A New Year's resolution is something that goes in one Year and out the other. ~ Anonymous
Did you make any New Year’s resolutions? I had largely given them up, but this year I broke down and made two. First, I need to clean the pantry. The boxes are covered with spilled oatmeal, my rice is four years old, and my cookbook pile collapsed long ago, but those problems are easily overlooked. My big issue is that I can no longer find my dark chocolate in its dark recesses. I hide my stash of 70% cacao away from the seeking eyes of children and husband, but to my dismay the clutter in my pantry has now hidden the after-dinner supply from me, as well. I actually have some confidence that I might carry out this resolution, given my nightly craving for sugar.
My second resolution is to say “yes” more to my husband. This includes all crazy schemes and irrational plans that he might concoct. My intention was inspired by a lovely relative who hosted our party of sixteen for dinner last week. Over turkey she told me and my cousin that one ingredient in her recipe for marital success (she’s been married for 42 years) is to say “yes” whenever possible, without eye-rolling, logical rebuttal, or outright laughter. For example, she had returned home late that afternoon from playing nine holes of golf with her spouse. One might understandably push back on the idea of playing golf in forty degree weather on an afternoon when you are hosting dinner for sixteen, but she gave it a whirl. They had a good time, dinner was excellent, and her example was timely and perfect.
So when my husband decided to bring the heavy wooden corn-hole games in the back of the minivan just so we could have a short tournament in the Dinosaur Museum parking lot, what did I say? Did I roll my eyes at the thought of carting them all over the foothills that afternoon for twenty minutes of diversion? Well . . . I thought about it. But then I took a big breath, swallowed my objections, and said “OK, as long as they don’t squash my cake.” Not exactly a ringing endorsement, I grant you, but somewhat of a “yes.” We did have fun with the cornhole game, though it was a bit brisk in the late afternoon and half the group watched from the warmer comfort of their cars.
This advice works the other way, as well, and our hostess gave an example of her husband’s support. Some years ago, when her children were still young, she decided to accompany her sister on a five week trek of the Himalayas. When they talked it over, her husband was supportive, and after making all of the necessary childcare arrangements she took off for Nepal with a group of women. What a cool gift, to be able to say “yes” to your partner. It makes me want to come up with crazy schemes just to test Rob’s acceptance. Of course, after reading this blog he will probably do the same . . .I’ll get back to you on the success of this resolution!
Family Photo
Family Foundation
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Monday, January 3, 2011
Holiday Reflections
The man at the check in counter looked up from his register in surprise when I said, “seven adults and five children, please.” He surveyed our crowd of three cousins, two cousins’ wives, two aunts/great-aunts, and five children under the age of ten. “Are they all related to you?” he asked. I replied that they were. “Then you are really lucky,” he said as he bent his head to swipe my card. For a minute I thought he meant that our volume would get us a discount on admission to the rec center, but then I realized he meant just what he said – I was really lucky to have such a large family, and to have them all with me at the holidays.
We had eleven people from my husband’s side of the family with us last week; sixteen of us organized into our normal-sized suburban home. We used ten beds, good-naturedly shared germs, stories, and toothpaste, played countless games of cards (all of which I lost), and contributed many pounds of glass bottles to recycling (I hope the recycling pick-up does not judge us too harshly for this week’s contents!)
Best of all, everyone helped. Rob’s cousin made an entire dinner by himself, Rob picked up after countless meals, moms cared for their kids and husbands, aunts vacuumed, swept, and put away dishes, grandparents watched children as the adults skied, and everyone spent hours assembling Lego sets and playing board games with my delighted children and their cousins. Despite some normal relief after the last departures, we all felt a big let-down when folks left. We rattle around in the house, which seems too big and too clean now. (It is a relief to see the back of the refrigerator, again, however, and to be done with the ten loads of laundry that were waiting.)
I had a really wonderful week, despite running point on dinners, towels and scheduling. Highlights for me were the few runs of skiing we managed between traffic jams, playing Solitaire with four superior players, watching three generations of boys (and men) working on rockets and Pinewood Derby cars, and dancing the night away with my family on New Year’s Eve. The image of Rob and his cousin dancing the left-right-forward-back steps to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” will stay with me much longer than my margarita and champagne hangover.
So we wish everyone a most happy beginning to this 2011. Though the start of a new calendar year may be meaningless to the universe at large, we hang our calendars to it, and measure the rhythm of our lives to the turning of its pages. I can think of no better way to start than with dancing, laughter, and clean laundry.
We had eleven people from my husband’s side of the family with us last week; sixteen of us organized into our normal-sized suburban home. We used ten beds, good-naturedly shared germs, stories, and toothpaste, played countless games of cards (all of which I lost), and contributed many pounds of glass bottles to recycling (I hope the recycling pick-up does not judge us too harshly for this week’s contents!)
Best of all, everyone helped. Rob’s cousin made an entire dinner by himself, Rob picked up after countless meals, moms cared for their kids and husbands, aunts vacuumed, swept, and put away dishes, grandparents watched children as the adults skied, and everyone spent hours assembling Lego sets and playing board games with my delighted children and their cousins. Despite some normal relief after the last departures, we all felt a big let-down when folks left. We rattle around in the house, which seems too big and too clean now. (It is a relief to see the back of the refrigerator, again, however, and to be done with the ten loads of laundry that were waiting.)
I had a really wonderful week, despite running point on dinners, towels and scheduling. Highlights for me were the few runs of skiing we managed between traffic jams, playing Solitaire with four superior players, watching three generations of boys (and men) working on rockets and Pinewood Derby cars, and dancing the night away with my family on New Year’s Eve. The image of Rob and his cousin dancing the left-right-forward-back steps to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” will stay with me much longer than my margarita and champagne hangover.
So we wish everyone a most happy beginning to this 2011. Though the start of a new calendar year may be meaningless to the universe at large, we hang our calendars to it, and measure the rhythm of our lives to the turning of its pages. I can think of no better way to start than with dancing, laughter, and clean laundry.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Twelve Days of Christmas - Rewrite
It's been done before, I know, but I could not resist borrowing the framework of "The Twelve Days of Christmas" to express our crazy pre-holiday week. When I say my family "gave" me each item in the list below, I know you will understand that to mean, "demanded," "requested," or accidentally "inspired" a response from me. Holiday wishes to everyone; may you be frequently caffeinated, often caught by hilarity, and full of good spirits (and I do mean of the alcoholic kind.) One note: this really sounds much better when sung!
On the first day of Christmas my family gave to me, a football in the Christmas tree.
On the second day of Christmas my family gave to me, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the third day of Christmas my family gave to me, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas my family gave to me, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas my family gave to me five toilet bowl rings. Four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas my family gave to me, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas my family gave to me, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas my family gave to me, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas my family gave to me, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my family gave to me, twelve stacks of thank-yous, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the first day of Christmas my family gave to me, a football in the Christmas tree.
On the second day of Christmas my family gave to me, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the third day of Christmas my family gave to me, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas my family gave to me, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas my family gave to me five toilet bowl rings. Four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas my family gave to me, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas my family gave to me, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas my family gave to me, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas my family gave to me, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas my family gave to me, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas my family gave to me, twelve stacks of thank-yous, eleven screaming carols, ten new Christmas card addresses, nine dinner guests, eight boxes from Amazon, seven teachers’ gift cards, six coaches’ presents, five toilet bowl rings, four dozen cookies, three class parties, two broken light strands and a football in the Christmas tree.
Monday, December 13, 2010
What's Your Story
"We tell stories in order to live." - Joan Didion
"Tell me the story, mom, that says 'there was a little boy who lived in a city . . .'" That's the way our bedtime begins now, with my youngest son requesting the unique story of his adoption from Guatemala. We have told his story through various picture books and memorabilia since he came to us almost three years ago, but the newest version of his story is different. My latest effort was produced via simple word processing, without pictures or embellishment of any kind. What it does have, that the earlier versions did not, is emotion. Tough emotion, like his legitimate fears, worries and sorrow upon leaving a home and people that he loved for a brand new place where he did not know a soul, did not understand the language, and could not be understood. In the past I have glossed over those pieces in the interest of 'sparing' his current feelings. I was not being truthful in my storytelling, and the center of my story knew it. No wonder he recognizes and likes the current edition much better.
I've heard that we all need to figure out our individual narratives in order to make sense of our lives. I've been trying to do this with increasing difficulty as shifting jobs, motherhood, and the swift passage of time unravel my particular narrative thread and leaving me grasping for continuity and meaning. I realized as I wrote the emotions into my youngest son's story that I was leaving out the feelings (particularly the bad ones) when I told my own history. Events do not comprise the entirety of my life; just retelling the stages and steps of my history (high school, college, jobs, etc.) removes its uniqueness. I needed the emotion: did I hate college? Love the first job? Rebel against the possessive boyfriend? How did I react and how did my emotional response help to dictate the next move? What we learn, how we choose our path . . .the deeper, murkier stuff of our pasts makes them interesting.
Maya Angelou says, "there is no greater burden than carrying an untold story." Perhaps that is the reason why 175,000 blogs start every day. And we must not confine our stories to the proper, the glorious, the successful - even if we have all of these shiny elements in our narratives. The favorite stories are always of the hero who gets knocked down - perhaps repeatedly - only to get up again and again. We cannot empathize with a protagonist who does not feel fear, who is loved by everyone she meets, or who achieves success in every venture. Why would we tell our own stories this way? I have started re-telling my own story (in my head, only, fortunately for you) and emphasizing the emotions that I felt, what I responded to or rejected, and how that dictated my next steps. I find that tracing my history in this manner makes it far more meaningful and far more coherent - "ugly" stuff and all. Now I can teach all my kids how to tell their own stories, and make sure they include all the right elements.
"Tell me the story, mom, that says 'there was a little boy who lived in a city . . .'" That's the way our bedtime begins now, with my youngest son requesting the unique story of his adoption from Guatemala. We have told his story through various picture books and memorabilia since he came to us almost three years ago, but the newest version of his story is different. My latest effort was produced via simple word processing, without pictures or embellishment of any kind. What it does have, that the earlier versions did not, is emotion. Tough emotion, like his legitimate fears, worries and sorrow upon leaving a home and people that he loved for a brand new place where he did not know a soul, did not understand the language, and could not be understood. In the past I have glossed over those pieces in the interest of 'sparing' his current feelings. I was not being truthful in my storytelling, and the center of my story knew it. No wonder he recognizes and likes the current edition much better.
I've heard that we all need to figure out our individual narratives in order to make sense of our lives. I've been trying to do this with increasing difficulty as shifting jobs, motherhood, and the swift passage of time unravel my particular narrative thread and leaving me grasping for continuity and meaning. I realized as I wrote the emotions into my youngest son's story that I was leaving out the feelings (particularly the bad ones) when I told my own history. Events do not comprise the entirety of my life; just retelling the stages and steps of my history (high school, college, jobs, etc.) removes its uniqueness. I needed the emotion: did I hate college? Love the first job? Rebel against the possessive boyfriend? How did I react and how did my emotional response help to dictate the next move? What we learn, how we choose our path . . .the deeper, murkier stuff of our pasts makes them interesting.
Maya Angelou says, "there is no greater burden than carrying an untold story." Perhaps that is the reason why 175,000 blogs start every day. And we must not confine our stories to the proper, the glorious, the successful - even if we have all of these shiny elements in our narratives. The favorite stories are always of the hero who gets knocked down - perhaps repeatedly - only to get up again and again. We cannot empathize with a protagonist who does not feel fear, who is loved by everyone she meets, or who achieves success in every venture. Why would we tell our own stories this way? I have started re-telling my own story (in my head, only, fortunately for you) and emphasizing the emotions that I felt, what I responded to or rejected, and how that dictated my next steps. I find that tracing my history in this manner makes it far more meaningful and far more coherent - "ugly" stuff and all. Now I can teach all my kids how to tell their own stories, and make sure they include all the right elements.
Monday, December 6, 2010
The Wall
Last week I had the privilege of watching a presentation by Dan Millis of the Sierra Club Borderlands campaign. Dan presented a film called "Wild vs. Wall" about the Border Wall and its cost to border ecology, as well as the monetary cost to taxpayers. You can find more information at www.sierraclub.org/borderlands.
One of the lines that Dan mentioned in his presentation was "there are nearly 2000 miles from Friendship to Hope." This refers to the fact that the wall is being built through Friendship Park near Tijuana and San Diego; the promise for better relations between two countries broken by its construction. Almost 2000 miles away, in Brownsville, Texas, the wall is being built in a park named Hope. Ironic, sad and expensive in terms of dollars, loss of life, and loss of faith that we can work together. I tried to write a poem that lived up to some of this thought, and here it is.
The Wall
Nearly two thousand miles from Friendship to Hope,
The Wall rises in cancer clusters of concrete and steel.
A dividing line between compassion and fear,
Constructed in borderlands from California to Texas
and in our dark interior spaces.
Where once porous membrane allowed ebb and flow
Rusty barriers bisect no man’s land that selectively holds
Back water, rattlers and big cats while
The siren call of dollars filters through, drawing people
Over or under, a delay of five minutes in their active transport.
Then five days’ dusty journey from Nogales to Tucson,
Broken feet stumble on rocks in the darkness as
Two thousand years ago refugees trudged
The same distance from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
There was no room for them, either.
What journey ends well that starts with a wall?
Can it close only in the cave of a detention cell or
A sweaty deportation bus?
White sanded bones in the desert or sterile hospital room;
There are no wise men here.
One of the lines that Dan mentioned in his presentation was "there are nearly 2000 miles from Friendship to Hope." This refers to the fact that the wall is being built through Friendship Park near Tijuana and San Diego; the promise for better relations between two countries broken by its construction. Almost 2000 miles away, in Brownsville, Texas, the wall is being built in a park named Hope. Ironic, sad and expensive in terms of dollars, loss of life, and loss of faith that we can work together. I tried to write a poem that lived up to some of this thought, and here it is.
The Wall
Nearly two thousand miles from Friendship to Hope,
The Wall rises in cancer clusters of concrete and steel.
A dividing line between compassion and fear,
Constructed in borderlands from California to Texas
and in our dark interior spaces.
Where once porous membrane allowed ebb and flow
Rusty barriers bisect no man’s land that selectively holds
Back water, rattlers and big cats while
The siren call of dollars filters through, drawing people
Over or under, a delay of five minutes in their active transport.
Then five days’ dusty journey from Nogales to Tucson,
Broken feet stumble on rocks in the darkness as
Two thousand years ago refugees trudged
The same distance from Nazareth to Bethlehem.
There was no room for them, either.
What journey ends well that starts with a wall?
Can it close only in the cave of a detention cell or
A sweaty deportation bus?
White sanded bones in the desert or sterile hospital room;
There are no wise men here.
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