Letting Go

I hate it. I hate letting go. I think it's why I retain all my bad habits. It's the loss of them - of anything - that I can't stand, even if what waits for me on the other side is good. I'd rather keep the familiar, thank you very much, and pass the salt.

I am sure this is because I had an overage of letting go when I was little. I attended three elementary schools over the course of eight years. I lived at home, I lived with my grandparents, I lived with my aunt. My dad was there, my dad wasn't there. I had cousins and then I didn't. I spent so much time leaving, leaving and saying good-bye. I hated it.

And I hate it now.

So I work very hard at not leaving and not letting go. So far, this has made for a very strong marriage, some great life-long friendships and some uncomfortable pants, as I probably should let some of the ones that haven't fit me for six years go. I'm sure my hips would agree, but who's asking them anyway?

Of course, the not-letting-go thing has made parenting excruciating, since all you do as a parent is let go. My children have learned to tug and pull toward the music of their own lives quietly, so as to not interrupt my symphony of psychosis. I know that's a little nuts, but it works for us and who's asking you anyway?

So I've got this carefully constructed life with the same house, same neighborhood, same pants. Same, same same! Yay!

The thing is, not everyone is like me. Some people accept, embrace - even pursue - change. These people drive me insane, especiallywhen I love them. And despite all my labors to the contrary, some of them go. I have to say good-bye and let go.

And I want to scream at them "NO! Don't go! You're going to ruin everything! You're going to make me cry and feel lonely and lost and I don't want you to go because I need you in order to keep my sameness SAME. Don't you see that?!"

I want to run at them inelegantly flapping my arms to catch their attention and then I want to clutch them close to me and transfer my inexplicable, unreasonable fear of change to them through the heat of my body so they'll stay and never go.

I want to, but I know it's the wrong thing. I know I must love those around me enough to allow them their choices without the burden of mine weighing them down. I know others' happiness belongs to them and I owe them comfort and confidence when they're off to pursue their dreams. I know that I can't change the fact that things change and sometimes I must say good-bye and carry on. I know that.

But I hate it. I hate letting go.

Be Thankful

I just went to visit my childhood best friend's mom. Today is her birthday. I spent about an hour with her, coaxing her into having a little something to eat. It's not easy anymore, as she's recently had a stroke so all her food is - in addition to being old-people gross anyway - mixed with gelatin. Yuck! I had to laugh when she managed to pull together a pretty convincing scowl, despite the paralysis in her face, so that I knew not to keep trying to push the pea-mush that was substituting for real food on her plate. It'd be easy to look at her situation and think 'This is awful, I'm so glad it's not me or my mom.'

I suppose that'd be one form of thanks, right?

But instead, I was grateful because as soon as she saw me there was no mistaking the delight in her eyes. The days since I went bounding into her house, sticky and sweaty from play have flown by in a flash. So I was relieved and glad that she took my hand and squeezed it, as best she could, to let me know she was so happy to see me. I'm grateful that she smiled at the flowers I brought and so, so overjoyed to have spent an hour with her, getting her to have even a few bites to keep up her strength and singing happy birthday to her so that she knew she was remembered and loved.

It's one thing, of course, to be loved by someone. I'm grateful, eternally, for all the love I receive from those close to me. But I have to say it's another thrill entirely to get someone else to see and appreciate the love you are giving them. It's especially meaningful when you know somone is at the end of their days, because we all know eventually the days run out.

I find this especially true today, not just because of this visit but because last night Tony stayed up late looking at old videos of our babies when they were brand, spankin' new. My beautiful Sara, rocking back and forth on those untried legs, doing everything she could to get into Lucy's 'big-girl' bed (toddler-sized, but huge to her). The ever-delicious Lucy in the background of every single video pleading, 'Can I see, Daddy?' and hamming it up for more face time. Sam, my earnest, eager Sam, bawling ferociously at the audacity of pause between placing him in the crib and handing him his bottle of milk. Those days have sprinted by, too soon. Of course, Sara is still trying everything she can to fit into Lucy's big-girl status, Lucy still chases Daddy around to dig into whatever he's doing, and Sam, embarrassingly, still bawls ferociously when we're out of milk. Some things, I'm told, never change.

And still, still, the days fly by.

So don't waste your days looking for something else. Be joyful in what you have today. You can stretch and grow and reach, but don't bemoan what is not in your grasp. Don't give time away to anger or regret better spent on thrill and song for what you already have. When it is your time to sit in that quiet chair waiting for a visit, those things won't matter. Don't place falseness or pretense in front of what is real and strong and true. You know what it is. Embrace your own flawed self with as much fervor as you do your most fantastic desires and share your truest self with those around you, even when you are weak and afraid. It is your honest love which is the most treasured by those who love you too. And be open and willing and reckless in giving your love - it is the one thing that always grows exponentially when invested. Everyone has a story to tell. Listen. Show fairness and reason and understanding. That too is rewarded and returned when shared.

And, above all, be thankful, as the days fly by.

This is What A 10-Year Old Looks Like

I have two of them - well, had, until last year when they appallingly turned 11. I just hate when they do that - get a year older every year.

In an case, this is a picture of them when they were 10. We had to try the picture several times because the two of them kept goofing off. Little gigglepots with ants in their pants and a penchant for driving one another bananas. Also, it was a windy day.

I won't ever get that day back to try to retake this photo, so this is the best shot I'll ever have of that moment. That's because they'll never be 10 again and we'll never be able to reverse all the experiences they've had since in order to regain who they were on that day. See how Sara's leaning in to Sam? Being braced by him? And how Sam is standing tall, his arm around her back? He's pushing against the wind, doing his best to keep them both steady. He's protecting her. He's 10.

I don't know all the details of the mess at Penn State University. It's all a bit too sordid for me and I've got enough worry and pre-emptive pain in my head - parenting will do that to you. What I do know is that a 10-year old was abused, raped, by a grown man in a shower at the university locker room. This event was witnessed, reported, and then ignored. There's more to it, several boys, years and years of at least suspicion, if not knowledge, that this was going on. And it was ignored.

Now that some action has finally been taken, folks are being asked whether the adult men who ignored this situation should be treated with sympathy. Sympathy? A sad ending to a career? A career? Have we all gone mad?

I don't care one whit about this man's career. Does he care that these babies were violated, repeatedly, and ruined by the sick bastard he was protecting? Is anyone at Penn State marching about that?

Look at that picture of my babies. I won't ever get that day back. They'll never be 10 again and we'll never be able to reverse all the experiences they've had since in order to regain who they were on that day. See how Sara's leaning in to Sam? See Sam protecting her? He's 10.

I Have Several Things To Say

The problem is, I think I've learned not to say what I want to say.

When I was younger, I not only blurted out every magnificent thing that came into my head, but I was encouraged to do so. My mother thought it was the best way to let me express my freedom as an individual. I was invited to speak my mind and my mom endlessly engaged me in thoughtful, provacative and often silly conversations on the most benign topics. This practice of exchange came back to haunt her in the 80s when I was a teenager and she was no longer keen on my freedom or my individuality and had long since tired of my provocation. Train. Station.

Later, my friends and co-workers egged me on. Friends, I think because many of them were too repressed to say what they wanted to say, thrilled at my willingness to scream the virtues of shaven hair at our prim all-girls college prep. Co-workers reveled in my multi-page memos on why I shouldn't serve coffee to clients, something I do for myself these days, so as not to be a total hypocrite.

Freed from the chains of social constraint on my teenage and twenty-something self (most of which I had ignored anyway) I embraced the full volume of my 30s wit and wisdom. I had opinions on every single thing and you heard them whether you cared to or not. I got a lot of attention that way, and if it was negative I was too busy blasting away to know it or care.

But now inching ever closer to the stands where the polyester print sweater brigade awaits my enrollment I find I'm less inclined. I find other folks who always have an air of authority seem immature and impatient to me. Was I those things? I see others who are opinionated well beyond their scope of expertise, or even exposure, and think, 'You look like a fool.' Was I so foolish? I'm eager to respond to things that I think require hastened attention, but I've found that if I sit back and wait the urgency dissipates. Was I always jumping the gun?

I've found I'm richer and more satisfied as a listener than a speaker. I find that even when the incompetence of others frustrates and slows me I can get past that and not feel afterwards that I've put on yet another lavish display of bull-in-china, the Carmen edition. I still feel that I'm better at an awful lot of stuff than other people, but I'm doing every thing I can to inform that arrogance with the experience of finding others' talents valuable and interesting and worthwile.

And I'm doing everything I can think of to keep some of my opinions to myself so that others can enjoy the sound and feel of their own.

I give it another couple of weeks.

Observations on Halloween

Candy corn is gross. Really.

I was so excited when my youngest girl (11) said she wanted to be a princess bride! Then entirely deflated when she said 'a dead one'.

Did not make it to pumpkin selection in a timely fashion due to extensive automotive trauma. If you were me you'd understand that. In any case, I had to purchase less-than-exactly-orb-shaped-pie pumpkins from hapless outdoor cart at Home Depot. Kids' enthusiasm level re: decorating these with paint and markers not exactly breaking records.

Am wearing my orange sweater today in honor of the holiday and am sadly much more rotund and pumpkin-like than our pumpkins. Note to self: stop eating or watermelon season is going to be ugly.

Purchased three huge bags of Halloween candy because it was on sale and the sign urging me to buy it was so damn compelling. Realized later I won't be home so the candy will just be sitting in a bowl on my counter for the rest of the year.

Make that month.

Let's be honest, maybe it'll make a week. See pumpkin/watermelon reference above.

Still do not understand the concept of spending an evening wandering around in the dark trying to get scared or scare others as a form of entertainment when the rest of the time we are constantly faced with gruesome truths like poverty, hunger, starvation, a dying planet, deception, war and crime. Maybe y'all should just pay attention the remainder of the year. It's scary enough.

Explained the above to my children last night and got two blinks and a, "Yeah, but you get candy." Insert 'duh' eye-roll.

Well, they are my children. I better hide that candy bowl.

Ain't No Time Like The Present

Some days I wish I was in that other part of my life. That part where I took the train and went to work downtown and stopped for drinks on my way home. Some days I wish I still shopped at Water Tower and wore stupidly expensive undergarments and had sachets in all my drawers. There are days when I wish I still got butterflies in my stomach because practically everything was new to me. I miss my boss and my old friends from work. I wish I still had years and years ahead of me when my body could ping back and forth from just about any test without complaint. I wish I still got haircuts that left me feeling like a pampered princess and left my pillow smelling delicious for two days afterwards. Some days I wish I could look forward to crisp weather so that I could wear thick sweaters and wool skirts with knee-length boots and look like I belonged in the season. I wish I was excited. I wish I was accepting and willing and ambitious beyond measure because - why not - the world is a magical place!

I become giddy with wishing some days.

But the wishing only lasts long enough for me to remember that when I was in that part of my life I always dreamed of this part. The part where I work near the neighborhood and my husband takes me home from work and we make dinner for our family together. The part where the kids drive me bananas with questions and announcements and demands for attention as soon as they walk in the door. There're always so many papers to look at! In earlier days I'd go to a department store and see the mom in the comfy jeans and flats and the worn-out sweater with the flushed face and the scrambling kids and I'd beg God to give me that life. Today, that's me! Before I got here I'd wonder what other expensive thing I could buy to make me feel good, because what I really wanted was to love someone with all my heart and then love my babies and then cook and set tables and read books and stare at my house with nothing but thrill inside at my arrival in a life that's too good to be true.

My hands are wrinkled now. And my jeans certainly don't fit the way they used to. I'm ambitious, but pragmatic. I still believe the world is a magical place. And I'm quite thankful to be where I am, really, truly and completely.

I'm All... Uh... Twitter

So you may have noticed that I don't hang out here much on my blog page anymore. Sadly, you may not have noticed and I've just been fantasizing that you and others like you mull around waiting for some indication that my wit and wisdom has once again been set to page, er blog, so that your existence doesn't seem so mundane and purposeless. In either case, one of us is pathetic. I'll leave it to you to decide.

The sad truth is I haven't been here because I can't write anymore. I know, I know. But it's true. In the mad dash to race myself from 1987 where my hair has remained all these years to 2012 where my wild, unrequited success in business resides I've had to cast off some of my old ways. I’m obsessed with word count. Gone are the long meandering observations on the plight of a, let's say, candidate Perry, for instance, a man who's just about begged for my attention.

In my more prolific blogging days I might have had a word or two on the comical, uh, historic nature of this man's candidacy. Here's a guy who's never lost an election, and he's got the intellect of blank paper. How’s that possible? He's as bright as a bobbing boat oar. Nobody saw it? He's as clever as a box of hair. It's got to be some kind of record, right? (Don't say 'no'. It'll make me cry.)

This guy throws together big ideas like 'Ponzi scheme' and 'Social Security' like a toddler getting dressed in the dark using old Halloween costumes and the contents of a pajama drawer. "It's a Disney-Princess-Cat-Captain! Like it?!" Uh, yeah, but wouldn't elect it to the highest office in the land.

I suppose he's better than his hysterically smiling debate companion, the gal who's married to the gayest straight guy I've ever seen. How many of you have joined the office pool on when he gets outed? I'm in for $20. In the meantime I'm fascinated by the popularity of a candidate - don't be like that - 7% of the population is a good number of people if you're having them over for dinner - who dissects information to relieve it of any facts or sense before she spews it in front of cameras. It's absolutely riveting.

As is the candidate who prefaces his statements with something along the lines of 'I don't have the facts on this….' Maybe he’s worried about word count too. Doesn’t want to muddy the waters with extra info that’ll use up his characters. It's refreshing, I suppose. Kind of like your child's teacher telling you 'I can't prove it but I'm pretty sure your son is a goat with a mild cognitive disorder and a faulty digestive system. You may want to look into trade schools.' I'm supposed to overlook this candidate's blatant disregard for evidence to back up his outlandish statements because (ssshhhh) he's black. Also he knows how to make pizza. I'm not convinced on the former, but I have to say I've thrown a little extra acceptance his way on the pizza thing. I am part Italian, after all.

In place of these boorish rants are trite little mentions of articles, along with a hashtag - which between you and me is a pound sign and some typographically incoherent blather that some techno idiot made up to abbreviate an intelligible (if not intelligent) word or phrase- and a link to someone else's drivel. In my quest for a technologically current identity in business, I've foresaken my own drivel for someone else's. That's progress for you. Or ‘thts prgrss 4u’.

Worse than the choice to spend my time tweeting (why doesn't anyone else find being forced to say that the modern equivalent to shoving one's iphone-addicted self into the ill-fitting clothes of the emperor--the ones woven with the 'invisible' thread? it's ludicrous and hilarious! am i the only one getting that?) is the fact that the tweeting itself is rendering me incapable of stringing together more than 160-characters worth of sensible thought. And yes, you read that right, I said 160. Even in my revised, twitter-speak state I still manage to be verbose and require editing.

The mechanism I previously employed to carry out a thought from inception to print.. uh.. post.. involved long rambling essays, pared over time, carefully crafted to evoke emotion, imagery, finality. Draft upon draft. Rewrite, revision. Coffee. Lots of coffee.

The mechanism I use to tweet involves finding someone else's semi-relevant blurb, acting like I care about it, and then repeating it with my own three words of scintillating commentary. I'm good, but I'll confess, I'm not that good.

I get the general idea of Twitter - to pare down your thoughts to their simplest form - to express a thought quickly, succinctly and still be intelligent and relevant - to connect with others who get you. I get the idea, but I have to be honest, it ain't me. I'm a lingerer, verbally speaking. A languisher. A loller. I love 'L' words, don’t you?. And 'S' words and 'Q' words. I love them all! Isn't squishy a great word? And SCREAM! You can't scream on Twitter. You can't even intone. You can only snark and demur.

I get the whole revolution thing and the global connectivity thing, yada yada yada. Alex Baldwin is entertaining. Steve Martin, oddly, isn’t. The guy impersonating Rahm was vulgar and tedious after a while. He’s famous for being a pottie mouth on Twitter. Is that how we get famous now?

I’ll never make it. I’m doing what I need to do for work and I’m doing what I can to adjust but a part of me wants to shove 70 big fat NOs into the teenie 140-character box and find a fresh blank blog page and just WRITE A MILLION WORDS.

What’s my word count right now?