Collecting a Color

Growing up, I lived in what I considered a well decorated home. It was eclectic with traditional roots. Antiques mixed with new furniture, fantastic original artwork and cherished collectibles, carefully culled and exchanged for cash from a variety of flea markets and antique shops over many years. There was a theme and I lived within its backdrop every day. Like the blue willow platter pictured here, my house was filled with all manner of blue and white: Delft from Holland, Blue Onion from Germany, and Blue Willow from England. It didn't end there. Our trim and fireplace were painted blue, our best couch was upholstered in cobalt velvet and our bedspreads were, you guessed it, blue and white. To me, it was a beautiful whole-house collection and most importantly, it provided joy for my mother in every direction.  


Since I inherited quite a few of her treasures (like the platter), it didn't occur to me for many years that I longed for a collection of my own. Easier said than done. My mind went to the clichés so often, I pictured a house filled with kitsch in the form of out-of-work salt and pepper shakers, cookie jars and sequestered demi spoons. Not having a collection bugged me and I labored over what it would be until one day... While leafing through one of the many magazines I saved beyond their prime, I read an article about 19th century French blue opaline. So gorgeous! These opaque turquoise hand-blown beauties had found a new fan. I began on ebay, sniping my modest finds at the last minute, for less than twenty dollars each. After acquiring a few pieces, I arranged them together on the mantel shelf. Lovely. Then it happened. I began lingering over ANYTHING colored in that inspired turquoise hue, no matter what it was: a pendant, book cover or swimsuit. I fell in love with blue opaline, yes, but I also fell hard for nearly every object that shared its color. Mission accomplished!

Ahh, blue opaline!

Geisha dolls from my childhood.

Saw these teacups and saucers at a thrift shop. Had to have them for $1 each.

Snatched vintage seltzer bottle from free pile at transfer station.

Loving Lily

A million years ago, I gave birth to Lily. She was my first child and I never heard her cry. She lived for a week and took a pass on the rest. I grieved deeply and completely. I didn't want to be half-assed about it. Loving her showed me the underside of my compassion. I never asked why my first child had to die. I asked only for healing.

I recently entered an essay contest about love and although I didn't win, I'd like to share it with you.

Healthy and without strings, love reigned as a constant for me until the day my mother died. At twenty-two, like a junkie, I faced the unseemly reality of sourcing love to get through each day. To compensate for this loss, I made it my practice to love myself with the same fervor as when it came from my mother, but pitiably fell short. This was an early lesson I will never forget. There is no substitute for maternal love. The pangs of missing my mother’s love still attack from behind. However, time has been gracious, gifting me the ability to feel my powerful connection to her beyond the constraints of the living world.

By the time I was ready to become a mother myself, my husband and I kicked off the whole idea of conception with enthusiasm. Within two short months, I was pregnant and spilled my fantastic news like an impulsive volcano. My pregnancy was typical. I could time my bouts of morning sickness to the minute and I anticipated my delivery with a mash-up of elation and terror. As the weeks drew me closer to the date I’d circled on the calendar, I espoused pregnancy clichés favoring long walks, bumpy rides and spicy dishes to hasten delivery.

My due-date came and went without so much as a hiccup, until two days later when my water broke shortly after midnight. I identified this pregnancy detail as an assurance that everything was progressing as it should. At the hospital, there was anticipatory joy on the front-end. But after twelve hours, no contractions and no change, pragmatic worry infused the status quo. My doctor introduced Pitocin to get things moving, and the monitor began to record the baby’s frequent heart rate decelerations. And while my doctor did a fair job of shielding me from his stepped-up concerns, reality forced his hand when the baby’s heart rate failed to recover. This course of events landed me in the operating room down the hall for an emergency forceps delivery.

Before we knew it, it was Father’s Day, just after midnight, and a gorgeous baby girl was pulled from me. But as they shuttled Lily into a corner, concealed behind a wall of doctors and nurses, the mood inside the room downshifted to somber and stayed there. Meanwhile, the forceps had left me with a fourth degree tear that I would feel for months, and as my doctor repaired me I felt the sting of every stitch.

At the time, I was not privy to the sense of urgency that overtook the medical team. Lily’s team of doctors worked with singular focus to get her breathing, taking turns as each tried to establish an airway for our child. We learned after-the-fact that Lily took her first breath almost twenty minutes after she was born. The description of Lily’s precarious condition at birth remains vivid even today, nearly fourteen years later. The doctors described her as “blue and floppy” with “the cord wrapped twice around her neck”. At no time did she spontaneously breathe on her own.

Stable for the moment, Lily was rushed to the Newborn Intensive Care Unit (or NICU as we grew accustomed to saying) while Brendan and I were escorted to our new room. As it turned out, the maternity ward bore the weight of exile with new parents on all sides. Healthy bundles of joy were everywhere. We could not have felt more out of place. Nothing was as we thought it would be. We were new parents, alone in a room, with no baby to hold. A few hours after Lily was born, a wheel chair was brought to the room and we were told that we could see her for the first time. I was petrified and reluctant, so conflicted about seeing my daughter.

My husband and I looked the part of Hazmat officials, all suited and scrubbed. Yet despite my physical preparedness, I felt completely lost. I cried at the sight of her inside her incubator and was not allowed to hold her. Lily was lovely. She had beautiful brown hair and weighed 7 pounds and 15 ounces. Her incredible strength was tested almost immediately surviving two surgeries in her first 48 hours.

Once back in our room where we remained for the next five days, I felt utter despair. After nine months of planning, reading, shopping, decorating, and eating – all motivated by the addition of a child – I was an empty vessel and nothing more. I’ll never forget my emotional paralysis in our room when I asked Brendan, “How do we do this? How do we do this if she’s going to die?” As it turned out, my husband’s instincts kicked in before my own. His answer was gentle and straightforward, “She’s our baby. We love her and we're already doing it.”

Lily lived for only seven days. On Wednesday morning (day 5), the NICU doctors conferenced with us about Lily’s condition. Many of the words I heard were bigger than me, attached to medical implications and prognoses. My eyes, more than my words, pressed for clear answers. Lily would not survive. They told us to return on Friday morning. “At that time, we will arrange you in a private room in the NICU. You can be with Lily until she passes.” They planned to separate Lily from her breathing machine, and let her slip away in her own time. Our room was comfortable with chairs for visiting, and beds so we could lie with Lily. The next thirty hours remain the most peaceful and profoundly meaningful memory of my life. Brendan and I held Lily in our arms for thirty continuous hours, loving her in the moment. We were interrupted only by brief and welcome visits from close family members and the occasional nurse or doctor with whom we had made a deep connection.

Looking back, loving Lily was instinctive with an undefined path of its own. I have always been a thinker, someone who rationalizes, weighs sides, and justifies and analyzes feelings. This was different. Loving Lily felt more like jumping from a cliff, trusting that I would bounce at the bottom. I fell hard, and I let her memory wash over me without dissection. Sad music, poetry, long remote walks with my dog, refinishing furniture – these were the things that filled my days for twelve weeks. Yes, I took my whole maternity leave. During that time, I wrestled with my identity a lot. I was desperate to call myself mother, but felt like a phony when I hadn’t even changed a diaper. Lily showed me the depths of my capacities as mother, not my limits. The unwavering capacity for maternal love that was born within me on Lily’s birthday continues to grow, boundless and unchecked, despite what I do, think or believe. For this and for Lily’s brave, sweet face, I am grateful.

The Glue Has Dried

My mother died just eight months after I graduated from college. Her death was unexpected, at least to me. She was emotionally unhealthy at the time, still grieving the death of her marriage and the future she had imagined for herself.


When I see a picture like this one - of her in the moment, appreciably devoid of pretense in any physical way - my power to recall her in both flesh and spirit ticks up a thousand fold.


The photo conjures lots of memories. For instance, I still have the red Coleman cooler being used as a picnic surface by my mother, as well as the L.L. Bean canvas carryall pictured in the foreground. I remember the wavy design of the waxy paper cup from the stack in the kitchen cabinet by the sink. But when I look closely, I notice the things that I always noticed about my mother's appearance while living with her and seeing her every day. My eyes go to her long, rounded finger nails, almost never covered with polish (she preferred to buff them). I see the age spots covering her hands and face. I notice right away her canine tooth with a bit of a twist to it, just the way the identical tooth in my mouth sits.


While my mother died at an age most would consider young, she had plowed through most of the hard stuff of parenting. And though she died before meeting my husband or children, she took with her something that I didn't realize had gone missing at first. She was the family glue. As much as I thought that perhaps I could be the glue after her death, I was wrong. Siblings share a lot when they live under the same roof, but feathering a new nest quickly takes priority in the world of grown-ups. Of course, that's not to say that some families can't remain close after a matriarch passes.


In my case, I know that if she were still alive I would benefit emotionally on many levels. Her home would surely provide the holiday headquarters missing from my own holidays. And I have a feeling, though I can't be sure, that my siblings and I would easily reprise our dynamic family roles whenever we got together under her roof. Always the cockeyed optimist, I have spent much of my life dreaming of taking a grand vacation with my brothers, perhaps cruising to some balmy destination with their families. When I watch a movie (even a zany one like Wedding Crashers), I extract dangerous ideas like playing touch football with my entire family during our next Thanksgiving together. 


Maybe now is a good time to admit that these things will never come to pass. If I want this kind of closeness in my future, it has to begin with me: a new generation of glue, to keep my children focused on the real prize and richness of life. A future that centers around family, in good times and in bad. There is great stuff here under my roof providing daily incentive to keep this ensemble going strong as long as I'm alive: loads of laughter, amazing stories, tears and triumphs, great food, friendship and always... unconditional love.

Slippery When Wet

I have to tell you, I thought I was hot shit whenever I wore the t-shirt in this photograph. I had it all going on; rockin' the Levi's®, ponytails, acne and the “I know it all” half-smile. At this time in my life, my brothers were gone (college!), and I was forced to adopt the solitude I think of when I consider only children. Thank God I spent hours and hours talking on the telephone, rearranging my room and chasing neighborhood boys, but I still felt lonely. I remember eating out at restaurants, and vacationing at Disney's newly opened Epcot as a tidy, downsized version of my real nuclear family. Alone with my parents wherever we happened to be, I lived for the occasional, albeit shallow interaction or sighting involving random cute guys. And since my family has always loved to dine out, these “cute guys” were usually waiters. Guess what? I still love eating at restaurants!

Words

The other night I was sitting with my husband, debriefing about the day. After the kids go to bed, the rhythm of our nights usually includes streaming some new episode (Sherlock is our latest addiction) or watching a repeat of 30 Rock for the tenth time.  Whenever one of us has something important to say, we pause the program (lots of stops and starts). One night last week I must have been fishing for a little validation. It turned out to be one of the nicest moments in my marriage to date. Brendan turned to me and said, “Your best is yet to come and you know it.” It's really amazing how many words people exchange, especially couples (married or not). And sometimes, words can really stick. Not only that, but they can have weight. I've smiled while reflecting on my husband's words a hundred times since he said them. You never know where those sticky, weighty words will come from next.

Can't Pick 'Em Anymore

Nora with her cousin Erin, a healthy relationship that
doesn't depend on me for much of anything.

I bet many of my peers can relate to what I've come to terms with recently. There was a time when the social lives of my children were almost completely orchestrated by me. I held the power position to pick and choose playmates on their behalf. And it all depended on whether or not I felt like picking up the telephone to arrange a meeting at the park. If I was really ambitious (ambitious enough to clean the whole house), I might ask someone I hardly knew into my home, replete with all the awkwardness generated by two strangers getting to know each other. 


When you are parenting very young children, this daily scheduling effort can be as much about your needs for social interaction as it is about theirs. And if you happen to be in the market for a new grown-up friend, with any luck and a little effort, you may find one (or two, or ten) - all this while playing matchmaker for your child. 


So now my oldest is in middle school and I realize that my reign as supreme wielder of friendships and play dates is over. Admittedly, I feel some relief. For one thing, the pressure is off. I no longer have to wonder if my motivations to have my child gravitate toward one friend or another are transparent. They can choose for themselves. And now I'm off the hook. I can celebrate much greater freedom by spending time with those whom I truly enjoy, without considering the impacts on my children. I no longer have to limp along through conversations in which I'm not vested. I can concentrate on myself a bit more these days, and it's nice. 

Alone on Christmas

My father, age 85.

My dad has been married twice. His first marriage to my mother lasted 32 years. His second marriage is barely limping along at the 22 year mark. Last spring, my oldest brother and I took my dad to lunch. During our time together, my father was quick to abandon his usual topics and began listing some unusual "new" behaviors that characterized his wife.


For our benefit, he enlisted a bold palette to color a vision of a woman who washed her towels and bed sheets every day, threw clothes away as fast as she could buy them and loitered by the clothes dryer late at night to drown the sounds of clandestine phone calls. He shared with us that his wife had recently refused to wash his clothes, shop for his groceries, prepare his dinner or clean the bathroom where he bathed. She had also become a fan of sending and receiving text messages, at all hours of the day.  The two had become room mates and one of them, apparently, had a secret. While my brother and I heard oral confirmation that his wife was indeed a crazy bat, a notion I had held since I met her, my father suspected infidelity.


My brother offered three words to our father: cell phone detail. The devil is in the details after all. Four days later, detail in hand, my dad telephoned me. He had highlighted a suspicious phone number, tallied the minutes, and noted the times of day. With minimal sleuthing, my dad had also identified the owner of the phone number. The next step was confrontation. Not prone to controversy of any kind, my father decided to leave the cell phone detail on the kitchen counter.


Since then, volatility has been the only accurate measure of their marriage and his wife has "left him" and returned on a number of occasions. Her abandonment pattern is unpredictable and ranges from just a few days to being gone for more than a month's time. This story is still unfolding.


What have I learned? I have learned that love dies slowly and deliberately.  I realize that loyalty enjoys a mystical place of honor that cannot always be rationalized or explained using words.  I know now that people cannot be talked out of love. There are more lessons here, but I'm not sure I'm ready to express them.


My dad spent this past Christmas alone. His wife was in abandonment mode, and despite my earnest invitation to include him in our holiday, he opted to go it alone.