All that you can’t leave behind

Referencing a lyric from an Irish band on a day when I learned so very much about my maternal, German side of the family may seem inconsistent, but it actually couldn’t be any more appropriate.  We each are the direct product of two people, yes?  Of course, who we truly are involves many more than two individual people, as I was reminded on this very day.

Today I saw a WW II monument in the tiny cemetery where my grandparents are buried, with the name of my Opa’s cousin etched into the stone.  Hubert Meder was 20 years-old when he died in service to his country.  I saw a photo of my Great Uncle Josef, who I had the opportunity to meet many years ago, in the uniform of Germany’s army in that same war.  When I knew him he had an accordion in his hands.  There were photos of my Opa’s sisters taken when  they were young, before they took their vows and became married to Christ for all of eternity.  And I saw my first photos ever of my mother as a young child, in the days when she was presumably permitted to be a toddler before she had to mach schnell with always a purpose.

My eldest aunt shared her memories with me of a life when the sole purpose of girls was to contribute to the family’s income and assist in taking care of the younger children.  I learned of the outrageous hypocrisy of a young couple, Ludwig and Rosa, who knew from experience the challenges and burden of becoming parents prior to marriage, yet were comfortable damning their own daughter (their third born child, yet the first to be conceived within the confines of matrimony) for the same sin.  I felt the pain of a nearly 80 year-old woman who still did not understand why her parents continued to leave her to be raised by her Oma rather than claim her as their own for any reason other than to demand her wages once she became of age to work.  

This afternoon the dining table nearly bowed with the feast spread upon it, but the soul was fed even beyond the belly.  Seeing the pictures carefully mounted between onion skin, hearing the stories and knowing something of the people who came first, fills a place which will never again feel empty. 

Comings and goings

Do you ever wonder why certain people enter our lives?  The whole timing of the introduction of individuals, the circles overlapping for some random length of time, interests me and makes me wonder why some people come and stay, others come and are gone, and still others come and go repeatedly. What does it mean?  Is it a lesson about ourselves or an opportunity to learn about, and from, others? And when, if ever, do questions like this get answered?

Although I have a core group of friends who have been along for the ride for 30+ years, I remain open to meeting new people.  The various spheres of my life;  mom, educator, server, writer, photographer, expose me to potential friends every single day, just as I imagine you must be in your own lives.  Why is it that some of these potential friends have an impact upon us while others make not a mark?

Someone once blew through my life at a speed that can only be described as Ferrari fast.  The surprise of his attentions, and the pleasure they prompted in me, left me feeling conflicted.  My heart was firmly in the hands of another, yet I felt an interest in this person that I found puzzling.  Why now?  Was the appearance of this person a message to be deciphered?  What was the lesson?

The message I ultimately chose to embrace was that my heart has a limitless capacity for love.  I knew that the one who held my heart was perfect for me, yet, I also knew that if things did not go as hoped, I would still ultimately be happy.  I believe that sometimes those people who pass through our lives like shooting stars, do so not to show us what we’re missing, but more to remind us of what we have.

Not shaken or stirred, but blended

Q’s favorite Bond

My 7 y/o is currently obsessed with James Bond.  He gave up Star Wars at about the same time that George Lucas sold the galaxy to Disney.   Coincidental?  Perhaps.  If you offer him something to drink, it is completely plausible that he will request a martini, shaken not stirred.  It’s adorable.  Well, to me it is because I’m his mom.  Someone else might find it obnoxious or cheeky, but I’ve always had a soft spot for 007.  And my children, of course.

Over the recent holidays, I did some reflecting on my own memories of the Christmas season and I thought about a family from my childhood who taught me what a blended family might look like.  There was a mom and a dad and a daughter.  And an ex-husband and the children shared by he and the mom.  And the ex-husband’s son from his second marriage.  And also the son from the Dad’s first marriage.  The kids all referred to each as brother and sister and the relationships seemed pretty relaxed and fluid, kind of like a well mixed martini.  They were Italian-American and Westchester Jewish, a combination which resulted in great food and wonderful traditions. I loved them and everything they taught me about family and love and backgammon, truly.

As a divorced parent*, I might one day find myself in a similar position.  You know, blending children and families and friends with a partner.  I’d like to think  I can do it with as much tasteful grace.  I know that none of those relationships was perfect, I mean what is?, but the central thread of children which wove them all together created an inspiring family fabric, a patchwork quilt that gave at least as much comfort as a familiar cocktail, I imagine.  How about you?  Do you have any experiences like this to share?  Grab yourself a cocktail and share, why don’t you?

*I’m not a “single mom.”  The boys very much have two parents.

Closing and opening a door

image: hardware source.com

I said something to a friend the other night about how I don’t know how to fix things, I just learn to adapt to them.  At the time, I was speaking explicitly about my wonky door which doesn’t close firmly unless you futz with it.  Wonky and futz are technical terms, obviously.  When the words left my mouth, my friend and I both mentally noted what I had said and, while I don’t know about him, I know I’ve been thinking about that personal epiphany a lot in the last couple of days.  My inability to fix things is kind of embarrassing, but at the same time, I think that learning how to accommodate for flaws can be a practical solution to a problem.  But are we just talking about doorknobs?

I think that one of the after effects of divorce, is a feeling of personal failure.  Public vows had been made with the best of intentions, as well as an abundance of emotion, yet the marriage has ended.  Two people living as one are guaranteed to expose flaws and demonstrate failures which require attention.  Are the repairs necessary to maintain a healthy, satisfying relationship something which can be taught as simply as how to replace a door’s faulty switch plate?  Does one develop a technique to close the door in a slightly alternative, but still ultimately effective way?

When I consider my lack of hands-on handyman skills, I console myself with the knowledge that I can’t possibly do everything.  But, you know me, I do always manage to see something positive in a situation, and a reality check about one’s limitations isn’t necessarily a bad thing, right? It isn’t as if I’m totally lame – I can sew buttons, fix hems and simple tears in clothing, and I am adept with a glue gun.  It’s just household repairs that I can’t manage and, if you’ve ever sat at my wicked wobbly dining room table or seen the spot in the upstairs hallway where Quinn pushed Liam through into the wall, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

I’ve wondered through the years why I have no maintenance skills and think one of the reasons is that, prior to my current address, I’ve never lived in one place longer than 5 or 6 years.  Much less owned a house, of course.  I also didn’t grow up with an adult modeling these handy skills, so I didn’t get to observe how simple, (or complex), routine home repairs happen.  But, I’d like to learn.

Thanks to a friend’s thoughtfulness, and her husband’s forgetfulness when it comes to buying replacement tools for items he already owns but can’t immediately find, I have an adorable tool box.  I’ve developed patience over the years and generally can follow very explicit directions with accuracy.  I believe that doing something the right way is well worth the time invested and will result in something that lasts.  I can do that.  I want to do that.

Ghost anniversaries

Are wedding anniversaries like phantom limbs? You know, you can kind of still feel them even though they no longer actually exist. The remains of what was once there can create an almost physical twinge despite the fact that it is no longer present as anything but a memory.

Two couples I know recently marked their 20th anniversaries – one with a lovely dinner al fresco, the other with the decision to acknowledge the end of their marital partnership. I guess these examples support the often quoted figure that 50% of marriages end in divorce. Do you think it is possible to predict at a wedding ceremony which marriages are going to remain intact and which are going to end before death doth them part? I don’t. Personally, I don’t believe anyone plans to not live happily ever after.

I know that love and intentions and hopes and dreams were very much a part of my wedding day. I married on an early afternoon so cloudless that our photographer complained about the lack of shadows. The best man saw a majestic blue heron take off as he drove to the ceremony, an obvious sign of nature’s blessings even to the most jaded. We had a totally cool wedding date – month, date and year expressed with a concise number of digits. Perfect.

However, 18 years from that day, as I ran under a cloudy, darkening sky, I wore the marital status “divorced” rather than that beautiful emerald-cut diamond ring I received when I accepted his proposal. Ugh.

As I ran though, I smiled to myself as I recalled that my groom and I found ourselves alone following our wedding reception’s conclusion, red Ford Escort wagon parked in the lot and strung with cans, without the keys to drive ourselves to the next destination. Really. A phone call or two resolved that roadblock, and we joined our friends at their hotel to shuttle to another location for dancing and drinks. We were not ready for our day to end – we were having far too much fun. We all piled into the hotel’s courtesy bus, but as we began to pull away I realized my groom was being left behind. He missed the bus. Literally.

There were, as I said, no clouds. There are no regrets for having spent nearly twenty years sharing my life with a man who I once was very happy to call my husband. Sometimes, though, anniversaries are to be celebrated as the date when two became one, while other times they are simply reminders of a former life, once whole but, now forever severed.

Thoughts from a rainy day run…

image: http://cdnimg.visualizeus.com

• Interesting isn’t it, the way “letting go” and “holding on” are continually swapping positions on the difficulty scale of life? Some days I just can’t decide which is harder to do – or the right thing thing to do, for that matter. 

•  While I used to imagine my having less brains and more butt in my next life, I’m a bit surprised that the trade actually turned out to be an exchange of boobs for butt. Goodbye 36C, hello 32B. And that small almost curve in my tush? Thank you, hills of Albany Muni, for that.
• Exchanging today for tomorrow is not a good deal.  Nor is now for then, then being either in the past or in the future. Today is much more valuable. Even when it’s raining.

Are you my mother? And who’s my daddy?

image: http://blog.schoollibraryjournal.com

It’s been a weird weekend…I kind of hit the wall on a number of levels, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say, hit the wall  with numerous body parts.  Truth be told, I probably used my head the most.  I had so many options available to me; concerts, and old friends, and art and strawberries, yet I kind of shrugged it all off.  Unlike many decisions in life, I didn’t get that immediate tingling sensation that confirms many of my choices.  I’m thinking maybe I’m a bit numb.  Summer vacation can’t come soon enough.

Despite feeling less than great (I’m about to pop my 3rd Aleve in 2 days!) I’ve maintained my commitment to running 20 miles this week and it has been a struggle.  The music hasn’t been quite right, and even if it were perfect, my right glute is screaming louder than any song playing.  Not tremendously fun or satisfying.

On my run Friday, I passed two elder(ly?) women walking.  They were on the opposite side of the street and I was wearing contacts, which don’t do all they should to improve my vision.  I was taken aback by one of the women – she looked like my mother.  I think.  The last time I spoke to my mother in person was when she attempted a “scar-off” to prove that her heart surgery was way worse than my cancer surgery could have ever been.  Ok, you win and what have we proven?  That you have a heart and I can cut malignant things from my life and prosper? Fine.

Well, it is a little disconcerting to not be certain whether a person is, or is not, your parent. You’d think this would be a familiar sensation for me, growing up as I did wondering if every single man with a brogue was my father, but it was still weird.  I had a familiar train of thought ride through my head.  What will it be like when she’s gone?  Will I stop seeing her everywhere the way I stopped imagining every Irishman to be my father once I knew he was gone?

I’m getting ready to be a stay at home mom for 10 weeks and I plan to slow down, enjoy my boys and try really hard to make sure that they always know who their parents are, two people who love them dearly.