Gypsy

Change is good, so they say. 

Be it a throw pillow or a color scheme, or my inevitable desire to move someplace after I visit, I’ve always liked change. This year round warm weather does not do my soul good when all it craves is a tree of many colors or the grace that freshly fallen snow can bring. I have a gypsy soul with a thirst for wandering and a fear of stagnation and for years my gypsy and I journeyed joyfully together, from Midwest, to South, to East, to West, our adventures always outweighing the risk; our youthful spirit always confident of landing on our feet.

Then came marriage.  And a baby. Then another. And a separation with a finale of divorce.  Change. Change. Change. Change. Slowly my gypsy silenced as she watched from the sidelines and the years passed and her retreat grew long.  A sort of hibernation, awaiting her role, awaiting her turn to come around again. She knew she had to let me be because gypsies want to run away, but mothers have to stay. 

Change is good, so they say. 

But sometimes it feels like being chained to the back of an 18 wheeler and dragged across a gravel road for a few (hundred) miles. I wave frantically trying to get the driver to see me in the rearview mirror but it is useless as I am trapped in the blindspot. So instead I settle into the discomfort, convincing myself that the gravel isn’t really so bad. The gravel doesn’t really hurt so much. I drift to sleep thinking of my gypsy, dreaming of what adventure she might be on. I wonder if she’s disappointed in me, watching as I navigate my way. How did we land here,  she must wonder. Divorced in an isolated land of little boxes on the hillside, little boxes all the same. I take a chance. Gypsy? I whisper. And then I feel her nudge, her hibernation awakening. Gypsy-may I please run away with you? No you cannot, she replies. You must stay. I know, I say, and I arrange the gravel so it sits just right; so I can stand with it on my shoulders and not collapse from the weight. Gypsy retreats. 

Change is good, so they say.

 But it isn’t always recognized. Most people don’t want to recognize change, especially when it doesn’t pertain to them. It’s too scary. It’s too risky. Too comfortable to stay just where you are. I wonder what my gypsy thinks as she sees me smile to these swirling faces surrounding me, eager for my acknowledgment of contentment. Awaiting my approval of their decisions. Gypsy nudges me, and I push her down. Tell them, she whispers. Tell them about me, about us. No, no, it’s okay, I try to convince her. It’s okay. They can’t feel the gravel. It’s too much; I’ll just hold it for them. Gypsy retreats, having lost her round and as she begins to fade, I confide to her again. I want to run away. I know you do, she says. But you must stay. I try to offload some of the gravel, but it upsets my balance, so I pick it back up and rearrange once again so my legs don’t bend. 

Change is good, so they say. 

Gypsy, I panic. I need you. I have so many things to do. I forgot how to do all these things while in my warm cocoon of mothering.  Please will you help me? Scoot over, she whispers and there she sits as I trudge through piles of neglected mail, open my own bank accounts, leave my home, try to make a new one, call utility companies, pay my taxes, buy a car, acquire health insurance, pay them bills….all these things we are all supposed to do. She high fives me after each task, telling me it’s all going to be okay. We can land on our feet! We can still do this! We can still figure it out! Our adventures aren’t over yet! Her exuberance is infectious and I ask her again-can we run away?! No, she says. You must stay. Okay, I say…but then I feel some bits of gravel fall away. I wobble, then regain. A few freed pieces, just a tiny few, but then I hear her whisper…I’m proud of you.

Change is good, so they say.

Gypsy! I yell. We had so much we were going to do! All the things we were going to be! All the people we wanted to see! I’m trying to get this damn gravel off of me! Why won’t it be free? Why is it so stuck to me? How do I get back to you, Gypsy? Where do you sit when I’m trying to decide what I need to be? I’m sorry I left you alone all those years! I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I couldn’t be there, gypsy. Don’t you see? I had to quit raising me for a mother I was to be. I didn’t know how to be both; I didn’t know how to take you along. And now I want to run away and you refuse! I’m holding all this fucking gravel and you stand there watching me! I know it’s mine, I know it’s not yours but please can you free me of just a few more pieces? Please can you promise me that one day we can run away? 

Gypsy is quiet. She lets me cry, she lets me scream for no one knows me quite like…me. 

Gypsies want to run away, but mothers must stay. 

Gyspy, she whispers to me. You’ll always be a mother; that cannot be took. But don’t forsake me because one day you’ll find your gypsy soul exactly where it’s supposed to be because you weren’t afraid to change. You weren’t afraid to be who you are meant to be. 

A piece or two of gravel is quietly set free.

I wobble, then regain.

Change is good.

So they say.

These are the days....

Well, ho-ly shit.

Another school year come and (almost) gone. How is it possible for each year to pass more quickly than the last? Is this some sort of competition?  I don’t mind losing if it is. I mean I’m not a hugely competitive person, unless there’s board games involved obviously, but I’ll gladly take the loss here and just put the brakes on the clock even if that means bedtime gets further and further away each night.

The rapid, unforgiving passing of time is pretty much the one thing parents of the world can universally agree on it seems. Well… that and a deep seeded hatred of common core math. (And if you like that math YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH and pretend you hate it like the rest of us so you can still have friends at parties. Also, call me so you can come over and do math with Daughter.)  The end of each school year is always a trigger for an avalanche of mixed emotions, especially as the kids get older. Where once the mere thought of summer would conjure fear and panic at the idea of so much unscheduled time, that same thought of so much unscheduled time now feels less like a burden and more like a prize. I say this full well knowing that my kids will be driving me absolutely mad at some point (immediately) over the summer and I will be fully kissing the floor of school grounds jubilantly come the first day of school. I mean we all know I’m not some kind of delusional, Pinterest parent with a whole box full of things to do when you’re bored. Frankly I am way too lazy to create such a box and also, I have always been in full support of boredom. Boredom sparks creativity. And naps. 

But as this school year ends and I look forward to lazy days with The Children, the passing of another grade has encouraged this very weepy phase of parenting I have found myself in recently as I watch Son grow from boy to  young man. As a human who has no shame in public crying (Hi, divorce), even I must admit it’s getting a tad embarrassing how easily and frequently I find myself tearing up at the simplest glance at Son. The older he gets, the more he naturally slips a bit away from me and while I know this is okay, this is what he’s supposed to do, this is healthy for him to discover who he is outside of being my son, (blah blah blah), I admit it breaks my heart a little more each day as my baby boy keeps getting further and further away and this teenager keeps getting closer and closer. Because that baby boy….wasn’t he just right here, holding my hand as we crossed the street to go to the park for the fourth time in one day and now that baby boy is almost a seventh grader and he kinda smells and he has a wart on his elbow that won’t go away and doesn’t even want to play board games with me anymore and DON’T YOU REMEMBER HOW MANY GAMES OF MONOPOLY JR YOU MADE ME PLAY WHICH IS THE WORST GAME EVER CREATED  SO PLEASE PLAY YAHTZEE WITH ME TO PROVE YOUR LOVE. Also, hand me a tissue. Also, you’re so handsome I could just cry. Oh wait, I am. 

I get tripped out as my kids get older and it becomes that much easier to remember when *I* was that age.  Seventh grade? Mrs. Bye was my favorite teacher, rivaled closely by Mr. McKay who drove a red Miata that was the envy of us all, I did this ah-maz-ing presentation on the wonderful country of Hungary, had a crush on Mike Ohotto, let Nate Stanton cheat off my paper in English class, Anderson Cooper and Lisa Ling gave us the news each morning on Channel 1, and Mr. Glenn was the cutest gym teacher in the land. I feel so close to my childhood self, even though it was a long time ago and I can’t help but see all the years, past, present and future, slipping through my fingers like grains of sand. What will my kids hold with them as they move through their lives? What simple moments will get stuck in their heads for reasons we can never understand?  Because as I reflect on my childhood, it is always the simplest of memories I carry closest to my heart. Summer walks to Birdsall’s Ice Cream. Jumping off the dock into a warm lake. Shucking corn in the backyard with my siblings while lightning bugs gently glowed beside us. I wonder if my parents took a mental snapshot of those moments as I try to do with my own kids. I know we can’t relish each and every moment. People are busy; we got shit to do. Some days are meant for memories and others will slip by unnoticed. But the gift, I suppose, is in the not knowing where each day will land in our memory, hopefully forcing us to try and be as present as possible as these years unfailingly fly by. 

Growing older is a privilege, not a guarantee and no matter how hard I cling to my babies, I have to remember that we raise kids so they can be independent of us. I know I’m holding strong, Children, but I’ll keep loosening my grip. Just know that you can always hold tighter when you need too and you can even let go when it’s time. Also know that I’ll be crying a lot but I cry at choral music and every time Goose dies so don’t worry too much about me and all this weepiness. It just comes naturally.

Now…who wants to play a board game with me? 

Bueller…..

Sittin' When the Evenin' Comes

One of the most miraculous things about a summer evening on the lake in northern Iowa is just how very long the sun stays up. A glance at the sky, its colors perfected by the paintbrush of nature, would suggest that it is merely dinnertime or just after but indeed it is well past that. The sky darkens slowly, each color fading gently into the next day, until finally at last you are left with only the light the stars have chosen to give you that night. From my perch on the dock, the gentle lapping of the water rocking the boats beside me lures me down to the edge and I place my feet into the warm cocoon of childhood. Unlike the Pacific which I have become accustomed to, this water does not shock me, does not insist I take the time to get used to it. No; this water invites me in, gracious in its temperature. Leaned back on my hands, I let my legs dip a little deeper into the lake, my ears perked up anticipating the small, quick footsteps that accompany children who’ve just discovered their mother has left the house. Knowing without a doubt those footsteps will come, I relish in the absolute calm that I’m bathed in. 

Closing my eyes, I remember what it was like to be a little girl, jumping off this dock, fearless of the lake’s slimy texture, unaware of the creatures beneath the surface scattering upon our arrival into the water. One jump after the next, each of us siblings trying to outdo the other with our splits and our spins and our silliness. I remember the eager anticipation of getting my turn to get behind the borrowed boat and do my best to stay up on those tricky skis. The wind and water whipping my face as I stood upright for just a few precarious seconds, the laughter and cheers of my family hitting my waterlogged ears. 

A rumbling, distant hum of a motor forces my eyes open and transported back to the present, I reach for my wine glass, the deep red hitting my lips, slinking down my throat, it’s velvety linger a welcome peer. I watch as the last few boats head back to their docks, sun-soaked passengers recounting with echoed laughter their day on the lake, waving to me with gusto when they pass by as if to say-isn’t this wonderful? I can’t help but smile and wave back and agree that yes, it is wonderful. Can I come back home now? Could I live here again? Could I live here forever? 

The hypnotic spell is broken as quick footsteps startle me out of my dreamy daze. A small smile curls my lips and I turn my head towards the shore and see the determined lanky limbs of my daughter approaching me. What are you doing, she asks? Oh…just watching the sunset, I say. Can you believe the sun is still out this late? She says nothing, but rests beside me, her feet grazing the top of the darkening water and we sit silently for just a few precious more minutes until at last we bid the sun adieu. 

And Then She Was Ten....

Dear Daughter, 

When you were younger, I joked that your budding personality was the result of a perfect storm consisting of your dad’s ease of socializing with anyone and my somewhat inappropriate sense of humor which translated to you telling fart jokes to a car full of your brother’s friends. I would watch as the punchline hit and your eyes would gleam from the giggling victory and it was you and you alone who had command of us. The boys unable to control their laughter, the mom unable to tell her to stop, the brother unable to deny that his sister was pretty damn funny.

This perfect storm resulted in you, with nary an inhibition, stripping your 4 year old self of a shirt, justifiably questioning it’s necessity, and requesting that I open the  sunroof as we waited for brother’s school bell to ring. There you would stand, shirtless in the gleaming sunshine, waving to those who passed by, some amused, some horrified, most jealous of your effortless sense of freedom. 

As the years have gone by, too swiftly as they tend to do, you have never wavered from this independent spirit that resides inside of you. Whether you’re choosing basketball shorts over dresses or baseball over ballet, you still like to get your nails done. You might like to play with the boys but I suspect it’s because your crushes are intense and plentiful. You wear wolf ears in your school picture, you save your money to buy astronaut helmets one day and the next you wish for Steph Curry jerseys and the next for golf clubs. 

I hope you always remain blissfully unaware of how you seamlessly morph from one daydream to the next all while remaining intactly, completely, unquestionably you. To so many who have met you, we all have one thing in common: to be you when we grow up. We want to walk around this life in pink motorcycle jackets and basketball shorts; we want to be the only girl on the baseball team; we want your robust determination to try new things; we want to never be afraid to ask questions, to share our feelings; we want to hold court with fart jokes; hell-we want the confidence you have to claim your own fart and then just laugh about it because farts are pretty funny. We want to freestyle rap at the dinner table and slam our bedroom door just because it feels right.  We want to chop our hair off and then throw on a baseball cap. We want skateboards and Hamilton tickets and telescopes for Christmas. We want to be scientists, writers, crocodile rescuers and football coaches in a single lifetime. What evades so many of us, for years or even for a lifetime, comes to you so naturally, so easily, this superpower you have of simply being yourself with no barriers to what you can do, who you can be or how you can do it.

For ten years now, this unique spirit has only grown and my wish each passing birthday is that you always hold fast to it. The thought of something or someone crushing that spirit is one I can’t even bear to think about. But you keep proving to me that I don’t have to worry about it, not yet, maybe not ever. You’re just going to go ahead and keep doing it your own way. Even if your way can sometimes be really loud, emotionally draining and full of dramatic exits. 

You, dear Daughter, are so much more than a perfect storm of your mom and your dad. You are your own storm, making waves, carving paths and creating majestic mountains. I’m the luckiest to be along for the ride.  

Happy 10th Birthday, my sunshine…my only sunshine…

Love, 

Mama