Dear Son

Dear Son, 

The other day I read a list of what kind of mother I should be to my son and I felt extremely overwhelmed by it.  Who makes these lists anyway?  They have way too much time on their hands, right, or maybe not.  Maybe they just have enough brain cells left at the end of the day to make lists and maybe they are just very idealistic.  I don’t usually have a very high brain cell count or ideal at the end of any given day.  Making lists makes me jumpy with the pressure to perform.  My heart.   Flying by the seat of my heart, now that is another story.  Coming from my heart, my mothering has been up and down and all around, but well intended, repentant and filled with new beginnings.  Lists or not, there really isn’t a concrete formula for being a mother, a father, a son, a sister, a brother, oh, well, to be whatever.  We have to come into our own.  Trial and error, again and again.  You fall, well, now you just get back up again and again.  We have ideals, we have premise, we have a basis from which we’d like to stand on, but so many times the paradigm tucked away inside of our minds becomes shattered by reality and human frailty.  Human frailty.  Never stop loving.  Never stop trying to care about people who fail.  Never stop doing good, even though you feel as if it does no earthly good to keep trying.  That’s it.  That’s all I have, son.  I don’t have any lists for you, but I do love you, oh, I do.

Christmas Comes But Once a Year

I am married to such a great person.  I realize that now.  I married a great person who on his bad days has terrible flaw flare up.  Know anybody like that?  I finally see that he would do anything for us, his family.  I am so glad to be married to such a man as this.  It’s his birthday today and I am unfortunately feeling very unwell.  I usually have some nice dinner, cake and presents planned, but not this time.  He graciously waited on me this morning, watched after the baby and saw that some semblance of morning routine was flowing with the kids.  Everyone was prodded to get a shower, get dressed, to get their breakfast because dad was going to take them out to celebrate his birthday.  Antique store shopping, a Bass Pro shop visit possibly, pizza and then he’d pick up a cake to bring home to celebrate.  The house is so temptingly quiet.  I hate to miss out on their fun together, but my body aches and my mind is full.  I was cleaning up a bit around the house and I was reminded of what Christmases were like with my father.  Christmas was honestly the happiest time of year for me.  My dad was different.  Life was different.  The gnawing pain of anger, rage, argument, blame, abuse and rotten words seem to subside into an abyss of what seemed more of a normal life.  The money burden was gone for dad for the time being because of the Christmas bonuses he would receive from the people that lived in the condo.  For the time being the money piled up in his pocket.  He was a night watchman at a couple of condos and he would wait on the people throughout the year as well (not in his job description), fetching their papers, bringing up their groceries or their cars around warmed up for them, etc.  My dad was a very congenial guy in public.  He knew how to make people like him generally speaking.  He knew how to make them feel special.  I guess the folks at the condo were particularly impressed by the time Christmas rolled around.  I remember that there would be so much extra money that almost every December dad would have us all come out to the living room to receive a special Christmas envelope.  We always knew that there was money inside, but how much, we weren’t always sure of how much.  Typically, there’d be between 100-150 bucks in each of our envelopes.  I remember us all being absolutely thrilled and I always felt so rich.  Many years of receiving this money we would buy each family member a gift, so when Christmas did come each of us had seven gifts to open.  It wasn’t seamlessly joyful, but for me it was ray of hope that beamed each year, a moment to look forward to instead of retreat from.  And money…it was a lot about the money for dad.  He was stressed out.  He didn’t have any real skills, well, he did, but I don’t think he knew it.  He went to a bible college to become a preacher, but really couldn’t make a decent living doing that or really anything else.  He settled with being a security guard at hotels, condo high rises and banks.  He never made more than ten bucks an hour, worked two to three jobs at a time at 80-90 hours a week and made the majority of his money in his overtime hours.  My mom did work at an insurance company full time and made about fifteen dollars an hour, but still, even with all of their jobs money was always tight.  Dad finally saved up enough to and took us out of the city and brought us to suburbia.  He bought a new house, a new car, and new everything to go in the house.  I remember going into the brand spanking newly built house for the first time and just loving it, loving the way it smelled, but really the price we all had to pay to live there I would have foregone having any of it, if it only meant that our family could have peace, love, harmony of any kind together.  It was the money, having to make so much of it all the time that promoted the type of atmosphere we lived in at home.  We depended on dad to keep us in that place.  He knew it every day, he felt it every day.  We were one pay check away from disaster.  My dad lived on the edge.  Financially, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically…he was drained.  Throw some mental illness on the fire and any other type of family problem and you had chaos in the wake for all of us.  But Christmas, Christmas was different.  If Christmas didn’t come once a year, I’m not sure what my family would have done without it.  Christmas meant something better, something more, something that partially fulfilled the deep sense of longing for a little bit of sanctum.  And when it was time to open up the presents, dad would make us take our time.  We never ripped into the wrapping.  We would all take turns opening one at a time.  We would pass our presents to him that we bought for him and he would shove them aside, just glad to see us open ours, and smiling, he smiled a lot on Christmas.  I’ll never forget how much. 

Saying Goodbye to Lost Things

I am hiding, yes, hiding under a half moon behind a small corner of an old, beat up shed in my own back yard, a whole acre of it.  The street light shines vaguely on my clean notebook paper as I sit in an old lawn chair we bought almost ten years ago in honor of purchasing this new to us, old house.  I oddly placed myself next to the basketball hoop, propped up alone on its concrete court.  Facing the constant, loud, pesky highway for a road I think of how much I'll miss hearing her cars and semi-trucks rush past.  She won't be missed because I like the busyness of her pathway, but because she is the old friend of a road that takes me home and on weekends she comes to a screeching hush, an eerie shush.  I'll miss this road and in many ways I'll miss this house and in many ways I won't miss it, like an aunt that you sort of like, she's loud, a bit obnoxious, but has a big heart.  She is not much to look at, but she is much to remember.  My kids have spent most of their lives here.  They have dug more than a few large holes and have found more than many to them, rare and extremely valuable artifacts, buried deep in this acre.  The snakes came in to this old house more than once and the mice found her friendly, warm and inviting, what with all her gaping holes.  The stars were always so bright here, so far away from the city.  Yes, indeed, I am hiding to get down my very words without apprehension.  But, wait, here they are, my kids, running through the yard yelling happily.  Well, good now, they're happy.  The lights are on in this old home.  I can see them flood through the windows and down onto the care worn walls, windows and doors inside.  It's hard to know if we will keep her,  She is a beggar woman, always asking for more and never paying back what is owed, but she does provide constant, warm company.  She is faithful overall in the basic things of what she does provide, yes, but she can't help to give way to her aging circumstance.  She keeps telling me that what does not kill her will make her stronger, she has seen many a hurricane and she is still standing, a wonder for sure.  And here, thought mid-stream, these blasted mosquitoes have found me and from them I cannot hide.  I must find my way indoors, but there is noise, there are people, the baby and for now I don''t hear her screaming.  What a relief!  And she, the baby, has learned her first steps here, her first sounds.  The ticks of ink on the doorway walls indicate the heights of little children through the years.  How much they will be missed!  Her walls have also experienced and witnessed much triumph precede much failure on all levels of life.  If she could talk her words would be few and wise.  And like a good grandma would say, don't cry for me when I am gone because I will be in a better place.  I will rest in peace in any case.  I have done my duty and I have kept my word and now it is time for you to let yourself move on.  Don't be afraid and never forget the precious memories we have made together.