Susan Senator

Here’s a list of strange things I am grateful for.

1) I’m living with a supermodel — and it ain’t me. I’m getting older, and so are my children. This morning, for example, I walked, in a pre-coffee stupor, down the hall to Max’s room to wake him up, and the door opens, and out walks this Greek god. Way tall, long torso perfectly ripped, deep voice. Who is that? Oh my God, it’s MAX!!!!! How did this beautiful person get to be a part of my life?

2) Last night, Benji really let it rip about Nat. Right at the dinner table. Talking about how he wished Nat would go off to college where he would fail all of his tests because he still doesn’t even know the Alphabet!!! It gave us all an opportunity to talk about angry feelings and different abilities and how hard this can be for both Ben and Nat. Not at all sure if I totally blew it or got through. But my heart hurts for that little guy of mine, so honest in his emotions, so obviously struggling to understand it all. I love the fact that we actually had a real conversation, at last, all of us, about autism and what it implies for this family — even if I failed to turn it into the positive thing I feel.

3) Nat seems to be talking less and less. We discontinued the Home Program because it was too rigid and I felt bad for him. He needs people who know how to connect with him and who will drop all their preconceived notions of what should happen and instead work WITH him to build on his skills. I am grateful to understand this and that I may have convinced my town liaison to consider a new Home Program in conjunction with Nat’s school — provided we can demonstrate that this is a concrete need of Nat’s. I understand having to jump through this hoop because she is a good person but she is still an administrator and she needs to prove a need. If we can prove the need for a Home Program beyond Nat’s school day to help him generalize his schoolday skills — and I have no doubt our data will bear this out — we will have a wonderful, albeit small program and help Nat have a shot at independence.

4) Ned and I had a huge fight last night. I did a dance for him, in full costume, fully choreographed (I did the choreography myself). He said he liked it, but then he also criticized how I held my hands in a particular move. He also said he did not really like the belly moves — as opposed to how he did like the hip moves. I felt so hurt, so angry, I went way over the top. I slept downstairs for a little while, and refused to talk to him — except for flinging really mean, knifelike barbs at him. I think he really gets it now, what I need from him in terms of my dancing. I woke up and found him downstairs at his computer and I crawled right into his lap for a nice toasty hug.

5) I will be baking two kinds of pie that we like best. Martha Stewart’s honey-acorn squash pie with cornmeal crust and James McNair’s blueberry with cornmeal crust. I will eat pie tomorrow, you can be sure. Natty will make the cornbread and John, Laura’s husband, will be bringing squash soup that is out of this world.

6) Dad has plenty of work for Nat: picking up twigs and loading wood in the “wooder.” Mom maybe will watch my new belly dance routine. She is probably a little uptight about tomorrow but she will be so happy that we’re all there, she will be like wet sugar all over the place.

7) Laura. I can’t wait to see her and talk about all our latest stuff.

8) Laura’s kids. They are little and intense, like her and my kids adore them.

9) Ned’s dad. He is an incredibly strong and sweet human being and one of the quietest people I know! He is taking good care of Ned’s stepmom, who has been sick but is doing a lot better — she says we will still be having Christmas there!! After having been in the hospital twice in the last month. He is an inspiration to me, of commitment and love.

10) I am grateful for my family and my friends and my readers — even the anonymous ones, maybe especially them! (the nice ones). I hope you all have plenty to be grateful for, too.
Love, me

[Note: to learn more about my wonderful and oh-so-Taurus late and great Grandma, get it firsthand, in my dad’s book, Catskill Summers]

I came across the following in my old documents file. I thought of Grandma, and there it was. It is almost five years to the day that I wrote this, about my larger-than-life paternal grandmother, Esther Senator Gross, a year before she died. I have edited it a tad and I give it to you, in her honor…

My grandmother is not doing too well. She’s been falling a lot lately. I can’t help but picture the hand of God kind of nudging her down, shaking out the last bits of life in her, helping her get on with it. She’s 93. But every time, she recovers, a little smaller than before, but still herself. But still.

And so these days I find bits of her life floating over to me, the bits that intertwined with my life. The thing is, Grandma has always been a real character. She’s a bit difficult to get along with, argumentative, impulsive, moody, but passionate about those she loves, fiercely loyal, and unafraid to speak her mind. She has always been a real person to me, not some pedestal-perfect grandmother who bakes cookies — though she used to bake: three different cakes at a time when I would visit her in Florida, draped in dishtowels, standing on the table. “Aren’t you going to have a piece of cake? What are you, on a diet?” She and I have had a real relationship, with committment, love, anger, and understanding. I cannot bear that she is leaving me.

I see her chubby hand reaching into her huge white leather purse, rooting around for something for me. I’m five or six. She pulls out a huge pink foil-covered flat circle of chocolate, which I unpeel and eat immediately. Then she stuffs five dollars into my hand, which I dutifully hand over to Mom or Dad. The chocolate was the thing, not the money.

Later, she pulls me onto her lap to kiss me like a hundred times, and tells me “Never go with strangers. You hear?” Yes, yes, of course I won’t! I’ve read Betsy and Bill and the Nice Bad Man. Seargent Shean spoke to our whole school. I know all about that stuff. Yet, she tells me every single time she sees me, which back then was a lot.

My sister and I slept at her apartment only once, a long, hot night in a Brooklyn apartment, in an uncomfortable sofa bed. No toys except two bottle openers with walnuts hulls with faces glued on and yarn hair. It didn’t matter; we played with those things for hours. She had a lot of china figurines, which I found you were not supposed to play with because they broke. There was a visit I remember where I think I broke at least three different things, and she kept yelling at me, while my Dad just laughed (for he did the same thing when he was a boy). Because he laughed I knew I was not really in trouble; in fact, I never was, with her even though she yelled at me a lot all my life.

Although we stayed with her in Brooklyn only once, we stayed with her in “the country” often. This was her bungalow in the Catskills. It was a little boring being there with only my sister, who liked different things than me, like pinball and board games, rather than dolls and pretend games, but we amused ourselves with the pool and swingset nearby. I was always told to be careful in the pool; that somebody had drowned horribly there by sticking her head in the pool bars that divided shallow end from deep. Why would someone do that, I wondered to my sister. I was also told not to swing (!) But I did anyway. One time my cut-off shorts got stuck in the swing and when I jumped off I was left hanging by the swing, with Laura laughing her head off. If Grandma had seen this, she would have yelled so much, but luckily she didn’t know.

I remember hating her food. The cakes were old world style, babkes, mushy apple, no chocolate kinds, no frosting. Once she cooked me a “minute steak,” which tasted like a stick, and canned vegetables, and expected me to eat everything. She made me chocolate milk, really brown, which I loved, so I kept asking for more, but then she scolded me for drinking too much milk. My sister and I just looked at each other, mystified.

As we got older, and the grandparents all moved to Florida, I remember that it was easier to stay with my other grandmother, who left me to my own devices more, and spoiled me with the most delicious food, new clothes, and lots of easy conversation — but that’s another story altogether. We would visit Grandma, and once, when we got ready to leave to go back to my other grandmother, she said in a snit, “What’s she got, the Brooklyn Bridge over there?” Once it got so hard for me to stay with her, because of all the nagging, that I “escaped” to my other grandmother’s, and stayed there the rest of the time. But Grandma was merely puzzled by my move, not angry. Maybe she knew she got on my nerves. She accepted that in me. She once said I was “ornery.” I hated when I displeased her, because I was so used to basking in her love. She did not like when I got too thin or plucked my eyebrows; she said I looked like a “Shiksa.” She had a strange expression on her face, though, like she half admired my ability to achieve this look.

Things have not changed all that much. She always wanted me to name one of my children after Joe, her second, odd (probably Aspie) husband, but I did not. Nat was born the day Joe died, so she feels a special sad connection with Nat. She has never accepted the fact that Nat has a disability, only views him as “a little slow,” which drives me crazy: “He’s not slow Grandma! He has a problem with language, socializing, school work…” What does it matter? To her that’s being a little slow. She always asks,”How is he, is he talking more?”
And I reply, with honesty, “Yes, he is,” because he is always improving.
Then she says, “How about the other one? He’s so handsome.” And then, “How’s the baby? He’s cute.” Benji is now three, but still the baby. She can’t keep track so well anymore of all the other great-grandchildren but I always feel like she keeps track of mine, especially Max and Nat, whom she knows so well.

Every year we visit her in Florida, take her out to dinner. Once I took her to the Rainforest Cafe. She’d just been in the hospital. My dad had warned me to take her someplace easy, because she could not walk so well, but I wanted to do something fun for all of us. When I got to the restaurant, it looked like it was ten miles from the curb where Ned dropped us off. I thought, “Oh, Dad is going to kill me.” But Grandma charged ahead with her walker, found a shopping cart, and pushed her way through the mall until we got to the restaurant! When I took a look at all of the auto-animatronic animals there, I thought, “Oh, Dad is going to kill me. This is too much for her!” But Grandma liked the place, liked the fun of it. She took one look at the menu and passed it to me, saying, “I don’t want to eat nothing.” Then, “see if there’s a little pizza there.” So we got her a kid’s pizza, and she liked it, without sending anything back or yelling at the waiter. She even ate dessert.

Well, I’m heading down there by myself m
id-March. She’s in the hospital again, a little disoriented I hear. I sent her a letter and in all caps I wrote, “I’m coming on March 16!” My way of saying, “Hey Grandma. Hang in there! I can’t imagine the world without you so please, don’t die!”

We’ll see if she listens to me.

The March visit was the last time I would ever see Grandma alive.

What is your life like?
Is it good to be you?
Is good the absence of pain,
or is good better than anything I know?

What do you dream about,
If you don’t have words
Do you see pictures,
flowing together, or discretely
or just feel feelings
but what is that like for you?

Do you want to be left alone
or am I supposed to gently force togetherness
until you really want it
or until you are used to it?

Have I done it right?
Have I loved you right?
Is there something you would want if
you could tell me?
I’d do it, you know
I think you know.

I think I know
when I see you smile secretly
talking quietly to yourself
your own jokes
your own language
the way you wait up for me when I’m late
and let me kiss your softly bearded face
child man
mini man
boy of my heart
child of my dreams

Readers: I’ve shown you mine, now you show me yours!
30 Least Favorites of the Moment:
1) color: beige (what is it? a brown that can’t commit? a dirty yellow?)
2) soft drink: Diet Pepsi (I’m a strictly lime Diet Coke girl)
3) jewelry: brooches (it’s just stuck on your blouse like a button; why not wear a necklace and show off your neck or cleavage? )
4) body part: feet (except Ned’s, which are beautiful)
5) hair color: red
6) instrument: clarinet
7) flower: marigold (stubby and cheese colored)
8) candy: Skittles (look deceptively like M&Ms; but then — eek! fruit!)
9) band: Styx (the lead singer sounds like he swallowed helium)
10) song: Where Have All the Cowboys Gone? Paula Cole (“Yippee -i, yippee-ay!” I get shivers of annoyance when I hear it)
11) toy: Cabbage Patch Kids (hideous)
12) book: Penelope Leach’s Your Baby and Child. (Read it as a first-time mom and it did not match my reality in the least. Tore it in half and threw it across the room.)
13) decade: The 1950’s (June and Ward, pointy bras, crinolines, conservative politics, buzz cut men, a woman’s place was in the home. Snore.)
14) meal: dinner
15) weather: rain
16) old t.v. show: Beverly Hillbillies (just plain stu-pid)
17) new t.v. show: E.R. (so much tsuris. Ever sit in a real Emergency Room? Dull as dishwater.)
18) school year: seventh grade (I had no friends in my class and a mean anti-semite in there)
19) boy’s name: Dick (come on, people!)
20) girl’s name: Nancy
21) outfit: sweatpants and sweatshirt and sneakers
22) store: Brookstone (totally boring — gadgets only)
23) holiday: Yom Kippur (fasting, I don’t do it, guilt)
24) smell: cigarette breath
25) chore: dusting
26) dream: the one about the tidal wave coming up the beach
27) birthday: turning seven, I cried the whole party (I don’t remember why except that Dad wasn’t there?)
28) sport: basketball
29) game: Chinese checkers (sorry Ben!)
30) curable illness: strep (so uncomfortable)

Old friends
Sat on the park bench like book ends.
–Simon and Garfunkel

Last night the wind and the rain were so strong that we did not sleep well. I got up several times, from the noise and to check on Beastie, who was coughing in his sleep, a little boy cough (even his cough is cute!). This morning, the remaining leaves have been stripped from the trees and all is wet and gray. My front lawn is like a sheet of hammered copper, with layers of crisp, flat brown oak leaves. Two red cardinals sat on the bare dogwood outside my dining room window; I have not seen them since the winter.

And yet I woke up clear-minded and happy. It’s definitely November, but somehow I’m together today. Not sure how or why. Maybe because I am going to have lunch with a friend from a long time ago, a spiritual connection that I severed because it was too intense for me (that’s right, I said that she was too intense for me! Can you believe that? But it happens. Even I can’t always look under the scab or the rock. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, you know what I mean?) Anyway, she was a friend to me pre- and post-diagnosis, she was with me during my craziest times, she inspired the plot to my third novel, The Scent of Violets, she got me my first massage, and she bought me a deck of Tarot cards and a book on Tarot so that I could learn to read them. And I did use them for a long time, the last question being, “Should I have a third baby?” And the answer was, “Yes.”

I read the cards the other day and had a very confused reading.

But I am really looking forward to seeing her because I am ready for that connection, and I am ready for some spiritual work. I keep getting stuck on one particularly thorny issue and I’m not sure how to handle it. Other than going to the gym, or belly dancing, lying curled up in Ned’s arms. Actually, those things work pretty well.

The thought of seeing my Intense Old Friend this afternoon, however, is a comfort on this November day, like a cup of real hot chocolate (made with Droste cocoa, milk, and sugar, if I were allowed to drink such a wonderous thing on this diet of mine). It makes me feel strong and able to be centered. Seeing her gives me permission to indulge my flaky side and to wonder, and move beyond whatever may be miring me in the November mud.

Perhaps it’s the color of the sun cut flat and covering
the crossroads I’m standing at
Maybe it’s the weather
Or something like that
But Daddy, you’ve been on my mind.

–Bob Dylan and Joan Baez

Readers: this is only what I am wondering about, what’s on my mind. Don’t feel compelled to answer, but you know I love your comments anyway! Nothing nasty, please…

1) What’s on your mind
2) When will H n H write me again
3) Is SA from B someone I know
4) Do I wear people out?
5) Will Natty be independent someday?
6) Will Nat’s brothers give a shit about him someday?
7) Should I be forcing Max to do a sport or something extracurricular after school?
8) Why do I need so much attention?
9) Why can’t I decide one thing and stick to it?
10) How will I get the courage to bare my stomach when I dance in class with a bunch of young girls?
11) How can I have more fun?

Here is something I have written about before, which I redid for the Huffington Post. You can read it here. I am very sad about this issue. I understand how horrible a sex offense is, I really do, but I think that our system can really backfire and other lives are ruined as well.

Morning has broken
Like the first morning
Blackbird has spoken
Life the first bird
Praise for the singing
Praise for the morning
Praise for them springing
Fresh from the world.
–Cat Stevens, Morning Has Broken

Seventeen years ago today I also slept badly. I had a much better reason back then: it was my third day of early labor with Nat. A few times every hour I would feel a big sqeeze in my middle and some mild pain and then a foot under my rib. I would laugh about the foot.

Nat’s labor became more intense but did not progress very well because this was my first baby. So by the third day (November 15) I did what any suffering young woman would do: I called my mommy! I said, “Mom, I still did not sleep and I am SO tired and I’m afraid I won’t have any energy left to push out this baby!” I was panicking.

I did not know if I was having a boy or a girl. I figured it would be a girl, since I only knew of girl experiences. Even though I had had a dream where I saw a laughing blond toddler boy in my sister’s bedroom at my parent’s house, I still thought, “Oh, it’s a girl, and I’ll name her Melissa!” I even listened to the Allman Brothers’ Melissa, over and over. Laura made me a labor cassette of that song and all my favorites, to use while laboring. I did not remember to bring it but I loved listening to it. It had Genesis’ Follow You, Follow Me, the Allman’s Melissa, and others I cannot now remember but will forever associate those two songs with Nat coming into the world.

On the phone that morning, Mom said, in typical no-nonsense fashion, “Tell your doctor to get the show on the road.”
I called the doc and he said, “Okay, let’s have a baby.”

I went in and was set up almost immediately on the monitor and the pitocin drip. The pains got intense pretty quickly so they came in and gave me an epidural, which, it turns out, was too strong so I could not feel the urge to push.

Nevertheless, from about 4:30-7:30 pm, I did my best, with the doctor saying, “Come on, before my shift ends!”

It was taking a long time. I think the baby was under distress for a little bit of it. They took blood out of the crowning baby’s scalp and the doctor did not even wait for the elevator to go to the lab; he took the stairs. My mother, who was right outside with Dad, panicked and thought, “Susan’s dead!”

I was not dead but I wanted to be. Suddenly the epidural was taken off and there were the pains, loud and clear. I remember feeling like I was being split in two. In some ways, I was. The old me was dying and the new me was being born: Me as Nat’s mother.

I yelled, “Cut It out of me!”

They did not.

Ned was on one leg, my sister Laura was on the other. They kept cheering me on. Finally I pushed like I was being ripped inside out and out came Nat.

I don’t know what his apgars were. I don’t know who was doing what to him, cleaning him and so forth. I just wanted him, my long-awaited son, and I wanted him with a hunger I had never known. I was ecstatic holding him. I could not get over it. This beautiful, perfect pink baby was MINE.

Here we are, raw new parents.

What’s in a name?

Names and the naming of children is a very personal and meaningful undertaking. Why did Mom name me “Susan?” I have always felt it is so boring and plain. She first thought to name me “Sarel,” after my great grandmother, (my bubbe), but Mom thought it was too exotic!

Too exotic!!! It is a wonderful name!!!

I get my wish, this late in life, to change my name, at least for belly dance…So I am wondering about naming.

[But first I have to ask, as John Adams did in one of my favorite plays, 1776: “Is anybody there? Does anybody care?” I have been getting fewer comments so I wonder if I’m over. I’ll still keep on writing, because it’s what I do, but I like hearing from people! Okay, on with the show.]

It feels like most of my life, I strive for one thing, and end up with another. I strive for sophistication and elegance, but I never quite get there. In decorating, I ape Restoration Hardware living rooms and end up with funky, shabby chic. In hairstyle, I think “straight and glossy,” and end up with curly/wavy after a few hours. In body, I aimed for “as thin as possible,” and still ended up with curves and waves.

In mothering, I have always tried to be smart and fair. I end up with passionate and moody.
In belly dance, I strive for controlled and graceful. I end up with shake, shake, shake my meaty booty. I don’t shine; I sweat.

So I’m wondering, for the first time ever, if my Mom-given name “Susan” or, as most of my oldest friends know me, “Sue” actually fits me better than I thought. All my life, I dreamed of being a long-straight-haired girl named “Deborah,” or “Anastasia,” “Natasha,” “Alexandra,” “Elena;” so in a fit of midlife pique, I started insisting people at least call me “Susan,” to make the “Sue” more respectable, the more elegant form of the name.

But no matter what I do, I’m a Sue. I’m not elegant. I’m accessible. I’m an open book. What you see is what you get. It’s no mystery. I am no Anastasia.

So maybe I’ll just be the more exotic form of Susan: Shoshana. The Hebrew version. Means “a rose.” Not bad, not at all bad as flowers go. Maybe, maybe Mom was right??!! Maybe she knew me better than I thought…

I am in the November 12 Huffington Post. You can read the piece here.

This was Dad’s (and Mom’s) immediate response to my very teary poem in the previous post. And so, I find myself floating back upwards…

Dear Susan-
Please print this and add it to Nat’s birthday card:

Happy Birthday
Dear Nat
Happy Birthday sweet guy
Family man who
Like each of us
Has a part of the scene
Yours so great
And needs based

Your smile of comfort
Or razz
Shining through the day
At home at school
Sometimes anxious
You depend on
Love and support
Especially
From Mom and Dad
Their energy to hold you up
As needed/first basis
And the family’s creative pool to
Do what’s right for you
And so they do
In love

Priorities goals
Every year
Some ever present
Reading writing
Some new
Social skills communicating
Now it’s
Tell us what you think
What you feel
What you want
It’s so hard for us
To guess Natty Boy

We’ll work with you
At seventeen eighteen
Including whenever
And hope to crack
The wall that separates

Enjoy your birthday
And other pleasures too
Special Olympics
Cape Cod beaches
Baking cookies
Videos and reading
Walks and swimming
Playing catch
Chocolate and more….

Happy Birthday, dear grandson, Nat.
Love you,
Grandpa Mel
Grandma Shelly

I feel like I have to be bravest
on your birthday
I’m not supposed to be sad
that’s selfish
and unevolved
and not seeing the whole picture

But I am.
I stood in the bookstore
amidst strollers, sippy cups, board books
plump new mothers stretched over pink new children
Tears slipped out, wet anguish on my embarrassed face

Still here
The baby books
The ocean books
The swimming books
Bubbles
Disney vids

Still sad
About what I don’t get
What you don’t get

The search for something
The anger, deep in my throat,
that it is not there

************************************************

Blue eyed boy meets a brown-eyed girl
(oh, oh, the sweetest thing)
You can sew it up, but you still see the tear
(oh, oh, the sweetest thing)
Baby’s got blue skies up ahead
And in this I’m a raincloud
Ours is a stormy kind of love
— U2, The Sweetest Thing

My blue-eyed boy. My Sweet Guy. I want you to be happy. I want you to thrive. I love you so much.

But love alone does not always help me understand these boys of mine, it takes study. Research. And I am increasingly troubled by Nat’s growing apathy/inertia. He spends his weekends lying on the couch, or crouched on Max’s bed, or my bed (unless Ned or I insist that he take a walk, rake leaves, or offer for him to bake with me.) He wanders from room to room, his silly talk getting louder and louder when he wants something, but he does not tell me what it is. I ask him in so many different ways without actually asking him, because I want to encourage communication and yet also I want to fade his dependency on me.

How can I get Nat to initiate? How can I get him to come to me when he has a question, without waiting so long, wandering back and forth? Is he unhappy wandering back and forth, without our intervention? Or is it that it just takes him a lot longer to figure out what he wants? Can any of the auties out there who read this give me a clue? Nat is verbal, but very reluctantly/hesitatingly so. Should we be drilling him to get his communication stronger? Will that help him, or just bore him and turn him off and make him retreat? I fear the latter is true. I fear it is already happening, as a result of our home Verbal Behavior program. I think he hates the drilling and doesn’t get why he is doing it, and it makes him stimmier. Is it my job to combat the stims or to let him be? If I let him be, how will he develop the communication skills to get a job and live on his own (with some oversight by a PCA)?

Don’t tell me he can’t live on his own (with some oversight by a PCA). I am not ready to hear that. You may be wrong.

But if you can, help me figure out the communication piece with him. (By the way, no offense meant to anyone who follows these therapies, but I am not interested in any approaches that suggest I alter his nutrition, or that involve flashing lights, vibrations, listening to musical tones, certain forms of massage, injections… I am interested only in one-to-one talking, connecting, or other communicating techniques. )

I love this boy with all my heart and then some. Sometimes I want to will him to let me in, just by hugging him to me. What can I do? What can I do? I hate to see him lying around so much. Mostly, I want to see him smile more.

Ned and I went out for a little Thai food last night. We were talking about the nature of friendship, because I have just had a falling out with a pretty good friend. She is a writing friend of mine. This was someone I have considered a close friend for about 3 years. The problem is that I don’t feel like she was comfortable with my novel, even though she said she liked it. I could not engage her in an email conversation over it, and I did not want to talk to her on the phone about it, but I did suggest we meet. Something about email relaxes me (but I know it does not relax others); something about phone makes me feel disconnected and yet cornered. Meeting face-to-face over coffee is just about one of my favorite things to do. It is not as big a committment of time as lunch, so you know it won’t last too long if you don’t enjoy it; and yet you can linger over those last few drops of French roast if you are having a really good time.

Ned and I were trying to pinpoint the differences between friend and colleague; and close friend and just friend. Ned thought that this whole writing-as-the-friendship-binder was not quite enough; he felt that that would make a great collegial relationship, but that a friendship needed more. The thing is, I often want to be friends with my colleagues, after I get to know them, but they usually know before I do that it isn’t the greatest fit. I was on the school board with eight others for almost five years and I grew to love all of them, even though many times one or all drove me crazy with their viewpoints or ways of doing things. But I would have been friends with any of them, I think. But I guess they didn’t feel the same, because it didn’t really happen — at least, not the way I wanted it to. Or maybe I’m kidding myself, because I didn’t make any real effort to be friends either.

But then I also wonder about effort: the kind of friendship I really look for is the kind I don’t even look for. There is no visible effort; it just kind of happens. It evolves. Sometimes I don’t even notice this person at first; but then they get on my radar screen. But usually, once I love a person, I always love a person. I go through a period of realizing their flaws and I back off, disappointed that they turned out to be human. But then I come back, having adjusted to the limitations that were probably always there but I just didn’t see them in my honeymoon period. (I’m sure other people are much better at seeing my flaws right away, because I have so many and they are worn right on my sleeves, right along with my heart!)

One thing people in my life don’t seem to understand or be able to put up with easily is that I get really angry at them sometimes. Even when I think I am controlling it and being diplomatic, it scares the hell out of them. I wish I could reassure them that it’s just my feelings, and here’s what they could maybe do to help, but that doesn’t happen either. I often make the other person angry at me because I was angry at them! I don’t think that’s fair, but it happens. I guess there is either something really harsh and scary about my anger or something about them that feels very threatened by another’s anger.

So my friend could not bear my “disappointment” in her response to my novel. She got angry at me and said some things to me that weren’t very nice. Now we’re at a standoff. I need the break, I think, so I’m letting it be for now, which isn’t my usual way. My therapist says that I really can just let this go, not do anything, not think anything. She says that people do that, that friendships are much more fluid than I was raised to believe. That friendships come and go, and it is no one’s fault usually, it is just the nature of things, and it is okay for that to happen.

But I don’t feel comfortable at all with letting people go. I often reach back into the past and try to reconnect with old friends who have fallen away from me. I miss them for the unique thing they once were in my life. I figure that if time has passed then whatever broke us apart may not be as important an obstacle as it once was. So I have quite a few very old connections, and that makes me feel very good, very safe. Maybe it helps that there is a boundary of distance, however (most of them live far away). It is far more difficult maintaining a regular relationship, getting the boundaries right if you see them a lot.

I do understand, though, through therapy, that it is also okay to let people go and that it doesn’t mean I’ve failed in some way. So right now I am just trying to see where this thing with my writing friend takes me to, without more effort or straining on my part. It is slightly uncomfortable because I start to feel worried that I’ve hurt her; but then I remind myself that this thing began with my own feelings and needs not being met…

I wish there were a friendship rule book: How to spot lifelong friends; how to spot people who just want something from you; how to spot warped people; how to disengage without consequence; how to keep the balance of power equal; how to trust the right people. But I probably would never read such book! (I hate How-to’s, even though MPWA is partly a How-to. It’s also a “what not to do” book!)

I have no clever way to end this. Just like my situation with relationships that don’t work…

According to a recent issue of Vogue, it’s time for me to cut my hair. Apparently, your mid-forties is the witching hour – when ladies with hair past their collarbones turn into witches, or harpies, or something far worse: ridiculous and laughable. The same rule applies for short skirts. Even if your legs are “good,” it is not recommended. Except in some extreme cases, of course – I suppose they mean if you are Cyd Charise or Betty Grable – and then, only with thick tights so that no one thinks you are serious.

I’m not sure I have the energy to fight for my right to wear a miniskirt at 44; but I damned well resent anyone telling me I will have to cut my hair soon. I don’t do it as I really like the way it looks. It seems like women are always being told the clock is ticking in one way or another: the biological clock, the find-a-husband clock. And now, the long hair clock. Even if we were to declare a kind of Daylight Savings Time on middle aged women with long hair, I’m not sure it would buy me enough time.

I am attached to my hair as it is: long. I have had this sort of hair my entire life. My hair is naturally curly/frizzy, mid-back length, mostly brown, depending on the stage of my highlight grow-out. I have not always loved my hair the way I do now, however. When I was a kid, I wanted long straight hair, parted in the middle, with blue-black shines in it like Veronica Lodge. I knew nothing about Product, relaxant, pomade, wax, or any other goo that could make this happen. A blowout was something bad that happened to tires. So as a child I would go to sleep with my hair wet, pulled into a ponytail and then pinned flat against my head, so that in the morning I had mostly straight hair, albeit with one horizontal crease going all the way across. But at least it looked stretched out and long, and straight(ish).

Consider using hair extensions if you are worried about your thinning hair. You can see more from The Lauren Ashtyn Collection.

In my thirties, I, along with every other fashionista at my kids’ playground discovered the blowout, a clever and relatively simple process that would give us the hair of our dreams – or at least, like Jennifer Aniston. Now even we ethnic types could give that little insouciant flip of the head and our hair would actually move. I became addicted to blowouts, chemically induced shine, and flat, middle parts. Never mind that Ned would squint at me and ask, “Who are you?” openly longing for the messy-haired girl he fell in love with at Penn. “Me, only better,” I could have answered, but I was too annoyed. That was my story, however, and I was sticking with it.

Now, in my forties, the style has changed and so have I. Long, loose waves are in, and that is much easier for me to fake than stick-straight hair. Along with the loosening up of hair I have found a more relaxed me. I lost twenty pounds, fairly easily, but healthily. I wrote a book. I found the courage to take a belly dance class. I feel like I’m closer than ever to figuring out what it takes to make me happy, and I know it does not come in a $40 bottle of shine serum. The irony is, that once I hit my forties, I had more confidence and peace-of-mind than any other time in my life; but at the same time, I found myself bombarded with society’s messages that I was no longer good enough. I am exhorted to Botox my fine lines, excise the not-so-fine ones, reduce this, plump up that. And cut my hair. If I don’t, I risk being inappropriate, or even ridiculous. Shudder.

So here I go, braving ridiculous. But as a lifelong member of fashionable society, I think maybe I’m owed a little slack. I paid my dues with years of square-toe, then pointy-toe, then round-toe shoes. Skinny leggings, wide-legged pants. Back to skinny leggings. Cowl neck, then mock turtleneck. I think I have earned the right to continue to wear my hair long way past 45 and be considered beautiful.

At least, that’s my story, and I’m sticking with it.

Dad’s Response:
Dear Susan-
So much noise about hair
Always it never ends
Hair too long
Hair too short
The musical Hair
Suspended from school for hair
Now it’s time to cut hair
You’re too old for long hair

Who sez all this
Budinskies
Fuddydudd
Experts from Vogue
Probably bald
Who crave power
And hate women
People of should
Who wish they could
Knownothings

Don’t cut your hair
Straight or curly
It’s you
Even with pony tails
Your hair tells your story
Whatever it is
You may color
It rainbow
But don’t cut…

Love,
Dad

Sung to the tune of Justin Timberlake’s song Sexy Back

I’m bringing taxes back
Them other pols don’t know how to act
They think they’re careful — what’s behind their back?
We got to Override and bring it back

Take it to the bank
Greedy babe…
You keep these tax cuts and you think you save…
[Uh-huh]
You’ll end up digging education’s grave
[Uh-huh]
It’s lack of money makes our services cave

Take it to the public
Come here pol
(Go ahead and find a spine)
Come to the table
(Go ahead and find a spine)
ABCs…
(Go ahead and find a spine)
…Cost monies
(Go ahead and find a spine)
Schools ain’t got nuf for workin’ with
(Go ahead and find a spine)
Look at those pink slips
(Go ahead and find a spine)
You get me riled
(Go ahead and find a spine)
Think of the Child
And….
Bring the taxes on
(Yes)
Bring the taxes on
(Yes)
Bring the taxes on
(Yes)
Bring the taxes on

Ooh.

You ready?

I just got back from a conference I went to with a very good friend of mine, to network and sell books, and I feel like I did really well. This was a large gathering of School Committee members and superintendents from across the state, and many are interested in addressing autism in their schools successfully. My publisher made me a flyer based on the info I posted a week ago, and I set up a table where there was tons of traffic. I sold books while my friend attended workshops and panels. We would occasionally meet up and eat and gossip. It was really fun and profitable for both of us. We also decided to share a hotel room to save money, and I was looking forward to that, too: just like a sleepover party from my middle school days!

Of course it was the unexpected that made the trip so great. After a full day of meeting people, seeing old colleagues and friends, connecting, talking school issues, and telling them about my book, there was a dinner and then a party in the bar, with a DJ. A bunch of us went from dinner straight to the bar. We didn’t think we would stay very long; I was exhausted from the day, plus the night before I had been awakened twice by Little B who had had a bad dream! (I have to say that I secretly enjoy his bad dreams, though, because a) they are always fascinating; usually they are about a giant something or other — horseshoe crab, spider — nature or pedestrian things out of control — a lamp starts talking to him, that kind of thing. And 2) he lets me hold him in my arms, snuggled in bed, for as long as I want. He leaves it up to me, how long he needs to dispell the nightmare. It is the sweetest thing in the world. I cannot think of a joy greater than holding that little boy, with his back to me, his glossy smooth brown hair pressed up against my nose, his navy blue flannel-covered small body that smells like warm toast filling my arms. Plus the fact that he is such a tough guy, a Mr. Macho, yet he climbs into my bed with his blue teddy bear (Bluebeary) and just waits for me to take care of the bad dream. This is how I know there is a God, by the way. The fact that our children make us feel so happy. So now you know! No more doubts.

Anyway, I was exhausted after the networking and the dinner, but the bar was pleasant and the DJ was playing some really danceable songs. Suddenly some women were doing the “Electric Slide,” which I’d never seen, and I knew I’d be dancing soon. I requested, “Hips Don’t Lie,” and the guy obliged immediately. Then I asked for the Pussycat Dolls (great name!) and other weird and wonderful Hip-Hop.

And I did belly dance moves, (hip snake, hip eight, taffy pull snake arms, modified shimmies, hip circles, shoulder shimmies) rather than just flailing my arms and hopping like I used to when I danced in high school and college. I was trying to move as precisely as possible, while still being fluid and soft. People noticed and were clapping and hooting! (In a good way) A woman I had befriended let me dance with her beautiful purple silk scarf, like a veil. I could not believe how good this all felt, to be dancing to my favorite workout songs with one of my very best friends and some new ones, doing (discreet) belly dancing in public for the first time — and being well received!

All this — the belly dancing, the travel, and the networking — is so new for me, and so enjoyable. I never realized adult life could be so fulfilling on so many levels. I thought I was already blessed, with three darling boys and a writing career and a magnificent husband who is also my best friend, but sometimes Life stretches out her sinuous arms towards you and offers you even more. But it’s new, different, and therefore scary. So the trick is in having the guts to take her up on it when it is right for you.

Warning: If you are not a Democrat, you might not enjoy this posting. My apologies to my conservative readers, I still love you and I hope you still love me, but I have to crow a little bit about how the pendulum swung left nationally the other day.

Last night I called Mom and Dad to see how they were doing. Mom was jubilant over the election results. She told me that she had spent four hours at the polls and had handed out leaflets for candidates that did not win. Still, she was pleased about the nation. I felt very proud of her for becoming politically involved that way. I, too, stood at the polls but I do that on every election day, local or otherwise (I am no longer on the School Committee but I am a Town Meeting Member and a town macher nonetheless. I am not bragging, I am saying that with a half-frown. I did not intend to become a town big shot; all I wanted was to help the town run things the right way, and that meant I had get really, really involved. My issue, by the way, won. We defeated the CPA ballot question, ((Community Preservation Act, which would raise taxes by 3%, get matching state funds, but only which could be spent towards affordable housing, historic preservation, and open space. I am not opposed to those causes, but they are not priorities and affordable housing is not about the money, it is about neighborhoods not allowing in affordable housing projects!!!!)) )

All of which means we really have our work cut out for us to persuade those who voted against the CPA simply because it is a tax, to vote for a different tax that will mainly help the schools. I hear that I am not allowed to refer to them as the “anti-tax crowd,” and must come up with a more positive and accurate label. I asked them to help me with that. I am going to try to be a bridge between conservative and liberal forces, and use my Libra-given skills to mediate and explain, cajole, sweet-talk, and listen, to make this tax increase happen. People move to this town for the excellent schools, and they ain’t going to be excellent if they have to sustain cut after cut, as they have in the past 5 years.

I will succeed. I am determined. I believe that people are natually good deep down and become afraid or are misguided. Sometimes they need to be heard, validated. I believe I learned this attitude from my father, who is a natural optimist. Mom is, too, but it is Dad who is the bigger mouth of the two of them. Dad always used to say, “See?” with a knowing smile, eyebrows up, all of which means, “Didn’t I tell you it would be alright?”

Last night when I spoke to Mom I asked her if Dad had said, “See?” But she said, “No, he was doubtful the entire evening, figuring that Rove would somehow prevail! I’m the optimist, here!”

I found both these things hard to believe. Mom gets all fired up angry about political stuff, and about people not being their best in general, and I said, “No way! You’re the optimist? What happened to Dad?” She laughed and put him on the phone. He sounded like himself, except all this cautious stuff, too. This political era has taken a lot out of him. (Plus he has had to listen to my mom’s vitriole every day as she reads the New York Times aloud to him!)

So I said, “Dad, come on! It’s all good. See?” I was doing an impersonation of him.
He laughed. That’s a good sign.
I will give him a few days to get back to himself.

Sometimes good things really do happen. See?