After Mama died in 1993, I spent about a month cleaning out her house. Anybody who has gone through this horrible experience can understand. Anyone who hasn't can't. No matter how sympathetic or empathetic you are, you can't really understand. It's not just the pain of losing your parent, it's a feeling of complete dislocation. Of losing your home.
My parents were gone. My childhood was gone. As an only child, I had no witness to my childhood. And now my place, my home, all the details of my upbringing were disappearing.
But as I sorted through room after room of all of the belongings I grew up surrounded by, all the "things" that made up my childhood, I did make a few amazing wonderful discoveries.
Underneath Mama's bed, I found a box. Just an ordinary box from a department store, the size you'd put a sweater in. But inside, I found a treasure trove. Mama had kept all of her favorite things I had made for her throughout my childhood.
Crayon drawings, poems, Valentines. Letters I'd written to her from Girl Scout camp. A house made out of a small milk carton. A turquoise naugahyde wallet. Earrings made out of bottle caps covered with glitter.
I'd had no idea that she'd kept these things. It was so dear, so...motherly. That she'd kept these silly little things, and held them dear all of those years.
And finding it felt as though I'd been given a gift from her. Tangible proof of a happy, love-filled childhood. Knowing that I'd loved her enough to make all these things for her, and she loved me enough and treasured what I'd given her enough to have kept them in her safe, hidden place.
Of course, I couldn't keep everything. When you're faced with sorting through and dealing with every single belonging which someone has accumulated at the end of their life, you have to get a little cut-throat. Did I, a 32-year old woman, really need 6 Christmas sweaters? The complete works of James Herriot? 15 crystal candy bowls? My grandmother's entire set of Fostoria glassware? Well, yeah, I did need that, but the other stuff, not so much.
And so, most of the treasures in the box went into the bin. But I did manage to save a few of my favorites, two of which I will now share with you. These two were the ones Mama treasured the most, each for a very different reason...
Happy Mother's Day y'all!
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Write your Picture spin some time this week and let me know you did in a comment here. I'll link you up. Any questions? Click on the "Spin Cycle" tab up top.
See you then.
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“And [he] sailed back over a year and in and out of weeks and through a day and into the night of his very own room where he found his supper waiting for him and it was still hot”
- Maurice Sendak, Where the Wild Things Are
RIP Maurice Sendak
Born - June 10, 1928
Died - May 8, 2012
“But the wild things cried, “Oh please don't go- We'll eat you up- we love you so!”
As much as my Mama and I adored each other, we had a fairly contentious relationship. We bickered. A lot. My teen years were particularly hellish. Daddy spent a lot of time separating us and mopping up tears.
Maybe we were just too much alike. And therefore, competitive. Or maybe we were just different enough that those differences made us crazy. Mama tended to be an emotional weeper. I tended to have Daddy's more logical, linear mind. Mama was passive aggressive. I was just aggressive.
While in many ways, Mama was my biggest supporter, she could also be extremely critical. She told me I was such a pretty girl...if only I'd stand up straight/do something about that hair/wear a little lipstick/wear some "nicer" clothes (i.e. the style of clothes SHE wore). I always felt that I never quite lived up to what she'd hoped for me.
And I, for my part, was that nasty teenage girl who thought her mother was the stupidest woman on the face of the earth.
But once I reached my 20s, things mellowed out between us considerably. And after Daddy died, we became what I think I could call "friends".
In December, 1991, I went home to Austin for Christmas, and Mama and I decided to throw a cocktail party together, inviting both her friends and my friends. One thing that we both LOVED to do was cook and entertain, and this was a rare opportunity for us to do that together. Mama was a terrific cook - one of those few '60's housewives who ventured outside the traditional casseroles and canned goods. Mama was always experimenting. I'll never forget when she decided to introduce my very Texan Daddy to curry. And guess what? He LOVED it.
Being a "good cook" was a highly prized quality to Mama, and she had taught me everything I knew.
So for the party, we each chose several dishes and desserts to make, and cooked up a storm. I have to say, that between the two of us, we put out quite a spread.
At some point during the evening, Mama was standing in the dining room next to the food, chatting with one of her friends. I was in the kitchen. They couldn't see me, but I could hear them talking.
The friend complimented Mama on how delicious the food was. "Oh Doe, you are SUCH a wonderful cook."
Mama answered "Well thank you. I like to think I'm a pretty good cook. But Gretchen? Gretchen's the gourmet."
I remember standing there in the kitchen - stunned, with tears welling in my eyes. Mama had not only told someone that I was a good cook, but that I was a BETTER cook than she was! There she was, going on and on in a completely unsolicited way. She was proud of me.
It was the nicest compliment she ever gave me.
And she ever knew that I heard it.
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Jen handed out "Words" once when Sprite's Keeper was the keeper of The Spin Cycle, but it's been a couple of years, and I thought I'd bring it back for an encore.
Bad words? Words of advice? Words of wisdom? A few choice words? Words With Friends? I'd like a word? Word count? Word of mouth? WordPress? Word one? The Word? Microsoft Word?
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See you next Friday!
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For me, the best thing about pregnancy, aside from the whole miracle-of-life thing, was that I was...The Star. It was all about me. Well, me and that tiny life I had growing in there.
You see, all of us only children were raised to be the Center of the Universe. Unfortunately, at some time around our first car payment, we realize that this is a misconception. It's a terrible disappointment. But during pregnancy, we once again become the Center of the Universe, which is a delightful place to be.
Everyone is nice to you. "May I open the door for you ma'am?" "Why certainly!" "Let me carry those bags for you, miss." "Oh, how kind..." A pregnant woman holds all the cards, and has the best excuse in the world to do nothing. "I'm sorry, I am unable to clean the house today, because I'm busy CREATING LIFE." And everyone knows it's true - the world is in awe of us. Woman = Maker of Life.
Throughout my pregnancy, Jimmy treated me like a queen. The man rubbed my feet every single night. Every. Single. Night. He brought me take-out food. He cleaned out the kitty box daily. He fluffed my pillows. He deferred to me regarding...everything. Because I was carrying his progeny in my womb. I had given up both alcohol AND caffeine, so that the fruit of his loins wouldn't come out with two heads or something. I had gained 60 pounds so his child would thrive. Okay, actually, those 60 pounds may have had more to do with my daily intake of nachos than about the kid thriving, but still...
But I must admit that during this time I felt a little sorry for Jimmy. As I asked him to rub a little more to the left. Because he was most decidedly NOT The Star. He was a Supporting Actor. I'm thinking he'd have gotten third billing.
So when it came time for the actual birthing, I decided to assign Jimmy a task. A purpose. Because for men, once the seed is planted, so to speak, their job is pretty much done until the birthing is over. I decided that it would make him feel more involved if he had a function. A nice production job. I made him Music Coordinator.
This was the perfect job for Jimmy. He went to work, spending a tremendous amount of time creating the soundtrack for Jude's birth. A birthing playlist. Music he believed would enhance and facilitate his child's delivery into the world.
He planned it all out very carefully from beginning to end. We'd heard that the delivery rooms at Cedars-Sinai Hospital had terrific sound systems, so he filled a little case with carefully selected CDs.
During the hours of my labor, he carefully switched CDs to enhance my relaxation experience. Joni Mitchell's Ladies of the Canyon. Elton John's Madman Across the Water. Dixie Chicks Home. I must say, he did quite a good job, playing music that I liked and took my mind off all of that pain business.
At 6:28 am, it came time for Jude to make his appearance. I pushed. Jude popped out.
In a flash, Jimmy RAN to the CD player and pushed in his final CD. He had clearly been planning this. It was his moment. The room was filled with...
While the kid was being cleaned and measured, and I was birthing placenta and such, the nurses and the doctor all sang along at the top of their lungs..."Nah, nah, nah, nah-nah-nah naaaah, nah-nah-nah naaaah, Hey Jude!" People from down the hall popped their heads in to see what all the fun was. Happy, happy, joy, joy.
Jimmy had done his job well.
And since then, he hasn't rubbed my feet again once.
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Now go visit the other Birth Spinners! I mean it! Go NOW! It's EASY! It's good manners. It's good for your karma. Because I said to.
Jude's school is on "Easter Vacation" next week (it's a Catholic school thing), but for the rest of the nation, you've all just finished your Spring Break. So tell us what you did! A recap could be in store. Or maybe, you can share a Spring Break from your past.
I'll never forget a particular Spring Break when I was in college and I went camping on the beach at Padre Island with a bunch of my fellow drama majors. The trip was a horrible disaster for three reasons.
1. We foolishly assigned beverages to these guys...
...that's Doug and James. Who brought nothing to drink but...beer. So we were drunk for the entire week.
2. On the second night, a storm blew in and filled every crevice of our bodies with sand. We had no showers. So that was pleasant.
3. As light beach reading, I chose The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. What can I say, I was young. And soon...depressed.
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This is what I'd call the definition of "a big drag, man".
Two years ago, I wrote this post, telling y'all that Becky the Suburban Matron had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and I asked you all to start praying in an attempt to surround her with a "big, bloggy bubble of love".
Since that time, Becky endured a mastectomy, radiation, reconstruction, chemotherapy, hair loss, a wig named Codi and performing on stage with me at BlogHer.
Becky survived...no, TRIUMPHED over all this with tremendous grace and humor, proving herself to be the Jane Austen of the blogging world. Hell, in the middle of it she even finished up her PhD! So that makes her Dr. Becky. Oh yeah.
Well now this.
Becky's beautiful, darling, funny, brilliant sister Amy, the Matron Down Under, has been diagnosed with...breast cancer.
I know, I know, I know.
For those of you who don't know/read Amy, you should, but if you don't, Amy and her husband, Jason, are ministers who are pastors at a church in Sydney, Australia. They have 3 of the cutest children you've ever seen.
Amy is every bit as gracious and funny as Becky. I guess that makes her Jane Austen's sister. Wait, did Jane Austen have a sister?...Wikipedia...Yes, Cassandra Austen. No wait, Cassandra never wrote anything. So I guess they're more like the Brontes. But I don't really think of the Brontes as witty. More like the Mitford sisters Yeah. The Mitford Sisters works. Sorry...I just went off on a wee tangent. Sigh...here I am trying to be funny when we're talking cancer.
Anyway, Amy IS funny, evidenced by her posts revealing her new-found cancer - here and here. She's one of the few bloggers I read who always makes me laugh with her self-deprecating charm and wit. She is also a woman of tremendous faith and courage.
And her prognosis looks great. They have found the tumor VERY early, through what Becky described as a "for-the-heck-of-it" ultrasound. Because of the early diagnosis Amy will only need to have a lumpectomy, followed by radiation treatment. She won't know until after the surgery if she will need chemotherapy - there's a good chance she won't. Though if she does, I'm sure Becky will be happy to lend her Codi.
I am completely sickened by the injustice of this all. How is it that while the national statistics are that 1 in 8 women will get breast cancer, in their amazing family it's 2 in 2. It's just so unfair.
But really, if there's a family who can survive and triumph over such a mess, it's these guys. I've never known a family filled with more love and humor and intelligence. The whole bunch of them are amazing. I have previously mentioned my desire to be adopted by their parents, but I don't think they think I'm serious. But I am. I would very much like to be their big sister.
Don't you LOVE that picture? It's Becky and Amy and their brother Dave back when they were kids. It's kind of perfect, isn't it? I like to think that I'm the one in that boat in the background, their older sister who is supposed to be babysitting but instead, is drinking beer and "fishing" with her boyfriend. But I'm digressing once again...
So here's what we're gonna do. We're all going to start praying for Amy and her family. Just like we did for Becky. If we all start praying (or sending healing energy or white light or whatever) in her direction, we will create another big bloggy bubble of love and support to help her kick the cancer out of her body and tell it never to come back. Only this time the bubble is going to have to reach all the way to Australia, so PRAY HARD. I firmly believe in the power of prayer, and I know that Amy does as well. So DO IT!
Start...NOW.
Oh, and if Amy's parents happen to read this, now would be an excellent time for this adoption, as you could probably use a little help. And there were three Bronte sisters. I'm a good cook, and willing to take care of you in your golden years. And I come cheap, you didn't have to pay for my college or my wedding. A good deal, I think. Consider it.
Are y'all praying? Well DO it.
Oh, and FEEL YOUR BOOBIES. Here's a post I wrote a while back with detailed instructions.
Raised during the '60s and '70s. We didn't have computers or electronic gaming devices. We didn't have cable TV, DVDs, DVRs or even VCRs. All we had were ABC, NBC, CBS and PBS (if you didn't live too far out in the boonies). Our favorite shows aired when they aired, and if you missed it you just had to wait for the summer rerun. We carefully planned our activities around the network TV schedule.
Every week, Mama would buy a TV Guide magazine at the grocery store, and I would pore over it, reading what was happening the next week on my shows and planning my viewing for the week.
On Tuesday, I'd watch The Mod Squad at 7:00 on ABC, then switch over to CBS for Hawaii 5-O at 8:00. Then on Wednesday, I'd start on CBS with The Carol Burnett Show at 7:00, then at 8:00, switch over for The NBC Mystery Movie (Columbo/McCloud/Macmillan and Wife).
The worst was when the stupid networks put two of your favorite shows on at the same time, and you were forced to choose. Laugh In or Gunsmoke? Happy Days or Good Times?
But in 1971, when I was 10 years old, all the TV stars aligned and created the ABC Friday night lineup - all of my favorite shows, all in a row. I'll never forget the order...
7:00 (CST) - The Brady Bunch
I always thought it was kind of a silly show. But Greg Brady was SOOOOOOO cute. And I used to pray every night that my hair would look like Marcia Brady's. It never even came close to her grooviness.
7:30 - The Partridge Family
My FAVORITE show! I loved David Cassidy with every fiber of my gangly tween body. I had a Teen Beat magazine with him on the cover, which I kept under my bed and kissed goodnight every night. I had all their albums. I never, ever missed an episode.
8:00 - Room 222
I wanted to go to Walt Whitman High School! They had the grooviest teachers. And I desperately wanted to be Karen Valentine. (TANGENTIAL NOTE: When I first moved to Los Angeles, I happened to drive by John Marshall High School in Los Feliz and had one of those Movie Deja Vus I've talked about - it was the exterior of Walt Whitman!)
8:30 - The Odd Couple
A really, truly funny show. Wonderfully acted, wonderfully written. A classic.
However, I usually missed the last 15 minutes or so of it. Because 9:00 was my bed time.
But here's the deal.
Mama knew that the show I MOST wanted to watch, the show that my dreams were literally made of, came on at 9:00. And she was indulgent. And sneaky. And loved me.
And luckily for us, Daddy was an early to bed, early to rise kind of guy. He too would go to bed at 9:00. So I'd bail for the last 15 minutes of The Odd Couple, and Mama and Daddy would tuck me in and turn out the light. Daddy would then go to bed himself. Then Mama would come into my bedroom and sneak me out into the living room, where we'd both curl up on the sofa and watch...
9:00 - Love, American Style
For those of you too young to remember such things, Love, American Style was an anthology series, with different stories and a different all-star cast every week. (TANGENIAL NOTE #2 - the L,AS theme song was sung by The Cowsills, the real-life family rock group that The Partridge Family was based on!) Every week it would have two or three little stories - all about love, love, LOVE. It was a little...sexy. And every week some people would kiss. I LIVED for it. And I loved Friday night from 9 to 10pm.
But not just for the TV show. I also loved it because it was Mama and my little secret. It was our special time together, doing something a little naughty. Mama would bring in a couple of pillows and a blanket, and we would cuddle up on the sofa together and be very, very quiet while we watched the show we both loved.
And then, Mama would make a us a special treat. Our mutual favorite late-night snack - Milk Toast. Mmmm. Hot milk, buttery toast. Yum. Mama made mine sweet, with cinnamon sugar on top. But she made hers savory with salt and pepper. Both were delicious and comforting and made with great love.
Mama's Milk Toast
4 slices of white bread
butter
2 cups plus 1/2 cup milk
1 tbsp. flour
either salt/pepper or cinnamon/sugar
Toast bread and butter each slice generously. In a small sauce pan, heat 2 cups of milk. In a separate small bowl, whisk flour into remaining 1/2 cup milk, then add to the sauce pan with the other milk. Heat until it thickens just a little (you don't want it like gravy, just a little bit creamy). Put two slices of toast in each of two shallow bowls. Pour hot milk over the toast and sprinkle with your choice of seasonings, either savory or sweet.
Sit on the sofa watching TV with the lights out and slurp it up with a spoon.
Makes two servings, just right for a sweet Mama and one happy little girl.
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Please, please, pretty please visit all of this week's Spin Cycle participants and you'll find some amazing recipes and the amazing stories that go with them!
It's almost Valentine's Day everybody! So to celebrate that most lovey-dovey of all days, I thought we'd all think back, way, waaaaay back. Back before children. Back before money problems and the same old/same old. Back before years and years of snoring and morning breath. Back before the bloom had left the metaphoric rose. Back to your...
Honeymoon. Aaah. The beginning of your lives together. Everything was shiny and new and sexy. The panic of the wedding was over and you got to really get a look at that person on the other side of the bed.
Was your honeymoon everything you dreamed of? Or a rained out disaster? Were you blissful or did you fight every day?
Or maybe you never got to take a honeymoon? Where would you like to go now? Make a plan for us. Or maybe the marriage is over and the honeymoon was the first clue that things were headed south? Yikes. Or maybe you're not married, but want to share your perfect dream honeymoon? It's all good.
I want your story! And I want some pictures people! So haul out the old picture albums and rev up the scanner.
See you next week for some romance. Hmmm. I think I'll go up and click on that Love, American Style theme song. Still makes me all gushy.
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1. Being the one who knows everything. Because, of course, I do know everything. Jude knows this to be true. If you have a question about '70's rock and roll lyrics, lines from Marlon Brando movies or anything regarding The Three Stooges, go to Dad. Everything else? Mom. And I'm never wrong either. Just saying.
2. Being the authority figure. I do love to be in charge. I like telling people what to do, and having them do it. Therefore, having another human being over whom I have absolute authority, is thrilling. I realize that as he grows up, my authority will dwindle. But hopefully, the fact that I know everything will keep him listening to me, and doing what I say.
3. Being able to listen to this song...
and feel pretty certain that Paul was talking about ME.
4. Mothers. I simply love the company of mothers. I always have. We comfort. We support. We share. We laugh. We give. We take care. We understand that we are not the center of our universes, and are therefore able to see the greater good. We rally. We have fun. We hold strong. We make do. We take charge. We rule the world.
5. Having an excuse to do boy stuff. There, I said it. I know that I complain constantly about the amusement parks and the Cub Scout outings and the camping and the sports. But, well, as you all MUST have guessed, I secretly LOVE it all. Please, PLEASE remind me of this the next time I go to Cub Scout camp.
6. Having an excuse to do mom stuff. Carpooling. The Parent Board. Making sack lunches. The carline at school. Helping with homework. Baking cookies. Planning playdates. Sitting around on the soccer field. I love it all.
7. I MADE that boy. That person right there was in my belly! And then I suckled him at my bosom! His hands are just like my hands, which are just like my Mama's hands. His nose is just like my nose, which is just like my Daddy's nose. I can bite that boy on the butt, because I made that butt. The sheer intimacy of that makes me giddy.
8. That last little late-night secret snuggle. Every night, the last thing I do before I go to sleep is sneak into Jude's room and give him a snuggle. He has always kicked off his blankets, which I tuck in around him. He is always a little bit sweaty and drooly, and I stick my nose in there and inhale him deeply. Then I give him a big sloppy secret kiss on the neck. I am determined to continue to do this as long as he lives.
9. I have definition. Of all of the words or labels which are used to define me, "Mother" is the one that makes me most happy. Maybe that's sad. I mean, before I was a mother, I certainly didn't feel in any way undefined, and I certainly don't think that any woman who doesn't have a child is undefined. And I have many other words which I am proud to use to define myself. But now that I am Mother, it's the one word I would most like to have...carved on my headstone. Gretchen German - Beloved Mother. That's okay with me.
10. Experiencing a love beyond all scope or measure. Happy, happy, joy, joy, boy, boy.
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This post was inspired by...
Prompt #4 - Many of us like to poke fun at some of the things that drive us crazy as parents…let’s flip the script, what are 10 things you love about motherhood?
A bunch of y'all have been doing this We Want to Know Wednesday thing (and by a bunch, I mean Vandy) and I've been saying I was going to join in for ages (and by ages, I mean a week), so here we go...
1.What is your most commonly used word or phrase when you are frustrated? I growl. Or if I'm writing I "ergh" or "argh". Or maybe..."grrrrr". Other, even sillier but more assertive variations are "errrrrrgghhh!" or maybe even "AAAAARRRGGGHHH!!!" I really must stop doing this. Or...just give into it and get myself a piraty eyepatch. Argh.
2. What random question do you usually get from strangers or casual acquaintances? If I was Jimmy I'd say something like "Are you Brad Pitt?", because that's so very funny. But since I am me, I would answer..."Paper or plastic?" But seriously folks, the question I hate most is when people find out I'm an actress and ask me what they might have seen me in. I hate that. For one thing, none of it's very impressive, but also, it's just so embarrassing. There's probably no other profession that makes relative strangers feel that they can ask you to recite your resume.
3. Did you ever correspond by mail with anyone? Who? Do you still have the letters? This question sort of puzzles me. Is there anyone on the planet Earth over the age of, say...20, who hasn't corresponded by mail with somebody? Maybe they mean a penpal? Or is it just that over the last 10 years most correspondence is done via email? Sadly, I seldom write hardcopy letters anymore. But since I am old as dirt, I have, over the years, had several friends who I corresponded with regularly in LONG letters. I have kept a few of the better ones. But my very most favorite letters that I have kept are notes from my Daddy. He didn't write long letters, just very dry, brief missives. He would actually put a sheet of paper off a notepad into his typewriter, and type me little notes. At the bottom he would type "Love," and then he would then sign them in his huge, bold handwriting "Daddy". I've kept about 15, and I TREASURE them. It's funny, I remember them as being really funny, but looking back through them, they're actually really sweet and dear. Had a good cry on this one - I had just moved to Dallas on my own, and my little kitten, Bogie, was at death's door. I know now that the "other losses" he refers to are his and Mama's deaths...
4. Do you dance in public? Why or why not? Jimmy and I are dancers. Don't misunderstand me, we are not GOOD dancers. But we are enthusiastic. We are that couple at weddings and school fundraisers who have a couple of drinks and proceed to make absolute spectacles of ourselves on the dance floor. Remember that Jimmy WAS John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever in his youth, so when certain disco numbers come on, people actually clear the floor for us. Thus far, Jude has not ever witnessed this, which is a good thing, as it will almost certainly be a terrible source of embarrassment.
5. What is your favorite kind of chapstick/lip balm? I have been fairly obsessed with this stuff for a while now - C.O. Bigelow Mentha Lip Tint from Bath and Body Works. I get the Plum Mint color...
It is glossy, but not too glossy, gives you a little bit of color and is peppermint flavored so it gives you minty fresh breath. Plus it's cheap. What's not to love? I have been known to carry it around with me at all times, including on Cub Scout camping trips. Because I think it's important that no matter how dirty and stinky and sleep-deprived I become, I remain glossy and minty.
Well, that's my first WWTK Wednesday. Kind of fun, right? Easy.
WWTK Wednesday is hosted by Mamarazzi, Queso and Crazymama!
I have known my best friend, Kaysie, since the day she was born.
Our mothers were friends before they were pregnant, and my mother swore that we had been conceived on the same night. According to Mama, there was nothing on television but the 1960 Democratic National Convention, so both couples had to find something else to do with their time.
So while John F. Kennedy was busy leading us into the New Frontier...
...our parents were just getting busy. We were due on the same day, but I came two weeks early.
Though I've never had a sister, Kaysie is what I've always assumed a sister would be like. Or what I hoped a sister would be like. All through our childhood, we were inseparable. We did everything together. Two peas in a pod. Always. We spent so much time at each others homes that our families pretty much considered us extra family members. I always considered Kaysie's mom and dad my "other" parents. And I know that Mama and Daddy considered Kaysie a second daughter.
Kaysie has been, in some way, part of almost every seminal moment of my life. She was my maid of honor. Twice.
On the night Daddy died, I was alone with him in the hospital. About a minute after he died holding my hand, I walked out in the hallway and looked up. There was Kaysie, coming to visit us. She dropped her bag and briefcase and ran to me, and we sat with his body until Mama could get there.
When Mama died in her bed in Texas, and I was in California, it was Kaysie who went over and sat with her body in my stead, until the coroners and mortuary took her away.
As girls, we had big dreams. Lots and lots of dreams. For years, we planned to both go to law school, and open a law practice together. We planned on building the office in a treehouse. It was to be very fancy. Alas, while Kaysie went on to achieve this goal (Daddy was SO proud of her), I merely played a lawyer on television.
Many of our dreams involved various movie stars and rock singers whom we planned to marry. We would write long, elaborate short stories in which we would fall in love with John Kennedy Jr. or Billy Joel. We had a long, intense, odd obsession with Tim Curry from Rocky Horror Picture Show.
And, of course, like most girls, we planned to have babies. At some point, I chose my babies' names, which I think may have had something to do with Upstairs, Downstairs. If I had a boy, he was to be named James. A girl - Elizabeth. It was known. I had called dibs on these names.
Years went by. Kaysie and her wonderful husband, Bruce, had their son, Sam. I remained childless.
Six years later, at age 40, Kaysie became pregnant again. This time with a girl. She and Bruce started discussing girl names, and Bruce decided he wanted to name their daughter...Elizabeth. Kaysie absolutely refused. Elizabeth was my girl name.
Now you have to understand, that by now, I had been trying to get pregnant for YEARS. I was 40. It wasn't looking good. Bruce argued that she was being ridiculous. That I would never have a daughter, why couldn't they just name their child what they wanted to?
But Kaysie stood firm. She would not take Elizabeth away from me. She would not take my dream of being a mother away from me. She knew that if she named her daughter Elizabeth, I would know that she believed that it would never happen for me.
And so her darling daughter was named Katherine.
And a year later, I, at long last, conceived a child. I believe that Kaysie's faith in me helped tremendously.
My child, as you know, was a boy, my Jude. So...there is no little Elizabeth.
The nicest gift anyone ever gave me, and I never used it. But I hope Kaysie knows how thankful I am that she gave it to me.
The first thing I did when Sprite's Keeper gave me Elizabeth of a moon, worn as if it had been a shell for my Secret Santa assignment was…panic. Because I know Elizabeth, and not just from her strong presence as a writer on her blog, but I actually know her, she is my friend. We live in the same community, and our boys are in the same Cub Scout pack. We've camped together for God's sake! Here we are out for martinis…
And so I feel tremendous pressure to do her justice, and share this incredibly excellent woman with all of you.
So I decided to make a list of qualities that I would use to define Elizabeth. I came up with...
Graceful
Intelligent
Beautiful
Strong
Talented
Funny
Honest
But before you all start hating her, the following words also came to mind...
Cynical
Angry
Sarcastic
Rebellious
Sharp-tongued
It's the mixture of all of these qualities that makes Elizabeth such a remarkable person, and a moving, eloquent, honest writer. Because she's not just a mommy blogger. She's a real, honest-to-God published writer, a literary soul, a poet, an aesthete. She has an uncanny ability to locate and reveal the beauty in mundane everyday life.
And Elizabeth's everyday life is not easy. She is the mother of three beautiful children, and her oldest, Sophie, has a severe form of epilepsy Sophie's disabilities are profound. Her specific diagnosis is "refractory seizures of unknown origin", which basically means that no one knows why she is the way she is, and no one knows what to do to help her. The bottom line is that for the last 16 years, Sophie has suffered daily from multiple seizures. She must be fed and bathed and dressed and kept clean. She is unable to walk without assistance, and has never uttered a word.
In addition to Sophie, she has two darling and clever boys, Henry and Oliver, and a husband, Michael, who is a fabulous chef and spends most of his time at his restaurant, which Elizabeth refers to as “his mistress”. It’s safe to say she has a tremendous amount on her plate.
And while Elizabeth could well be a college professor, or a Pulitzer Prize winning novelist, or possibly running a Fortune 500 corporation, she has chosen to stay home and care for her children. No small feat.
Elizabeth is an outspoken advocate for all special needs children, and her blog is a safe haven for other parents with similar situations. And while I say that she finds beauty in the mundane, and often in the painful, her blog is never one of those glossy, smiley-faced, look-at-me-and-the-graceful-way-I-handle-all-that-God’s-thrown-at-me kind of blogs. She is an Atlanta-born Southern girl, and is not afraid to yell at the world. She will often go off on one of her liberal diatribes, but really, who can blame her? What she goes through to provide health care for Sophie is mind-boggling. But if she gets particularly testy and perhaps…goes too far…she’s not afraid to cop to it with a bit of mea culpa.
I find myself envying her grace and charm. She is a woman of style. She's the kind of mother who casually serves her kids fondue for dinner...and they eat it. Her home is beautiful and tasteful in that “Parisian flea market” kind of way.
Why should you read her blog? She writes about literature. And art. And melancholia. And liberal politics. And her boys. And disability. And she's always almost painfully honest. She's an extremely prolific blogger (she told me once that I should post more often, something that I'm just terrible with), with her posts ranging from lengthy essays to a simple picture or video. And she's one of the best commenters I know (another failure of mine!).
Oh, and have I mentioned that she's also a pastry chef? Sigh...yes, she also bakes the most gorgeous cakes and cupcakes...
I’ve tried to choose some specific posts to share with you, but she’s so prolific, that it’s been hard to decide which posts were particularly representative of her blog. I will, however, share this snippet, which, though a bit on the angry side, I feel embodies all the honesty that I love about her blog...
I, like most cognizant folks of contemporary culture, am saturated with doing good, feeling good, feeling virtue, feeling Zen-like, seeking to understand the positive pathways of the brain and how to ensure them, being mindful, counting my blessings, listing things to be grateful for, etc. etc. Every now and then, though, I'd like to surrender. I'd like to say to those people whose kids are really young or newly diagnosed that you know what? It's not going to get better. It's going to get worse. Your mind and your nature will be chipped away to such a fine point, you'll be capable of pecking at any closed door and slipping through. You'll be bitter and angry and self-righteous and you'll get things done, but you'll also do a lot of crying in the shower and sliding down the proverbial wall. I would like to be the John McEnroe of parents of disabled children. I'd like to curse at the ref when I miss a shot, scream at the fans and maybe even throw my racket and storm off the court. I'm out of here, I'd shout, I'm through with this shit. I suppose it's actually time to meditate.
I hope all of this hasn't embarrassed Elizabeth. And I worry that this isn't good enough, that I haven't done her justice. So I will stop trying, and leave you with what Elizabeth says is her favorite poem, and the source of the name of her blog.
Adam's Curse
By William Butler Yeats
We sat together at one summer's end, That beautiful mild woman, your close friend, And you and I, and talked of poetry. I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe; Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought, Our stitching and unstitching has been naught. Better go down upon your marrow-bones And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather; For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.'
. . . . . . . . . And thereupon That beautiful mild woman for whose sake There's many a one shall find out all heartache On finding that her voice is sweet and low Replied, 'To be born woman is to know- Although they do not talk of it at school- That we must labour to be beautiful.'
I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring. There have been lovers who thought love should be So much compounded of high courtesy That they would sigh and quote with learned looks Precedents out of beautiful old books; Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'
We sat grown quiet at the name of love; We saw the last embers of daylight die, And in the trembling blue-green of the sky A moon, worn as if it had been a shell Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell About the stars and broke in days and years.
I had a thought for no one's but your ears: That you were beautiful, and that I strove To love you in the old high way of love; That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.
Please go and visit Elizabeth at a moon, worn as if it had been a shell. And while you're there, add her to your Google Reader. I promise you won't regret it.
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And then visit Sprite's Keeper for more Secret Santa posts in which everybody writes about another blogger who they love and admire.
