I should be working on my book but I can't right now. I have Town Meeting tonight and dinner to make and everyone's around, so blogging is the thing. And of course I should probably write about yesterday, but as often happens when things are very big, I just can't. I have to go sideways into it. Oblique = less threatening
So first I will tell you about this little funny sweet thing Ned found yesterday. It is images from the Disney movie Alice in Wonderland (or Allison Wonderland, as some in my little family say). These images are set to music that is really chopped up bits of dialog and sounds from the movie! Very weird. Gives me the same strange, flinchy feeling as the movie itself.
When Natty watched it, he was mesmerized. Allison is one of his favorite movies, though as I said I think it is too weird and it gives me an icky feeling everytime, a kind of cringing dread mixed with Pepto-Abismol pink saccharine boredom. But Nat watched this little vid and he had the strangest little smile on his face -- kind of Cheshire-like.
So, yesterday. The thing that sticks in my head is when we brought Nat in, at the end. We did this because he is 18 and we have not completed the guardianship yet, so I thought we ought to bring him into the process somewhat. So he came in, after a lot of the difficult details of his upcoming education plan were ironed out (goals like improving his ability to perform household tasks; beginning work at a Papa Gino's (!); conversing about what he has read; use of a debit card and cell phone). I felt so proud of all of the plans we were making. It sounded to me like a very full life, one that would interest, prepare, and delight him.
Nat came in and everyone sighed in happiness, because he is just so sweet and beautiful. He is very well loved there, I am always so impressed and moved by that. He sat down and our liaison summarized the meeting for him, and asked if felt it was okay that Ned and I made the choices for him about his school work for the coming year. He said, "Yes." We asked a couple more times, to be sure he had processed the question, and then he signed his own IEP! "N-A-T, Nat," he said. "B-A-T-C-H-E-L-D-E-R, Batchelder." And it was done. I felt a bit odd, like I had fallen down a rabbit hole myself, but also hugely relieved to have it be over, and so smooth.
Nat's IEP this morning. Oh, God. The goals this time are to be not only what he does during the school day, but what he does in the Residences. I am also bringing a document regarding the guardianship. It is the formal disclosure to Nat about what is going on. In essence, a neutral person must read to him the plan for our guardianship. I think his teacher could do this, being a dear and sensitive person. "A lot going on!" as my mother would say.
I am afraid I am going to be very emotional, either during or after this meeting. I have so many feelings about it: eagerness to formulate really good goals; nervousness about the un-anticipated, the surprises; relief to get this discussion going; and of course, such bittersweet pangs. But I also feel like I'll be okay.
While I was riding my favorite bike ride on Sunday, the song Melissa came onto my shuffle (I ride with one ear bud in and sing while I ride). Melissa, by the Allmans -- that powerful brotherly duo before the peach truck ended Dwayne's life -- is the song that I most connect to Nat. It is the song that was on my Labor Tape, which Laura and I made together as part of my birth plan for Baby #1. Of course we never used the Labor Tape, but I played it a lot in my car while waiting for that baby of mine to arrive. I didn't know I was having a boy, even though he had shown himself to me in a dream. I was always reluctant to read the signs, way back then, to trust my intuition. Anyway, I thought that if it was a girl, I would name her Melissa. I was so eager to have this baby, and I would express this impatience to my Grandma, who would always say, "In a gutte shu (?) (It will happen when the time is right)."
The beautiful opening strummed chords of Melissa came on, and I did not push the button to skip it, as I often do these days when I want to stay pumped. Instead I plunged into the treacle; I got sucked into the sweetness of sadness indulged and wallowed while the endorphins and adrenaline worked against this and kept me going. I listened to the words and let all those powerful feelings descend. "Crossroads -- will you ever let him go?" And it came to me that we really do have to let our children go, as people are always telling me. It's like we are given these beautiful souls to take care of for a brief time (that seems endless when they're young) and we nourish them and learn from them, and they from us, and then they go on their way.
So I suddenly felt like, yes, it is okay to let Nat go. It is time. To let him move out, even though that is not necessarily his plan right now, and give him the opportunity to grow and learn among others. To live his own life apart from me. And then, to come back and visit and reconnect in new and unknown ways.
As I always tell Ben, when he is scared to try something new that I know will help him: It will be okay. This is what I knew, at last, as I pedaled home.
Oppressed by the wide open glorious day. I have no excuse to feel this way. Purely ornery. It is a lovely weekend, nothing needs to be done. Even my children are obliging by showing their best selves. Nat and I talked before he went to bed last night about the situation with lights, and how if he was calm and quiet this morning, we would make pancakes.
So he was. So we did. I ate none of them. I had eggs, Atkins style. Back on that for a little while to reduce the belly that even hours of bellydance and other ab work cannot seem to flatten. My trophy from successful childbirth? Great, but did I have to win the grand prize?
Sometimes I feel like my socioeconomic peers -- all of whom seem to have wonderful plans for this Memorial Day weekend -- are the people who do everything more beautifully than you, like the character in that Sylvia comic who ages terracotta pots with yogurt and monograms her children's underwear. Most everyone around me seems to know how to drink beer and "hang out." Ned and I don't really "hang." He doesn't go out with The Guys; he never has. We both have a few very very close friends, but that's it. There isn't much hanging out to be done. We see our friends here and there, but it's each other that we hang out with. And when one of us is glued to the laptop, then the other one has to fend for his/herself.
Yesterday I was so oppressed by the laughter of my happy neighborhood, floating over my way that I told Ned I wanted to move. He said, "Okay." I went upstairs and lay down. Ned came up and softly rested his hand on my hip while I slept it off, like a bad drinking bout. He knew it was just something I was saying, because I didn't know what to do with my feelings.
Today he said of one particular friendly-sounding get together down the street, "Let's just walk over there," and I said, "Okay." And then we both looked at each other, a little wide-eyed. I truly understand my shy and perhaps anti-social or otherwise labeled children, because I am one of them. They came from us, after all. And here we are, at our dining room table, typing away while Nat marches all around the first floor, chatting himself up, and Ben plays the Wii; we are each our own island, for better or worse.
Today began rough, just like yesterday. Nat is completely on edge again, unable to relax. He is very upset about a light that is on in the distance, at a neighbor's house. They are probably out of town for the holiday weekend. I had to explain to him, after he bit his arm and lunged at me, that this is what happens on some weekends. People go away and they leave lights on.
Just as last summer, hearing the explanation after the initial outburst seemed to help. The rest of the day was better, with Nat going off with Gina (his other Northeastern buddy) down to Weymouth where the mini-golf lady treated him to a free game and free ice cream! Another fan for Nat! We also adore Gina. Ned said, "If only we could get her here at 5:30 a.m. when Nat is stomping around and screaming about the lights outside." Or a be-be gun to shoot out the lights.
I went to Mahoneys with my friend while Nat was out. I bought two clematis vines to put in the sunniest spot in the front garden. It all looks heart-swellingly beautiful and smells like chocolate and blossoms because of the cocoa-hulls mulch. Got really tired and ate some chocolate (the power of suggestion).
Nat came back in a great mood and settled in for the rest of the afternoon here. We had fresh corn and sausage and salad, and ate a lot.
My mind turned to dancing as it often does after dinner. I realized that in exactly one week I will be having my Petite Jamilla workshop, at long last. This will be a six-hour workshop, half of which will be on double-veil and spinning. The other half is with Bellydance Superstar Kami Liddel, who is more of a tribal bellydance girl. That will be okay, too. Tribal is a great way to gain control over your body, with all the snake-like and slow movements.
This is the workshop which ends with a Bellydancing with the Stars segment, where the girls who take the workshop can do a 3-minute routine for the Bellydance Superstars! I got the reminder email and it looks like I am second in the dance line-up (listed as "Lilia.") I will be dancing to the Natacha Atlas version of "I Put a Spell on You," of course. I practiced the piece for about 25 minutes today, with Nat watching about half of it, and with Ned filming me so I can critique my performance. I'm pretty happy with it, but I'll spare you. I have been sufficiently chastened about blogging since reading the NYT mag today.
I figure that I'll be able to get through this recital (my first) because it will be after a long workshop and that builds camaraderie. Plus I'll have some wine.
For the last few months, usually on Saturdays, Nat has been going out with his Northeastern buddy Julie, and with his friend Scott, and Scott's buddy Christine. Their travels usually include eating somewhere like California Pizza Kitchen, or Chinese food.
It is a delightful foursome. Julie and Christine enjoy each other's company, as they oversee Scott and Nat's interactions with the world at large (usually downtown Boston). Nat and Scott are very comfortable with each other. They have known one another since they were eleven, having first met at the Special Olympics gymnastics team, both of their first SO experience. They have always gone to different schools, but they have similar interests: sports, bowling alleys, hanging out with lovely young women, and fine dining. Oh, and apparently, massage chairs.
It was after 9:30 p.m. I was finished dancing and about to shower, when I realized that Nat was pacing a lot downstairs. This is often his reminder of some aspect of the nighttime ritual that has not yet occurred. I rushed over to the little kitchen, which houses all the food and storage stuff for the kitchen. I pulled down the pillbox, assuming this was next.
There were no Thursday night pills. Pill-cutting is an arduous weekly task around here, and because of all the little pills and the differences in dosages and times of day, it is easy to forget a time slot. I assumed I had forgotten Thursday night, and I muttered this with Nat looking, interested, over my shoulder, while delving into the Friday night pills to pilfer from there. I poured the orange and white tidbits into my hand, but Nat did not get his glass of water.
"You already had your pills!" he shouted.
"What? Oh," I said, and poured the pills back into Friday, yelling, "Hey, Ned! You already gave him the pills, and didn't say anything!! I almost gave him another bunch!!" What, was he so involved with his computer? I was poised and ready for a little fight over this.
"But Nat told you," Ned said calmly. Nat told me. I was shaking as I considered this, three little words that change everything.
I felt a blog post rumbling around inside me like gas. I am achey and bloated and avoiding. There are so many things I don't want to face. So I'm eating and eating and trying to stay full, but the thing is, there is a big fat juicy elephant in this dining room. Nat is moving out on July 28.
Big exhalation of air. My fat full belly pushes against my belt buckle, my shoulders hunch and my hands are splayed like giant crabs across my keyboard. Crumbs everywhere, boys scattered all over the house. I want to sleep to get away from my head.
I have been forcing myself to do things with Nat, to keep going, to keep interacting, but I just feel as if I'm behind a wall. Every now and then I just stop him during his insanely quick pacing, and I give him a soft kiss. I stare into those endless Natty eyes and I just keep wanting to cry, cry, cry. How sorry I am that I could not do this myself, that I could not teach him everything he needs to know to get along out there. That stupid world. How I hate it. How I hate my inability to ease his disability.
I don't want to deal with this. I focus on his IEP goals, spelling out specifically to his teachers what he can work on in the residences. I fill his weekends with social group and trips with his Northeastern U. buddies, chores, and walks with Ned.
But I am not looking at him as much because I feel guilty. He doesn't know yet. I don't know how we are going to tell him. We are going to discuss this issue at the IEP meeting next week. We'll have ideas then. Until then I feel heavy with my gorging and my secrets.
Tuesdays are full and crazy, but I luvs them. Tuesdays are when I have my Baby Bellies, and when I have to make the school newsletter, Lincoln Lines. It is a lot of working getting through both, and there are times when I have wanted to quit, but I am proud of myself for hanging in there.
Today was a good day, albeit busy. In the morning I got an email from a dad at the school who is also a good friend of ours, and he had at item for the newsletter about the Pumpkinfest Golf Tournament. Pumpkinfest is our school's biggest fundraiser, and it is crazy busy and successful. There is, among many things, a silent auction, and the tournament was one of the prizes to bid on. I was psyched when I got the email about it because now I had my lead story. I told Ned and he said, "You are such a huge dork."
Well, yes. But he doesn't understand how much fun it is running a tiny media empire. I love amassing school news items from various sources: the main office, the front door notices, the school website, and parents and teachers sending me emails. Most everyone gets stuff to me by my Monday deadline, and by Tuesday afternoon, after the Baby Bellies, I can take an hour or two and lay it all out online. I come up with attention-grabbing headlines; I decide what is front page news and what is stuck in the back; I edit things so that they fit and are clear; and I get Ben to do art for a story or two. Sometimes I use Clip Art, but that stuff is so corny. Ben's stuff is edgy and powerful, like this one he did for the golf tournament: [if no image, Blogger sucks]
I was in some kind of zone today, because it went well with the Baby Bellies. It has not gone that well much this session; there are 13 girls, plus occasional playdates come along, and I have had a hard time with all the chaos. I talked to a friend who runs an afterschool baking class like mine, and she said that the thing to do is hold them off on the snack as long as possible, and only expect to be able to teach them 30 minutes worth of stuff. The rest of the time is eating and running around.
But more than that stellar advice, there was also my expectations being too high. These are very little girls, for God's sake. What was I thinking, that they had to learn so much bellydance? It hit me like a clap of thunder today: let them play with the veils, who cares? That's pretty much all they like, anyway. And who can blame them? They are floating color! Candy on the breeze! Silken rainbows!
But I could not let go entirely. I still made them practice the "fold and hold" (making a pocket around themselves with their veils folded sideways and held in one hand) and camels (S-shaped body waves stepping forward). One of them insisted we call the camel move "Figs," after her pet dog, whose belly apparently undulates in the same fashion. So then I said that we should do the camels -- er, Figs -- into the center of the circle when we do our recital piece, instead of the hip-lift-walk that becomes an utter mess when they try to do it.
This was easy to teach, too. You push your lower belly out, leaning back on your heels, then push your upper belly forward, followed by your chest, bringing your foot forward in a stepping motion, then pulling your shoulders back and lower belly forward again. That is how you get the "S" shape.
The girls were very good at the Figs, and the move looked much better in the piece, as I thought it would. I was so happy with their progress that I let them have their donut holes a little early and sat back while they chased each other, all wrapped up in my veils. Two of the youngest fell and got a little hurt, so I said we had to stop running with veils. I could tell that the oldest ones, whom I had kind of yelled at last week, were trying extra hard to listen to me, and I felt moved by their sweetness and it made me feel very loving towards them. And they responded by seeming happier in class than ever. One of them actually started going through my songs and picking out the ones she liked, and getting the others to just dance to them. I figured this was as good as anything else, just getting them interested in World Music, rather than shlocky pop. We only have two classes left, and as long as they practice their fold and hold and their Figs, we should be in good shape. Even with 8 donut holes per BB.
Old friends Sat on the park bench like book ends. --Simon and Garfunkel
Appearance is a funny and misleading thing. I visited an old college friend in New York this weekend, because I was giving a talk and I needed a place to stay. This is a guy who was actually so dear to us that he was one of the ushers in our wedding party. He was one of my favorite people in my dorm way back when. Ned's too. He could imitate Mick Jagger and many others -- and so could I -- and that was something we used to do often into the late hours of the morning. For my birthday once he rented "Funny Girl," my favorite movie, and gave a viewing for all of our friends in his dorm room, where he had a VCR (no one owned those back then!) and a large t.v. Another time, he got us all to watch "The Shining," a movie that had scared the crap out of me the year before (freshman year), and he got me to appreciate it and even laugh at it. Ned and I had so many great times with him.
He and his partner own an apartment in the Dakota, and when he invited me to stay with them, I was very excited. I was also surprised by how intimidated I felt at first! Partly because I am not used to staying with friends without Ned, because it has been decades since I hung out with this friend for so long, but also because of his amazing digs and lifestyle. I am a creature of comfort, I love beautiful things, and I get kind of swept away by fame sometimes, I'll admit it. And this place! The apartment itself, the square footage, is bigger than my house. Same era as my house, a time of heavy dark woodwork, large spaces, high ceilings, sumptuous fittings everywhere. A shower bigger than my entire bathroom at home. First apartment building on that part of Manhattan. John Lennon lived there. Yoko Ono still does. Central Park, literally across the street, is the view from most rooms.
I was full of excitement and a little dread over all the glamor, but I got back to my old feeling with him, however, within minutes. We walked a little in the park, and then had a fun dinner in Trump International Tower. It was a heady feeling being there, too, in this restaurant where celebrities dine, and where everyone knew my friend. But in the end it was just a good place to eat, very friendly and warm, not at all snobby. Later we walked home in the light rain. Tons of people going places, because it was Saturday night in New York.
I think one of the best moments was waking up, my heavily shuttered enormous window open slightly to the sounds of the rising city on a Sunday, the sun lighting up the trees below; each one seemed to be a different shade of green. I felt like Eloise. My friend was in the kitchen making a pot of coffee and emptying his dishwasher. Sitting with him and talking during my favorite time of day before doing one of my favorite things (give a talk) was just bliss. It is just so bittersweet to reunite with an old, old friend and see what is the same and what is different. I was so happy for him, to see him, to get to know his partner and see how well-matched they were, finishing each others' sentences, laughing so much, having New York at their feet. But it was, in the end, the same old guy.
When I walked outside to catch a cab, there were tourists photographing the building. I was standing in the front gates with my sunglasses on waiting for the cab and some of the tourists were looking at me. I have to admit I felt kind of like a star at that moment, but little did they know -- it was only me, on my way to Queens!
Hey Neddy, you got the love I need maybe more than enough Oh darling, darling, darling Walk a while with me You got so much, so much...
Over the Hills and Far Away, Led Zep (and me)
That is what I ran to this morning. Thinking about Ned. So special. Golden, commanding, quiet, brilliant. Loyal, true, like a fairy tale prince. I was thinking, how is it that love lasts? Given all the mistakes and human ugliness? I hear so much about how it fades. You merely coexist. For the sake of continuity, for the sake of the kids. For something else. But I feel so, so, so grateful that for us it is not like that. Sometimes I cannot believe the blessings in my life.
(Knock wood).
It is my turn to help him. I want his birthday to be great, fun, exciting, peaceful, whatever he truly wants. I want his Father's Day to be fantastic, because he is such an amazing father. But those events always coincide, and are also the same days as Nat's State Games. How do I make each celebration really count for him? How can I make him as filled up with me as I am with him?
I don't know if it's the terrible tragedy that occurred here, that I wrote about in my last post, or if it is Nat's imminent move-out, but I feel like I was hit by a ton of bricks. I could not exercise, I could barely meet my good friend for a walk. It is a painfully beautiful day, but I spent about an hour crying. I was thinking about Nat. I am sorry to be so emo about it, but it is just huge to me. This is not about my having doubts. This is about the separation, pure and simple.
It has been a year of looking at little babies and swooning with motherlust. A year of joyful teaching of little girls and getting to know them, pouts and all. A year of watching my Max become a man, full of healthy skepticism, rebelliousness, and contempt for us, his parents. At the same time, he is still my Little, Little, with wide blue eyes and an all-knowing smile.
And I have experienced Benji becoming a more empathic, sweet and thoughtful person. He actually said to me today, "I am happy today."
So even though I was burdened by my own depression, I could smile in sweet relief at those words, and at all the things going on in my life. I look at Natty, my Natty, my firstborn, and I want him back. I want those days when he was a baby, and I want to enjoy them this time. I want, I want, I want. But I can't have. I have to work on pushing him out of the nest, I who once dreamt of constructing a nest of iron and ten-foot walls, with nothing but the softest pillows inside...
Okay, okay, I'm letting my ultra-sticky morose meanderings drip all over you all. Please forgive. This is how it's going to be for awhile, while I step around yet another Big Thing in the path.
An Anonymous reader left a comment on a recent post about Brookline, tipping me off to a terrible crime that occurred just a few days ago in town: an autistic 12-year-old girl was apparently raped right in a nearby park by her van driver. You can read the horrible story here.
This man, who was arraigned today, also drove Nat a few years ago! I never thought anything negative about him. And of course he has yet to be proven guilty. That aside, this is every parent's nightmare, particularly if you have a child who cannot readily communicate. What a horror.
I can only hope and pray that this family can heal, especially the little girl. God only knows what this is like for her.
Every now and then there will be a moment where Max still opens up and shares himself with us. I try so hard to give him his space to let him grow, and sometimes he gives me glimpses of the complex and thoughtful man he is becoming.
Max and his friend A worked for weeks on this claymation film for AP French, where they are studying French African and Middle Eastern countries, and learning about the Muslim influences there. They did a lot of research and were particularly moved by the abuse of women there. He was blown away by the repression in Afghanistan, the high percentage of arranged marriages and also the high number of women who die in childbirth. And I was blown away by Max's talent and of course, so happy to see what's going on in his life and mind.
I am working on Nat's new IEP goals, taking the residential move into account (coming in July).
I can't bear it!! Don't tell me it is good for him. I feel like I'm abandoning him!
Don't remind me of my other two sons. I feel like Sophie, in Sophie's Choice. Any way I choose, I lose.
Everything I write down for the team to take into account, I feel a pang of , "Will they take good care of him? Will they know what he needs and wants? Will they make sure his bed is the way he likes it (sheets totally untucked, pillow mutchered). Or will they take advantage of him somehow? How will he address his private needs there safely and appropriately? Will they make him stop stimming? Will he like the kids he is in there with? Does he prefer "higher functioning" kids? How horrible is it, to wonder that?? I am horrible.
I feel like I should convert the basement into an apartment, find a great person to live there with him, let him transition slowly to living apart from us. Just like when he was little, I wanted to take him out of school and teach him myself. Keep him from the nasty world. Teach him everything in the safety and warmth of our home, until he was ready. Until I was ready. But Ned told me I was crazy, I couldn't do it myself. I was too scattered, not a trained teacher. Just a loving mother.
And now, it's the same. I worry that the rest of the world doesn't understand him and love him like I do and he will be sad. I can't stand the thought that he would be sad and no one would know, that they might just think it's behavior or something to "reduce."
My trellises arrived just in time for Mother's Day! Ned put them up on my neighbor's garage wall to camouflage the ugly cinderblock. I love how it looks. I will probably train some kind of shade-loving vine to grow there, but it is so densely shaded, and the soil is so tightly packed and rocky that it will have to be a shallow-rooted vine, something that sends runners everywhere. Not sure which to choose because I need to be able to contain it and not have it consume the garage.
I spent all day picking out the rest of the plants and then digging holes. I must have been a gopher in a past life, because it gives me so much pleasure to do that. Cutting into thick soil is a bit like slicing a chocolate layer cake; and the sprinkling of cocoa shells I used as mulch got me thinking of chocolate, chocolate, chocolate! So we ate pancakes for dinner, to satisfy my sweet tooth.
I blew it this year in terms of buying Mother's Day cards on time. But --
Oh, Mommy!! How I love you.
Because of that day you put me in a navy blue velvet party dress and brushed my hair into a bun and said we were going to Old McDonald's Farm for the day.
For always being so happy to see me that you cry a little bit when we visit.
When you pronounced the air Out West to be so good you'd like to "bottle it."
For driving all those times with Laura's doll head hidden on your shoulder and not noticing it.
The way you love my kids.
Because you are so pretty, and always were, that I named my favorite doll after you.
Because you never wear any makeup, even at age 68!
For saying, "So, transfer!" when I was miserable at Trinity, my first college -- and so I did. You made it seem possible.
Because of the intense, sensory-filled way that you nurture and nourish your loved ones: with food, music, stories, sweet-smelling hugs, laughter, and even anger that is brief and just.
I am so thrilled with how the front yard garden is going. Yesterday I planted all the stuff I'd bought the day before at Mahoney's, my favorite garden store. Mahoney's in Brighton (a neighborhood of Boston) is for urban gardeners. It is almost a boutique, but it is just big enough that it has small yards of shrubs, another one for interesting planters, and another one for veggies and herbs, with a large barn full of indoor kind of stuff, as well as the main parking lot area of perennials, the garden's royalty; and annuals, the garden's ladies-in-waiting. Mahoney's used to be located in Cambridge, in an amazing location right off of Memorial Drive, so easy for me to get to, and so full of beauty and potential projects that going there was an event in itself for me (until that blasted Harvard took over the spot because of that wonderful location!). The first trip of the year to Mahoney's is still an outing worthy of blissful tears, as I enter the winding asphalt paths and duck underneath arbors planted cleverly and seductively with already-blooming clematis or akebia. It smells pink there, or fresh white, and it makes your heart skip a beat with anticipation of unfurling beauty and summer fun.
I feel like an Israeli Sabra, the way I turned the zorn of my sewage-pipe disaster desert into a blooming Land of Milk(weed) and Honey(suckle). I was fretting over the scree-strewn dust out front, and consulting with many different landscape architects, until suddenly one day this week I got tired of waiting. I got tired of $10,000 estimates just to do what I could do myself. I was sick of "experts" telling me that my gorgeous old apple tree was half-dead (I prefer to think of it as half-alive) or that I get no sun there (I get two hours of sun, which shines right where Nat's bus drops him off, so ha ha to you, Mr. Negative-Expert-I-Don't-Think-So). Or that my current path is too narrow and that my climbing hydrangea should not have been planted on my arbor. Once again, as often seems to happen in my life, the Experts are wrong! Genug schoen with the experts!
I got out my spades and rake and gloves (the lavender cotton ones now full of holes) and started getting rid of all the ugliness. Nat helped me dig small trenches for the bulbs Mom gave me, and I took my time (a miracle for me) spacing and laying out where all the flowers were going to go. I carefully chose all the prettiest blooming shade flowers that look as much as possible like their more stunning cousins, the full-sun perennials: white coral bells, white columbine, white bleeding heart, white and pink astilbe, pink hydrangeas, and one dwarf split-leaf mounding Japanese maple to gently oversee the lot. These flowers will always (literally) be in the shadow of the more glorious sun perennials but I think they will do very well in this location and therefore we can overlook their lesser stature and forest-y look.
I made a path in the lilies of the valley, most of which actually came back, despite having been bulldozed this fall to make way for the new pipe. I cleaned leaves out of everything, even by hand, to bring out the full beauty of my little planties. I lay some large stones here and there to break up the lilies a little, too. And now I need to transplant some sedum from my wall, right onto the footpath to give it that winding stone path look, and I need to plant the rest of Mom's bulbs. And I have decided that pink and white foxgloves will mark either end of the garden.
Ned and I chose some fantastic black wrought-iron gothic-window shaped trellises to cover my neighbor's garage wall, and I will espalier some shade vines there to complete the area. And perhaps an obelisk with vines right on the empty spot where the pipe project was at its most intense. Unless that would beongepatchket? Nah -- in gardening, more is more. (Actually, in most things. Most of the time when people say "less is more," they are trying to rationalize not spending money on something that probably needs it, like public education.)
When plumbers and experts give you lemons, plant lemon trees.
Nat will be featured on ABCNews.com in an upcoming website dedicated to autism, created by their Medical Unit. The producers told me that they hope to cover a wide range of aspects of autism, including adults who have autism and can illustrate their concerns or interests. They are going to stay away from the causes and hopefully also the negative messages that go along with discussion of cures. The news team will be taking photos of Nat at home and at swim practice, and Ned and I will narrate an audio piece to go with it. (This is instead of using video, which is still not always the clearest medium for the Internet.)
Our participation in this new project came about because of my friend Kim Stagliano. who is a writer and the mother of three girls on the spectrum, and although we differ in some of our focuses when it comes to autism, we are bonded in our fierce commitment to our family life and appreciation of our young 'uns in all their glory. Thank you, Kim!
The tender parts of the day catch in my throat and press against my brain until I let them out.
Benj fell asleep on his book (Harry Potter 3) tonight. His still little face rested on his arm, the book open to the Dementors chapter. Dear little boy.
Benj felt that Link was "so sad," because he'd been turned into an odd wood-like creature. I like that he was moved by Link's sadness.
Natty sang "Drift Away," today in music class and played the drum. He did not say a word most of this evening and I feel guilty that I know so little about what goes on with him, except for what's in the notebook. Manufactured or real? Old, old feeling. A slight pain that resides behind my eyes, feeling like I'm abandoning him for not knowing.
I have so little to say about Max because there is just a lot of feeling. Worry that this is somehow not right, the distance. A man, at lightning speed.
I leaned against the big oak in the front yard listening to "You Only Live Twice," by Natacha Atlas. I was resting after having raked out all the shrubs, cleaned up stones, trimmed dead branches, and spread new topsoil. The apple tree was in full bloom, dressed up in pale pink eyelet. I was tired and satisfied with the work I'd done.
One of the moms here is pretty sick, and undergoing heavy treatments. I always liked her, because she helped out at the school a lot, and she has two very nice daughters. I didn't know what to think when I heard how serious her illness was. I just felt scared, and sad, thinking about how she must feel, about how she might be leaving her daughters soon. I have been watching her quietly, secretly, wanting to help somehow, make her feel okay. We aren't really friends, though, so any overt offers might seem to be out of kilter, or all about the cancer. I don't want it to be all about the cancer; I am interested in her and how she is getting along, all of which was triggered by the illness, but --
So today I saw her on the bench by the main staircase at pick-up, and I smiled at her and sat down. We talked about the Baby Bellies, which her daughter had tried out. The girls in that grade are having trouble with meanness, and I certainly have noticed this in that group. So her daughter did not really enjoy the class yesterday. I was not surprised to hear that.
I was feeling good talking to her and so I then asked straight out but warmly, "So, how are you doing with everything?" And she knew what I meant. Her face changed for a second, a flicker of something, and then she settled back into her usual warmth and smiles and said, "Okay, just want to get through this part, you know, have it be over."
I knew. At least, I knew what I could know about this. Then she said, "I mean, what else can I do? Crawl away somewhere and not do anything about it?"
Then I understood. People were often implying that she was strong and somehow doing the right thing by having her treatments, when to her it looked like the only thing she could do. This is the way I feel about Nat. I am not brave, or a great mother, or special, or anything different from anybody else. I told her this, and it felt good that we both had pain to bear that was uniquely our own and yet which we could understand in the other. I do what I have to do. There is no choice. I take care of him. End of story. And I hate it when people ascribe greater strength or ability on my part. It just is. Mother, child.
And for this woman, her work to get well simply was. It was what she had to do. She said, "I was hoping today I could get my girls to just come and have some ice cream with me."
It was such a hot and sunny day and that image just lifted me right up. I felt envious of her, that she lets herself just eat ice cream and that she has girls to do it with. "Ooh, that sounds good," I said, and I'm sure I did not convey all that I felt.
But later on, in my kitchen, I got out the Ben and Jerry's Peanut Butter Cup and thought about that mom, and hoped she had managed to treat herself. I ate the entire pint and did not feel badly about it this time, because of her.
The entire Override ballot question passed! What a victory! In this economy! But the school families came out in droves and also convinced other citizens, many of whom are much older, and it passed by healthy margins in nearly every precinct. I had a good feeling that it would, but only the first part of the question, and not the World Language add-on. So when that piece also won, even in my fairly conservative precinct, I was overjoyed.
The 7-8p.m. part of Election Day is the best part. The sky is beginning to darken, and if you're lucky, as we were, it is still warm enough to stand without your jacket. The last straggling voters trickle in, and you feel so bold because the end is in sight, that you really engage with them about how they ought to consider voting. You get to meet people you've never seen before. Where do they come from? The silent houses and apartments in your neighborhood.
There is such an excitement and dread as 8p.m. approaches. We pollworkers make our way over to the election room and wait for the warden to count the votes. We make lame jokes about anything at all, each one of us thinking about our goal for the evening. Some are town meeting members hoping to win, or top the ticket. Some are working for selectmen candidates and have been there all day. Some, like me, worked on the ballot questions. We cluster inside with our pens and pencils ready. Sometimes people burst out in a grin, sometimes they just wander away after hearing the results. Most everyone gets on a cell phone in the now-dark outside and calls in results to headquarters/the party.
I heard the incredible numbers and called in Precinct 5 results and went to the party, getting in touch with my best friend and arranging to meet there. Her precinct had won, too. It looked good.
Even the superintendent was there. So many old friends, and lots of young parents, too. Lots of hugging, screaming, and red faces and poll stories. Five minutes after I got there we all realized it had passed. Good old Brookline!
Question: How many Baby Bellies does it take to put in a lightbulb?
Answer: It all depends on if you have enough snacks.
Today we had more than enough snacks. I brought graham crackers and goldfish, and one little girl brought in Starbursts. They went crazy over the snacks. I could barely get them back to class after the snack. We only had time for a tiny bit of practicing the grapevine. But they tried, God love 'em.
Before snack, we practiced the Misirlou a lot. I reminded them that I was not going to allow them to switch hip scarves and I also said I did not want to have to retie them a lot. So only two of them had problems this time. Interesting how that works. (Were my Baby Bellies spoiled before??)
We had class outside on the "plaza," the paved courtyard near the basketball court, because it was sunny and because with Election Day going on, the Multi-Purpose room was taken over.
They did not like being outside, but I did. They groaned at the hot sun, and needed a lot of water breaks, but thankfully there is a water fountain just inside the doors. They also complained at the way the Extended Day classes were "staring" at them. Kids cannot bear to be stared at. It is just as bad as being bullied or teased, in Ben's book (and, I suppose, the Baby Bellies' book).
"But you are performers," I said. "It's great to have an audience!" It sure made me feel more enthusiastic. I even got out my zills and started zilling while they practiced their Basic Egyptian hip walks. These were my new zills from Turquoise International. Just beautiful, like a bell.
I didn't bring enough veils, though, so some had to use hip scarves or just pretend. I snapped at one or two of them who were rude, like when one of them corrected how I pronounced another girl's name. "Don't correct me," I said. And when another asked "When is snack," for the tenth time, I said, "Don't ask me that again." It was pretty great, having them listen to me and actually practice the piece instead of chasing each other around. I wasn't mean, I was just annoyed now and then, and then sunny right away, like I always am. C'est moi.
They are really getting the Basic Egyptian, for the most part. That and the way they hold themselves seems to be improving. What a delight to see them pay attention to posture, arms, and now where they place their feet! How I love those Baby Bellies, even when I'm mad at them. Now I understand that the nature of a Baby Belly is to complain and pout and try to get attention. It is the Little Diva in them. It's what, in the end, will make them beautiful dancers.
No matter what I say about how I hate local politics, I am a diehard Brookline pol. Especially on the local election day, which is today. There is nothing like Election day in early May, where no matter where I go in town, I run into people I know carrying signs, wearing buttons, and handing out flyers. There is a lot of hugging and hand-shaking. It is friendly, neighborly, and a really great example of grass-roots democracy.
People gather at the schools or fire stations or public housing, where all sixteen (# corrected) of our precincts are housed. No matter what side of the issues you are on, on Election day you stand with everyone involved, and you shmooze. Election day is a giant Yenta-Convention, a total Schmoozefest. Those in the know realize that they must stand at the polls all day long and work for every single vote, or be sure they have coverage in each precinct.
In my precinct there are people who are staunchly "conservative," which in Brookline, Massachusetts probably does not come near to meaning what it means in, say, Midwestern United States or Arizona. (Note that my observations are strictly from a generally non-conservative person's viewpoint. I am fascinated with the Other Side, and I sometimes find myself with them, because I try to vote in a non-knee-jerk fashion.) Here, "conservative" generally means you are probably reluctant to raise taxes, and will require a year of studying an issue and then the blessing of the Board of Selectmen and the Advisory Committee before you will consider voting for that sort of change. The stuff that you vote readily for are things like new building developments, unless they happen to be in your own back yard. I am not trying to be nasty here; I am only stating my perspective as someone who has been in Brookline politics for lo, these past ten years.
There are also the strange political animal called "Moderates," which to me are the equivalent of lukewarm bathwater. I don't think I've ever been moderate in anything. I say choose a side and run with it! If you're wrong, admit that, smile, and move on. (dot org)
Those who qualify as "liberal" often prefer the term "progressive," and I don't know why. I love being allied with the Classical Liberals of Enlightenment and 1776 fame. John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, Jean-Jacques Rousseau (Social Contract), Ben Franklin (who founded my alma mater, and place where I met Ned, the University of Pennsylvania, by the way) and Peter the Great (who founded St. Petersburg) were Classical Liberals. Personal foibles aside, these were great men who came up with some pretty great ideas, or at least stole from others some pretty great ideas and made them even better.
In Brookline, however, you don't need to build a city or a university to be a great liberal. You probably need to be on Brookline PAX, (for "peace") which is largely a throwback, aging hippie, venerable old pro-peace, pro-labor, pro-affordable housing and diversity, pro-ACLU, and anti-trans fats-and-SUVs establishment. I am on their board, and though I do not agree with much of what they do, (though I own a Volvo, it is an SUV) I appreciate their hard-working idealism. PAX forces Brookline to be the best it can possibly be. Being born of two hippies, (my father introduced me to the Beatles and listened to the soundtrack of Hair when I was a little kid) I have a soft spot for the idealism of the '60's, and for the socialism of my grandparents (my grandfather's family were union organizers way back when). We are Classic New York Jewish Liberals and proud of it.
The Brookline conservatives force the PAXils (my term) to be more pragmatic, to hone their arguments and harness their statistics. And the PAXils force the conservatives to rise above their pocketbooks and think about the greater good. And on Election day, the best of both is brought out as they wrangle for the tiny percentage of voters who straggle into the polls until 8 p.m. At 8 p.m., I will be the one to tally up the votes for the Override, and I hope to God both parts of it passes, otherwise some pretty serious, ugly cuts are on their way to my beautiful town.
My agent has begun to negotiate with my publisher about my second autism book. This book has been a torturous process, with one proposal submitted a year ago, which Shambhala had accepted, but which I then scrapped. A large reason I scrapped the project was that I have been inhabiting my own sinister amusement park for some time now, riding the old Emotional Roller Coaster and also the Crisis in a Coffee Cup until I get sick. I joke about it now, but it is a real problem, and I have been doing a lot to manage it but nothing happens overnight. Thank God for Ned, who literally always presents me with a shoulder to cry on. He lies down on the bed and silently extends his left arm, inviting me to come over and cling. He has had many wet, eye-liner stained shirts, my poor darling.
The other reason I passed on that project was more mundane: it wasn't exactly the right one. It was too broad a topic (all special needs) and yet, too narrow (could have been all parents). In publishing, you have to get the niche just right or the marketing team balks or you find you are either overwhelmed or bored.
So I worked on my novel, Dirt: A Story of Gardening, Mothering, and a Midlife Crisis, and got that just right in the mean time. (I love Dirt! It is one of my all-time favorite books, right up there with Women About Town, A Curious Incident, and War and Peace.) A different agent is shopping Dirt around right now, so any day... Then I found, a few months ago, just the right focus for the second autism book, as well as some resolution for my own poor head, and now the newest version of Autism Book II is coming to be. I wanted to call it Notes from the (Autism) Underground, but they don't like that so once again I will be Making Peace with editors. Believe me, that is a far better place to be than without a project at all.
It was just beautiful. I don't know if I've ever organized an event that went so smoothly. But more than that, I feel like I was really able to help my parents enjoy themselves. I got my mom to book a massage with me the day before. I went with Mom and Dad to pick up the flowers. And if there was something Laura and I couldn't do, Ned, John (Laura's husband), or Max did it. I even forgot the dongle that connects the Mac to the projector (for Laura's slide show about my parents and their family and friends over the past 60 years). Max, John, and Ned figured out how to play the file anyway!! Thank God for geeks who are sweethearts.
I honed my speech and then pretty much jumped off from it when it came time to deliver it, so it was natural and relaxed. I feel that I broke the ice, got people laughing, and encouraged others to stand up and say a few (or sometimes more than a few!) words. Laura's slideshow was achingly sweet and beautiful. She dug deep in many ways, coming up with choice old photos of Mom and Dad when they were dating at 15, our grandparents as young parents, the two of us as little girls, and growing up, and then our own children in all of our favorite places. I could have watched it again and again.
Bob -- the rabbi who married Ned and me as well as Laura and John, and who bar mitzvahed Nat, and who attended Mom and Dad's wedding as a date to Marcia, Mom's junior high best friend -- gave a wonderful toast, and Marcia, his ex-wife and still dear friend, also gave one! Dad and Mom's friend Dennis, who is like an uncle to Laura and me, and also their newer friend Steve, plus Dad's sister Rhoda, and alot of others gave interesting speeches from very different perspectives.
My boys had a great time with their cousins. Nat had a happy look on his beautiful face and all three of my sons allowed me to dress them up in colorful stuff from JCrew.
I have to make a real Tabblo for the family but I am pasting in some of my favorites.
This weekend we are traveling to my childhood home in Connecticut to celebrate my parents' 50th wedding anniversary. Laura and I have organized the party, and invited over 100 guests from all parts of my parents' long life together. Yesterday I bought all new clothes for my four men, and I've been running around trying to pull together a decent look for me.
The biggest effort so far, however, has gone into the toast I want to make for them. I have never been this stymied before. I have gone through five drafts trying to get the right tone, capture the feel of my parents' relationship, all within a 4 minute speech.
I am sharing with you what I will read on Sunday:
What makes a marriage last half a century? I only have an inkling, being in my 24th year of marriage myself. I can’t think of Mom and Dad that way, as 50-year-marriage veterans, however. They’re just Mom and Dad. Two fixtures in my life, a unit that has always functioned pretty much the same way. They sometimes feel like interchangeable parts, even though they are so different from one another.
As a kid, I could never get away with playing one off against the other. If Mom said “No,” there was no running to Dad for the Yes. Even if they were in different rooms, or one at work and one home, they would somehow know. Like there was a telepathy, a sixth or sick sense of what was going on in the family. Or “What does Mommy say?” would be the first thing out of Dad’s mouth. Maybe that’s the key: Loyalty to each other.
My parents took that loyalty and tweaked it to its most intense, almost neurotic level. If Dad wanted us to do some incredibly ridiculous, slay-this-dragon and then climb seven mountains kind of chore, Mom would back him up. Dad has a specific idea of how each job was to be done, and if you tried to take short cuts like scattering the grass clippings around instead of making piles and collecting them up with the wheelbarrow, he would know and you would have to redo it. One time he told me to count all the logs in a cord of wood that had just been delivered. “I want to make sure the guy gave me the right amount,” he said. But I was a teenager. I thought he was kidding. I thought this was insane. No pointing appealing to Mom. She’d roll her eyes about Dad but -- Later on he asked me how many and I had make up a number. To this day I think Dad is annoyed that I didn’t really count the logs! Mom thinks the whole thing’s funny and crazy, but I can tell that she also deep down believes I should have really counted them.
There you have it: Loyalty to your mate. And it worked both ways. Sometime in my teenage years I started hanging out in the kitchen with Mom while she made dinner. Mom was into healthy, ethnic eating long before it was fashionable. I would watch and help while she concocted some wild, exotic kind of meal, so excited and optimistic about keeping us healthy food while exposing us to unusual things. The high point of those days was when Mom made a dish she claimed was African, called “Babootie,” which somehow contained both banana and hamburger meat. Dad – though he hates eating most kinds of beef -- knew what it meant to Mom to take care of us this way, and so he would breathe down our necks making sure we would eat it and be kind to our mother about it.
In many ways, this is also about how a family works. Mom and Dad figured it out as they went along, like we all do. But to Laura and me, it appeared pretty seamless. Every summer they took us on a fantastic vacation: four times we went on long cross-country camping trips out West. Other times we’d go to Maine or the Cape or Montauk, depending on our age and level of adolescent crankiness. One year my parents planned a new trip, to Nova Scotia. Laura and I were okay enough with it, and we listened one night as Dad laid out the trip to us. But suddenly Dad stopped and said, “Hey. Do we really want to do this?” We looked at each other. We looked at him. No, we kind of didn’t. “So how about if we go Out West again instead?” Dad asked. We didn’t even have to stop and think. The next thing I knew, the Nova Scotia trip had been scrapped and we were going Out West again! Just like that. I loved the spontaneity, the youthful impulsiveness of that moment.
Whatever we did, it felt magical. I can say that with all honesty. The unfolding of the country’s terrain as we crossed into states we’d only read about was nothing short of breathtaking. But equally enchanting and sweet was the comfort of returning year after year to the soft sands and shining skies of Cape Cod. Wherever we went, Mom and Dad really seemed to have everything under control, from keeping grizzlies out of our camp site to teaching us how to jump the waves at the Cape, to grilling new boyfriends and setting our curfews. And from walking us down the aisle to walking around with each new baby. Mom's soft eyes and big heart and Dad's jokes and confidence cradled us and led us safely through the years as a family.
Mom and Dad’s working as yin and yang together did not stop at our childhood. I’ll never forget when I told Mom and Dad about Nat’s diagnosis. My world was threatening to come apart. What did this mean, I wondered, about us, about Nat? But Dad simply said, “Well, he’s still our Nat.” And Mom went out and bought up every developmental toy and engaging book she could lay her hands on, and to this day she sends me every article that was ever written on autism, including my own!
You know, I think that there’s one more bit of marriage wisdom that is strictly and completely Mel and Shelly: When all else fails, laugh. I asked Mom the other day what was one major ingredient to their particular 5-Decade Layer cake and she said, “I try to keep the peace.” Then, without missing a beat, she added, “Though Dad would disagree. ” And she laughed her Shelly laugh.
Then I asked Dad what he thought was the key to 50 years of marriage. “That long already?” He asked. Then he added, with his voice all soft and squooshy, “The love in her heart. She is just such a lovely person.”
Well, here’s to you, Mom and Dad. May you have another 50 for new adventures, cords of wood, strange dinners, and laughs, together!
Warda is a very cool song, from the Bellydance Superstars. It has a ton of tempo changes and some very evocative parts to it. I have always loved dancing to it. I haven't danced in a few weeks, actually, and I thought maybe it was over for me. I felt very bad about that. But I had the craving tonight and I raided my cossie boxes and pulled out my very first Egyptian one. And my new silver silk veil. Warda is kind of magical. It helped me become a bellydancer again.
Susan In Wonderland
I told Ned and he said, "You are such a huge dork."
Ned, John (Laura's husband), or Max did it. I even forgot the dongle that connects the Mac to the projector (for Laura's slide show about my parents and their family and friends over the past 60 years). 
Max, John, and Ned figured out how to play the file anyway!! Thank God for geeks who are sweethearts.
Mom and Dad when they were dating at 15, our grandparents as young parents, the two of us as
little girls, and growing up, and then our own children in all of our favorite places. I could have watched it again and again.
Bob -- the rabbi who married Ned and me as well as Laura and John, and who bar mitzvahed Nat, and who attended Mom and Dad's wedding as a date to Marcia, Mom's junior high best friend -- gave a wonderful toast, and Marcia, his ex-wife and still dear friend, also gave one! Dad and Mom's friend Dennis, who is like an uncle to Laura and me, and also their newer friend Steve, plus Dad's sister Rhoda, and alot of others gave interesting speeches from very different perspectives.
