love me however they can…  not necessarily how I wanted. Accepting that, is easier than hitting my head against a wall that isn’t going to move.  It felt like all year, 2011, I was trying to work out the reasons for change, and how to fix them, when I really needed to just let things go and accept where they are now. Loss is hard. I wish I did it better, that I didn’t struggle so much against the current, but I do, or I have.  The gift of watching my mother struggle and then leave us, was that the struggle was wasted energy.  I want my energy to be used where it’s productive, where it brings joy. It’s easier said than done, but at least I’m starting to really get it. I’ve felt myself beginning to stir again, after a few weeks to reflect and sit with my feelings. I am wanting to clean those closets, that have bugged me for ages; I’m writing more and getting ready to make some efforts to do something with that, and I’m accepting the notion of change, and more change.

The only man I know who behaves sensibly is my tailor; he takes my measurements anew each time he sees me.  The rest go on with their old measurements and expect me to fit them.  ~George Bernard Shaw

(<– Some days require the comfy boots, that pull on easily)

So this year, when my little girl, my first baby, graduates from college and heads off for wherever she is yearning to go, I’m breathing through it mindfully.  I may put on some comfy boots, for the transition, I may pull out the all- weather ones. I’m getting used to the idea now, accepting it, instead of hitting that wall in May. I’m trying to step aside and not hold onto the ideas I’ve fostered for nearly 22 years now. As my manuscript sits out there, in stranger’s hands, I’m not losing sleep over it. They like it, or they don’t. It’s already written, and as well as I could in the time that I wrote it. The next steps are the ones I take to make other things happen for my writing. I’ll take them… soon enough. I’m grateful for new friendships that have come along and brought smiles where I didn’t anticipate them, hugs when I needed them.  I’m grateful for the old ones that held true and shine on. I’m lucky to have family that circles the wagons and holds me dear, when I felt alone and overwhelmed. I’m lucky to have had so many people beside me, even as I thrashed in the water. I’m lucky for the people I didn’t count, who ended up counting a lot, with notes and friendly messages, when I needed it most. While I don’t generally use names here, I want Ruth to know that her steadfast wisdom, her kindness and love were a brighter light than she knew. It is not that she did more than others who care for me, but it was so unanticipated, and so beautifully delivered. And, I know she reads every post.  It’s those unexpected gifts that have come out of the change, that have made the idea of movement forward, the idea of letting go, so much easier. It doesn’t seem like I’ll fall as far, with so many nets beneath me.

If you don’t like something change it; if you can’t change it, change the way you think about it.  ~Mary Engelbreit

<– There are  a lot of ways to look at things. Sturdy, comfy, reliable, flexible.

A lot of the changes in the past year really come down to seeing it differently. Shifting perspective. Sometimes, that means letting go entirely of the way I saw it before, the way I want(ed) it to be (whatever “it” is), but sometimes it’s a sudden shift, and I see something differently. I was thinking about Principessa’s graduation, her (final) return to school a few weeks ago, and Maurice Sendak’s Where The Wild Things Are came to mind. “Oh please don’t go, we’ll eat you up we love you so!”  I’ve read it hundreds of times it seems and always saw the Wild Things as beasts who wanted my children… but what if I was the Wild Thing all along?  Roaring my terrible roars, gnashing my terrible teeth, and rolling my terrible eyes, trying to keep my kids close.  In the end, they must, like Max: yell “No!”  They’ll leave, but they eventually sail back.  When I heard Stevie Nicks’ Landslide, at my High School graduation, I presumed it was all about growing up. Now, when I hear it, the words have such a different meaning… I’ve aged into it. “I’ve been afraid of changing, ’cause I built my life around you. But time makes you bolder, children get older, and I’m getting older too.”  Hmm. Maybe it’s not about high school graduation after all! (She said sarcastically)  It would be foolish to say that this girl has changed so much that change is easy, that letting go is comfortable. It’s not.  But I’m at least looking at all of my options, and ready to put on the right boots for the occasion.

Final Note: Yes, I may have too many boots. Accepting change and letting go, does not apply to boots and shoes, generally speaking. Smart Guy frowns and says, “Hmm, don’t you think you should get rid of a few pair.”  (As I line them up for the “photo shoot.”)  Umm… well, no.  Smart Guy lets go in a blink, on most things. I then retrieve the gems from the pile he puts in our donations basket, and sure enough, Middle Man has two new favorite sweaters, that would have been gone, baby gone. Not all holding on is bad!

Thank you to The Note Garden, for a wonderful source of “change” quotes.

What changes do you struggle with? Where do you stumble?  Which boots (in the pictures) would you donate? Be kind, I am attached to all of them. Wink, wink.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business). And go check out the new Tales From the Motherland Facebook page, and share some thoughts: https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland

Posted in Awareness, Blog, Blogging, Daily Observations, Death, Death of parent, Ego, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Mothers, Musings, My world, Parenting, Personal change, Women's issues, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 16 Comments

Pinch Me.

Posted on February 3, 2012 by Dawn Quyle Landau

Note:  I apologize. There was a time, not so long ago, when I rarely left the house without my camera. Technology has made me lazy.  I even thought about taking my trusty SLR with me, but walked out without it. Got your phone, you’ve got your camera, I thought.  But alas, the photos are not nearly so beautiful. None of the crispness and clarity of my Nikon. So, while I snapped away today, the photos here are a real disappointment, for me…. still, given the day, there weren’t many bad shots.

   

^^^^   At Play.  Did I mention that Smart Guy is really tall, and I am actually a fire hydrant?

I started out writing an entirely different blog today… something I’d been writing in my head for days. It will have to wait. Instead, the sun came up; the sky was blue; Smart Guy had a day off (and hadn’t scheduled several other things), and we got one of those magical days, that reminds me (even more) why I am so grateful to live where I live. It was a “Pinch me, I must be dreaming day.” It started, however, as many things in our house do: over-thought, master-minded, a power play. By day’s end, we were all winners.

Smart Guy can’t sit still. He just can’t do it. If he’s not at work, there’s always a project to be done; always something to fill the time. To be clear here, he is super athletic and really likes to get out and hike, mt. bike, road bike, run, or do any number of other studly things that I wouldn’t necessarily choose to do with him. If he’s not doing that, then there’s organizing, cleaning, “stuff” to do at home. I’m often not inclined toward that either… So, when he told me yesterday that he had Friday off, I kept quiet and waited to see what the weather would do. Herein is where the over-thinking, master-minding and power-playing began.

Weather is an issue with us. Yes, weather. I do not like to “check the weather,” almost never. Smart Guy and I have a long standing battle over this. He checks the weather Every day, no matter what. He checks the forecast for today, tomorrow and next week. I do not. He then likes to tell me what he has found, and I tell him (every time) that I don’t want to hear it. I don’t like to think about what the weather may be like; I don’t like the anticipation. Surprise me. Let’s call a spade a spade, all those jokes about forecasts are not exactly out of nowhere. They’re often wrong. Weather changes, and around here, often and quickly.  So, I do not like to check the forecast. Stop: I know; there are times when you need to know. If we are going back packing for a few days, I too want to know what the weather will be. If I’m going skiing on Baker, I want to know if it will be my kind of ski day (blue bird, no wind, perfect snow) or his (tons of powder, more falling). However, on a day to day basis, I really like to be surprised. I like to wake up, and see what’s out there… not anticipate it and then be frustrated when the blue skies don’t come, or the rain does, or the sun pushes me out into an adventure. I don’t mind Smart Guy obsessing about the weather; he’s a detail person. However, I despise that he insists on telling me what he finds, even when I’m plugging my ears, and singing loudly “I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, la, la, la!” He’s so immature about this subject.

When I came across an article by Pico Iyer, a couple of years ago, that not only supported, but celebrated my view, I figured I’d won. How could Smart Guy argue with Pico?  The opening line of the article reads: “Not knowing the future helps Pico Iyer keep his hyperactive mind at bay. Then, whether it snows tomorrow or dawns radiant, every moment is a happy surprise.”  Exactly! Clearly he was speaking directly to me, with the “dawn’s radiant;” in fact, the article pretty much sums up my views perfectly!  I willingly admit to a hyperactive mind; and I love surprises. The rest of the article (do read it, when you’re finished here) speaks right to me, not just because I appreciate most things Pico Iyer says, but because I aspire to much of what he says (especially) in this article, and live by many of the same beliefs.

So, yesterday, when I heard that Smart Guy had a day off, I ignored the few tasky ideas that came out of him, nodded absently and began to plot. “Let’s go to La Conner,” I suggested as he organized himself for the next morning. La Conner is a wonderful little town, about 40 minutes from where we live. If it’s a nice day, it’s heaven on earth. If it’s raining, it’s still pretty cool… but not my first choice, so I didn’t push. I hadn’t checked the weather. “Hmm, we’ll see. I have a meeting in the morning, down in Skagit… seems silly to drive down there and then drive down there again,”  he answered, absently. He was distracted and I knew he wasn’t taking my suggestion very seriously. I stayed quiet, plotting. My plan was already forming and I opted to wait and see how the day looked. What the weather would be.

<– Those white spots, are Trumpeter Swans, from quite a distance. They’re huge!

When I pulled back the room darkening curtains Friday morning, voila! One blue sky morning and a determined moi (a French day, clearly). When Smart Guy got back from his meeting, he immediately talked about some hikes we might do…”Um, I’d really like to go to La Conner. It’s a perfect day for it.” He was stumped. I wasn’t exactly asking; I didn’t offer much wiggle room.  I could finesse it here, make myself look better,  but I think my tone offered no other options.  I’d thought it through: he wouldn’t be sitting still, and I was going where I wanted for a change. Win/win.

The drive down was spectacular! The air was cold and crisp, offering crystal clear views of the Olympic Peninsula, the Canadian coastal range, the San Juan Islands to the West, and Mt. Baker at each twist in the road. I live for days like this!  I feel like Dorothy, clicking my heels: There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. Not a single regret about moving here ten+ years ago. Not a single one. The fields in Skagit county were all freshly plowed, waiting for tulips to begin popping up, and the tulip festival in two short months. The trumpeter swans have begun to arrive and we saw flocks of them, stretching their long, snowy necks in the warm sun.  I love farm country. I love that you can see the mountains all around you, and the islands as well, while driving through this farm country. We live in one of THE most beautiful places on earth and on a day like today, it shimmers at every turn. It makes me giddy.      (Mt Baker shining in the background, all day.)

(A favorite place to eat, local totem pole, views from the shops, and artsy displays= La Conner)                            

We went straight to Calico Cupboard for lunch. A salad would have been wise, but Monte Cristo and shared bread pudding. How could a club sandwich, dipped in egg and grilled in butter be anything but great? It was yummy. Amazing, with the sun shining, on a spontaneous road trip. We popped into the shops I we  like, looked at art, stopped in to the wood store he we like so much… we took our time, and we soaked up desperately needed vitamin D. There are few places where you can shop and look out at the sail boats, 200 feet away.  Brilliant; it was simply brilliant. No big crowds, because it wasn’t a weekend; few tourists. It was La Conner at it’s best.

    

^^^ View from the changing room… ahhh.

On the way home, we drove to Padilla Bay Sanctuary and walked 4 miles, along the water. The birds were amazing today. We spotted a bald eagle chasing down a tern… diving and swooping, like fighter pilots. For those of you who don’t see bald eagles often, they are amazing birds in the wild. In our area, they are so common that I have friends (who will remain nameless) who laugh when I get excited over them. “Oh, look a seagull!”  Someone I know says, each time I thrill at seeing an eagle. Fool. The isn’t a seagull isn’t our National icon. I never get tired of them. They are enormous, majestic and stunning to watch… today, we pulled the car over to watch the spectacle over the fields. Along the Padilla trail, the water and sky competed for blue. The islands, marsh grasses and rotting pylons were beautiful contrast. The salty air, the sparkling water… Pinch me, I kept thinking… it felt so good, to feel that good.

   

Final stop was Bow-Edison, my favorite one block town anywhere. The childhood home of Edward R. Murrow. The Edison Cafe has all kinds of memorabilia from his early days, and his time in high school. The small town is literally one block long and has some of the most wonderful galleries and food, per square foot, anywhere. Whimsy in every garden, at every door; art and lovely things in each window; it is a magical, little town, that always makes me smile.  We can’t pass through without stopping at the Farm to Market Bakery, for Smart Guy’s favorite lime soaked polenta cakes. I’m a pecan bar girl: win/win. Giddy: I felt giddy all day, silently in my hyperactive mind. Outwardly, I felt a happy calm that has been missing for weeks now. Surrounded by all the things that I love, in nature: the sea (the Sound, but same thing), the mountains, farms, color and textures, sunshine and art, made for a perfect day. There really isn’t a single thing I would have changed. (Bow-Edison: these are a few of my favorite things)

   

<— (This isn’t even the best turn out, but there isnt’ really a bad view on Chuckanut Drive.)        Driving back along Chuckanut Drive:  close your eyes (or click the link) and imagine a winding, twisting road, that hugs the cliffs and looks out through the Madrones (also called Arbutus, and one of my very favorite trees) at the shimmering water; with shards of light cutting between the islands.  It is the perfect drive to take, at the end of any day. Happy, happy, joy, joy! When we came in and the kids said, “How was your day?” I answered “Perfect.” When they asked one minute later, “What’s for dinner?”  I simply smiled. Pinch Me.

Stop! Really. Read this.  Please note:  If you enjoy these posts hit “Like” and make me smile. It also helps my blog grow and that is the point. Go back and hit Like.  Thanks. Then, be a good dooby and “Share” them with others; it’s nice to share. Better yet Like them; Share them and then do something nice for yourself: “Subscribe.” You won’t get any spam, you can sign up with an anonymous name (I won’t know who you are, unless you tell me),  and you will get an email each time I post.  Think of it as a free gift to yourself.  You know you want to. Go ahead, make my day (sorry about the gun, but this is serious business). And go check out the new Tales From the Motherland Facebook page, and share some thoughts: https://www.facebook.com/TalesFromTheMotherland

Posted in Awareness, Beauty, Blog, Blogging, Car trips, Honest observations on many things, Humor, Life, Musings, My world, Wonderful Things, Writing | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 11 Comments