Never go to the mall again. Ever.
The very first thing I did this morning was finish up the dinner dishes from last night. If that means anything about the coming year, I’ll take it, as my aim for 2017 is to clean up a whole bunch of stuff. Like, cosmically. Or whatever. Literally, too, though. Broad-based cleanup of All The Things, commencing now.
Last year, man. I didn’t check in here. There was so much sadness, and I wasn’t able to share it because that doesn’t synch with keeping things distant and compartmentalized. But once or twice in 2016 I looked back in the archives to try and remember something or figure out dates of things, and it was clear to me that I’d like to be able to do the same for this time after it’s gone.
So today. Today was downtime (the kids were away), and nachos and beer for lunch with Scuba on our last hedonistic day for a little while. Then home and our parents over for dinner for lobster tails and ribeyes and risotto and black-eyed peas (I made this and it was pretty awesome) and a really good salad my mom brought and delicious panne cotta that Scuba’s mom made and champagne. Then cuddling with Ace on the couch and a movie that made me cry and also really disappointed me, because Asian jokes? Really? Ugh. Even if it was sort of making fun of the white guy being an idiot, NOPE. And now tomorrow we’re back to eating right and getting up before the sun comes up and getting back on the no booze no sugar wagon. This was the year that we got that extra Monday after New Year’s Day off, so you know, things are starting off okay.
I had to catch a 7:55 p.m. flight from JFK to SFO, and since I didn’t want to sit in a cab for hours on end to get there, I took the A train. In the end, it probably took longer, and I’m still not sure that I was on the correct A train, but I got a crash course in subwaying. (I was also warned by a coworker not to ever say I was going to the subway place outside of the closed elevator I said it in.) I’m glad I took the train. It was an exercise in calmly letting go, since I still wasn’t to the airport an hour before my flight was supposed to take off. I met people who helped me, and a couple I helped, and had tiny, abbreviated friendships with them.
The #1 thing i love about the hotel I’m staying in is the view, but #1.5 is this button in the elevator. If I’ve ever seen one like it before, I wasn’t paying attention. Usually something in all caps is kind of shouty, but here it’s reassuring. It’s got some authority. I believe it.
I’m going to pack up my stuff and head to Penn Station with my suitcase and get on a plane at JFK and then hopefully find my car in the long term parking at SFO and drive home and sleep and sleep and sleep. And maybe in two days, I’ll blog again. Could this be the start of an even-day’d NaBloPoMo? Maybe.
I meant to NaBloPoMo, but fell asleep too soon on day one to make it.
When I go to yoga after being out for awhile, and I’m trying to bend in a way I used to be able to but can’t really anymore, I sometimes say oil can to the instructor without opening my mouth to see if I can get a laugh. (Yes. I get one. That’s funny.)
So, you know, OIL CAN, to blogging and really writing in general. Baby steps.
I’m in New York for work for a couple of days. Gonna go grab some supper and then sleep under the twinkly lights.
I was eight or nine, I know, because we were in my dad’s house in Garland, Tx. I was in the kitchen, at the window. Oh, hey! C’mere! I want you to see this! my dad called from the living room. Come watch. I sat next to him on the floor in front of the TV. He said, Okay. This is New Wave.
David Bowie walked onto the screen. He had an acoustic guitar. The set behind him was a sunsetish purpley pink, but otherwise empty. He sat down on a plain wooden stool and sang Space Oddity, which I’ve thought of as Major Tom ever since, though I know it’s not.
It’s one of those memories that comes up often. Partly for the music; partly because I felt somehow like an adult since my dad wanted to teach me something that seemed so grown up and sophisticated; partly because I have a really clear memory of that moment, of falling in love with that song, with that singer. With the whole thing.
When I was eighteen I finally saw David Bowie perform. It was a general admission show and we got there early so we could get close. Before he came on stage we got a bet going about what the first song would be, and I remember saying of course it would be Major Tom, how could it not? Everyone else picked different songs, but I really needed that to be the opening one, because I wanted to go back to being a little kid and hearing it for the first time again. I won the bet. No one paid me, but I didn’t care.
Anyway. I’ll be over here, listening to Hunky Dory, imagining that my dad and David Bowie both are still around, just out of touch someplace. It’s not like that isn’t true.
Some summers are lazy (I’ve heard). This wasn’t one of them, but we did sneak in a week at the beach right when it started at the end of June. I can’t even remember everything we did, but I do remember getting up a 4 a.m. two days in a row for Willow’s softball tournament and driving around Lake Tahoe to the fields as the sun came up. Ace went on the boat with us in Monterey Bay and swam around a little, kept an eye on the birds and sea lions, slept on my feet while we waited for Scuba to come back from his dive. Lex graduated from high school. Sophie quit soccer. My brother and his family came to visit. I went to New York for work, started going to yoga at 6 a.m. again, quit drinking booze. Read The Goldfinch and Happiness for Beginners and All the Light We Cannot See.
We took the girls camping, rarely saw the boys, didn’t eat dinner outside as much as we did the last two summers because we kept running out of daylight. Discovered pickle-flavored popcorn and talked about moving to the coast. I worked a lot, Scuba worked more. Ace finally lost a few pounds, so when I take him to the vet later this month I won’t be in trouble. I guess that means we walked him more often?
It’s still summer for a few more days, but we’re mostly into our fall routines now. Alex starts school next week, the rest went back a month ago. It’s dark when I wake up, and I had to grab a sweater and put on socks to go to the kitchen and make my coffee this morning. I have two boxes hidden away and partway filled with Christmas gifts and I bought an ornament on Saturday. I love this transition. My favorite time of year. I haven’t written much about the hard stuff that’s been going on around here (or anything at all, obviously), but I feel like I’m starting to get my footing back, maybe. Just in time.
Parenting requires much more of me than I ever anticipated, and parenting teenagers is amazingly complex. Sophie isn’t shy about discussing her particular challenges, but I’m choosing not to go into much detail publicly. It’s not for me to tell. But I can say that today she started at a new high school after being out of school for over two weeks, and that I’m hopeful this fresh start will give her what she needs to do the work she needs to do to find her footing, too.
Toward the end of last October, I thought to myself, This is the hardest month I have ever had. In November it became the hardest two months, December three. Where are we now? Month seven?
I was making sandwiches this morning for the kids’ lunches — pb&j because I read someplace that’s what nutritionists put in their kids’ lunchboxes (haha, sure they do) — and I thought about that some more. Has this really been the hardest time I’ve been through, ever? Is parenting a child who is struggling emotionally (to put it mildly) and having far too many difficult and scary moments and days worse than being the mother of a tiny four pound baby, born too soon? Is it shittier to not be able to help my child right now than it was to not be able to help my father when he was so frail and dying and in constant pain? It’s just busywork to distract myself, this comparing and ranking. I know it doesn’t matter. I am here right now.
I am so tired. Dramatic but true: It feels like my skin is made of glass and I’m hollow. My eyes hurt. Sometimes I walk through the grocery store and my legs are so heavy I feel like I can’t possibly take another step, that I should just puddle onto the floor and sleep until everything is better again. But I don’t, because I’m stubborn and sort of practical. And because Scuba calls me on his way home and says, Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll get it. You relax some, okay? He texts me, I’ll pick up the carpool on my way home tonight. He is holding my hand when I wake up in the morning, and he booked a beach house for a week for us this summer.
I don’t think things happen for a reason. I don’t think the universe puts challenges in my path over and over until I am freed of them by learning their lessons. But I do know the feeling of having my heart crack open and break. Horrible, yes, but at the same time, what comes rushing in to fix it is so tender and surprising. I’m completely worn out and wrung out right now. Sometimes all that’s left of me is the part that loves, and it takes my breath away, the strength of that piece and how it’s inverse to how awful I feel.
Last night for an excruciating hour I stood hovering in my child’s bedroom doorway, unwanted. At one point I thought about my heart, how it’s pumping blood, still, even though I am sure it’s broken. You know that thing you learn in science class about how if all your veins and arteries and capillaries were stretched out end to end, they’d wrap around the earth four times? I thought about that, and about how someone sitting in the same room can actually be farther than 60,000 miles away from you sometimes. Even if they live in your heart.
I miss our Christmas tree. We went up to the mountains and the kids picked a perfect one. There was no resisting the opportunity to recreate the photo I took few years back at the same tree farm, so I posed them. The original, though? Not posed. I said, Hey! Lemme take your picture! and then got so much undeserved shade from each one of them.
I’m mad at myself for not taking enough photos.
A few days after Christmas, my sister’s first baby was born. He is ridiculously cute.
Even (especially?) when he sneezes.
The day he was born I sat next to my sister’s hospital bed and held him for hours while he slept and we talked. It’s been such a long time since my kids were babies; I was a little nervous at first to hold him. It’s different holding a newborn now that my first baby is eighteen and getting ready to start college. I couldn’t help but say that it paradoxically all goes by too fast — eighteen years in an instant made up of so many days where it felt like bedtime would never arrive and the clock dragged through impossibly long afternoons.