There's nothing sadder in this world than to awake Christmas morning and not be a child. - Erma Bombeck
In the dark of a December night, the silhouette of three figures backlit by the porchlight is part of the unvarying landscape of Christmas Eve. If someone were to amble by, from their vantage point in the road they would just be able to make out the two taller figures helping the other to toss a mixture of oats and glitter out onto sleeping winter grass. There are reindeer to first, be guided here by the concentrated glimmer in the yard, and then fed once they land. The three stand huddled together, shivering but unfalteringly bent on completing their mission. Flakes the size of half dollars drifting down or an already hard, snowy ground, bitter chill or unseasonable warmth, the occasional moonless night or a waxing gibbous moon, are the only variations. While the weather may differ the ceremony is the same year to year. The taller ones laugh as their brother takes a handful of oats from a small plastic bag and throws it overhand, where it lands just short of the grass. They move as a unit further into the yard and toss small piles until the bag is empty. They're having fun, and the one is reluctant to come in, reveling in the attention of his siblings, and saddened at the too-short duration of the tradition of so many years.
Although Max and Olivia have long outgrown their belief in Santa Claus, Cliff persists, mostly because we haven't told him any different. It just never seemed necessary. There are two schools of thought on this subject. The first is the one we've maintained since he could understand the concept of gifts appearing out of nowhere, from a big-bellied grandfatherly guy with a beautiful, snow white beard. Before he goes to sleep on Christmas Eve, we still read books with red-hatted animals gathered in friendship around a tree, or children gazing into toy store windows on the cover. We still sing most of the 12 Days of Christmas, and he still looks about to burst when I tell him Santa is coming to leave him presents.
Then there are those who believe it's disingenuous for a grown man not to know the truth. They think it's somehow offensive, and makes him look, well, developmentally disabled! At the core of it is that it might somehow reflect badly on what the world thinks of their sons and daughters with Down syndrome. That perhaps they will forever be looked at as children, no matter what their age. (Of course they are not children forever and should never be treated as such) But, and here's a fact you may not know, each person with Down syndrome is an individual. Each has his or her own personality, quirks, likes and dislikes, beliefs and preferences, abilities or lack thereof. I don't believe I'm treating my son like a child because we allow his fantasy of Santa Claus. He's a young man with childlike qualities. That's one of his quirks. We should all be so lucky.
The sameness of Christmas Eve extends to Christmas day, during which Cliff opens presents perched cross-legged on the couch as we hand them to him. He can't read his name on the gifts, requiring each of us to search and deliver a couple at a time. It's really terrible how spoiled he is. The gifts are the things he gets every year, just updated versions of them. A new Koosh ball, DVDs, shirts and sneakers, books, a photograph album, the newest communication device intended for folks who are mostly non-verbal.
The gifts opened, breakfast ensues with his usual eggs, fruit and one mini-coffeecake. He dresses and waits for the rest of us to begin the trip to Grandma and Grandpa's house three hours away.
On the way out the door, he throws his arm around my shoulders and pretends to scare me. "Boo!"
"Ahhh! You scared me!" I exclaim, feigning fright. He laughs and then it's my turn.
To the few who disapprove, I say you have to meet people where they are. It's necessary to accept what is, instead of forcing someone to be a version of himself that isn't true.
The familiarity of these hours together, the sweetness of an innocent fantasy we hope will never end--it is most precious. He still believes so that the rest of us can believe too.
God bless and Happy New Year.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Friday, December 23, 2011
Lessons
"If I can stop one heart from breaking/I shall not live in vain/If I can ease one life the aching/or cool one pain/or help one fainting robin/unto his nest again/I shall not live in vain." --Emily Dickinson
A few weeks ago, after a local Junior Miss competition which my daughter did not win, she came home in tears. She was okay with not winning, but the pain on her face was from another, more devastating source. The friends who promised to come and cheer her on did not show up. Even the friends who have been with her through high school didn't come. For reasons only God knows, they didn't comprehend the importance of this occasion. Still wearing her competition- white flowy dress with silver sparkles and strappy high heels, she cried with the loss not of the competition but of expectations and loyalty. I thank God for Paige and Cianna, Olivia's best friends in the world who did come, helping our family to form a small but devoted fan base. I don't know why her other friends misunderstood the enormity of this important event in Olivia's life, but I do hold out hope that it will forever pain them once they grow up and reflect. (Kind of like my sister, Cathy, who still winces when she remembers the college memory of telling a perfectly nice girl arriving with suitcases and pillows that she didn't want a roommate. Oh the sting of rejection that girl must have felt!)
To be sure, if it had been one of them in the competition, Olivia would have moved heaven and earth to be there. I reminded her that it had more to do with their issues and failures than with anything attributed to her.
The next day, she had already forgiven them. She is a better person than I, because I gave some serious thought to finding them and describing Olivia's tear-streaked face and her voice as she choked the words out, "My friends didn't come". My finger wagging in their faces, I imagined saying something I'd regret like, "What the f--- is the matter with you?" They made my kid cry and I don't forgive that easily.
There is nothing in the world more painful than seeing your children hurting.
One summer day when Cliff was ten years old, Ken and I had Cliff and Max outside playing on their riding toys. We lived near Albany at the time, and got along with all our neighbors. Next door we noticed a car in the driveway, stopping long enough to deposit a little boy carrying a festive-looking birthday gift and a sleeping bag. Before long, there was a parade of cars and boys bearing presents and knapsacks. My neighbors came out and greeted each one, the boys tearing off to the balloon-stocked backyard where a Bouncy House sat, with its red and yellow turrets and green bouncy slide. It was only the crowning epitome of birthday fun, and I don't have to tell you how longingly my kids looked at it. The entire time, Cliff stood facing Brandon's house, mesmerized by and smiling at the joyful shouts of kids and celebratory inclinations. I watched his smile fade with the slow dawning of understanding: His friend Brandon was having a birthday party and Cliff was not invited. I understood that Cliff probably couldn't handle a sleepover, but for God's sake, couldn't they invite him into the Bouncy House? Had him stop by for a piece of cake? Really, how hard could that have been? The choice they made forever changed the relationship we had with them. The mother has been dead for many years now, but I still struggle to forget what she did.
Naturally, no child is immune to disappointment. When I recall the time Max had a birthday sleepover with four friends for his tenth birthday, I push the thoughts away. I can't bear it. The story goes that Max had a fun time with these boys during the afternoon and had looked forward to having them pile into his room for a sleepover. There were games and popcorn and the expectation of staying up late. But around 8:00 when one of the boys realized he missed his mommy, I had to call her to pick him up. Well, that started a firestorm of three more upset boys, thus forcing the party to end prematurely. I hate that I remember Max's look of disappointment. When I bring it up, Max tells me, "Mom, I'm over it!" (He's 20 now)That helps a little.
I've spent so much of my life with my kids trying to protect them from hurt, even though I know the impossibility of this particular assignment. And with the passing of years I understand there is no protection, no exclusion from disappointment, no possibility of walking through life unscathed. It's finally sunk in that every life event, whether it's filled with sadness or with joy, devastation or victory, it is all necessary for growth. These things must happen in order to help us bear up when we have no one but ourselves to depend on. How does one learn to cope without having experienced pain?
Meeting challenge with strength. That sounds good to me. If they can take away the lessons learned from disloyal friends, the cruel intentions of neighbors, or the disappointment that stems from a failing grade or a lost competiton, they'll hopefully avoid plunging into the depths of despair.
And perhaps I won't have to dwell quite so much on just how much I want to slap someone's face.
"Our life's a stage, a comedy: either learn to play and take it lightly, or bear its troubles patiently." Palladas
A few weeks ago, after a local Junior Miss competition which my daughter did not win, she came home in tears. She was okay with not winning, but the pain on her face was from another, more devastating source. The friends who promised to come and cheer her on did not show up. Even the friends who have been with her through high school didn't come. For reasons only God knows, they didn't comprehend the importance of this occasion. Still wearing her competition- white flowy dress with silver sparkles and strappy high heels, she cried with the loss not of the competition but of expectations and loyalty. I thank God for Paige and Cianna, Olivia's best friends in the world who did come, helping our family to form a small but devoted fan base. I don't know why her other friends misunderstood the enormity of this important event in Olivia's life, but I do hold out hope that it will forever pain them once they grow up and reflect. (Kind of like my sister, Cathy, who still winces when she remembers the college memory of telling a perfectly nice girl arriving with suitcases and pillows that she didn't want a roommate. Oh the sting of rejection that girl must have felt!)
To be sure, if it had been one of them in the competition, Olivia would have moved heaven and earth to be there. I reminded her that it had more to do with their issues and failures than with anything attributed to her.
The next day, she had already forgiven them. She is a better person than I, because I gave some serious thought to finding them and describing Olivia's tear-streaked face and her voice as she choked the words out, "My friends didn't come". My finger wagging in their faces, I imagined saying something I'd regret like, "What the f--- is the matter with you?" They made my kid cry and I don't forgive that easily.
There is nothing in the world more painful than seeing your children hurting.
One summer day when Cliff was ten years old, Ken and I had Cliff and Max outside playing on their riding toys. We lived near Albany at the time, and got along with all our neighbors. Next door we noticed a car in the driveway, stopping long enough to deposit a little boy carrying a festive-looking birthday gift and a sleeping bag. Before long, there was a parade of cars and boys bearing presents and knapsacks. My neighbors came out and greeted each one, the boys tearing off to the balloon-stocked backyard where a Bouncy House sat, with its red and yellow turrets and green bouncy slide. It was only the crowning epitome of birthday fun, and I don't have to tell you how longingly my kids looked at it. The entire time, Cliff stood facing Brandon's house, mesmerized by and smiling at the joyful shouts of kids and celebratory inclinations. I watched his smile fade with the slow dawning of understanding: His friend Brandon was having a birthday party and Cliff was not invited. I understood that Cliff probably couldn't handle a sleepover, but for God's sake, couldn't they invite him into the Bouncy House? Had him stop by for a piece of cake? Really, how hard could that have been? The choice they made forever changed the relationship we had with them. The mother has been dead for many years now, but I still struggle to forget what she did.
Naturally, no child is immune to disappointment. When I recall the time Max had a birthday sleepover with four friends for his tenth birthday, I push the thoughts away. I can't bear it. The story goes that Max had a fun time with these boys during the afternoon and had looked forward to having them pile into his room for a sleepover. There were games and popcorn and the expectation of staying up late. But around 8:00 when one of the boys realized he missed his mommy, I had to call her to pick him up. Well, that started a firestorm of three more upset boys, thus forcing the party to end prematurely. I hate that I remember Max's look of disappointment. When I bring it up, Max tells me, "Mom, I'm over it!" (He's 20 now)That helps a little.
I've spent so much of my life with my kids trying to protect them from hurt, even though I know the impossibility of this particular assignment. And with the passing of years I understand there is no protection, no exclusion from disappointment, no possibility of walking through life unscathed. It's finally sunk in that every life event, whether it's filled with sadness or with joy, devastation or victory, it is all necessary for growth. These things must happen in order to help us bear up when we have no one but ourselves to depend on. How does one learn to cope without having experienced pain?
Meeting challenge with strength. That sounds good to me. If they can take away the lessons learned from disloyal friends, the cruel intentions of neighbors, or the disappointment that stems from a failing grade or a lost competiton, they'll hopefully avoid plunging into the depths of despair.
And perhaps I won't have to dwell quite so much on just how much I want to slap someone's face.
"Our life's a stage, a comedy: either learn to play and take it lightly, or bear its troubles patiently." Palladas
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Sleep
"How blessed are some people, whose lives have no fears, no dreads, to whom sleep is a blessing that comes nightly, and brings nothing but sweet dreams." - Bram Stoker, Dracula
For two weeks and two days, I hadn't slept in the same bed as my husband. For sixteen nights, sleeping in my own room was not an option. It had nothing to do with the state of our marriage, but rather the very unique situation of living with a 26-year-old intellectually disabled son who was afraid to sleep in his own bedroom. I had no earthly idea why. Nor did I know what to do about it.
The first night, Ken was away on business and I thought Cliff had simply had a bad dream or perhaps missed his dad. So I allowed him to stay with me and he drifted off nightmare-free. But the next night, he refused to leave my room. My tired husband, arriving home at 2 a.m., observed the kid in the bed and resignedly made his way to the couch downstairs.
Each night after that brought its own set of challenges, none of which led to an end to the standoff. At first, Cliff would not even go near his room. Coming out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth, his body turned left instead of right. It walked him right into my room, no matter what I said. We were firm. ("Cliff, it's time to sleep in your room tonight.") We threatened. (Mommy is going to be mad if you don't sleep in your own bed!") We pleaded and cajoled. ("Could you please, please just try to stay in your room?") He would give me a baleful look, eyebrows furrowed, at once sweet and stubborn. Bedtime had become a battle, and I suddenly seemed to have a 5-foot toddler. His "No!" answer to every, single, solitary thing I said had the tone of someone who was responding to a request to eat an earthworm. Sometimes I said nothing, using sign language (Time. Bed. Sleep.) with the same results.
One night, about a week after the standoff started, he agreed to go into his room. He sat on the bed, his eyes darting fearfully around the room. Undaunted, I started out softly speaking about sweet dreams and how everyone has to sleep in his own bed and boy,oh boy, mommy missed her bed and (as he slowly began scooting off the bed) Hey, where are you GOING? THIS IS RIDICULOUS, CLIFF! YOU'RE 26 YEARS OLD! DO YOU SEE MAX OR OLIVIA SLEEPING IN MOMMY AND DADDY'S ROOM FOR GOD'S SAKE?" He looked at me, temporarily suspending his progress and gave a frustrated huff. Sighing, I decided to lie down at the foot of the bed, hoping he'd drift off and remember how wonderful sleeping in his own room could be. Instead, I drifted off and before I knew it the scooting was complete and he was off and running.
At the core of this new and concerning behavior was fear. Knowing this, I wanted desperately to understand his refusal to go to bed in the room he's had to himself for the last 12 years. I was frustrated to be sure, but imagine how frustrated he was! Imagine having the language but not the speech to say what you are thinking! While I understand his thinking most of the time, other times he's like a lidded box with a padlock and I don't have the key.
This isn't the first time his behavior has defied explanation. When he was 18 or 19, he refused to eat solid food. He would push his plate away and leave the table. The dentist found no cavity or mouth sore. The doctor was stymied. For three months, Cliff would eat only soft foods and liquids. Then one day, he simply started eating normally. Damned if I know why.
More recently was the phase during which he couldn't walk unaided, always taking someone's arm to walk across a room or across the driveway to get onto his van. At Special Olympics, the only way he would run his practice races was by holding onto my arm or the hand of one of the coaches. His fear of what I assumed was one of falling, prompted a trip to the eye doctor. Peripheral vision failure? Then we were off to the podiatrist for an evaluation of his feet and gait. All checked out fine. After a year and a half, whatever fear he was grappling with gradually dissipated until he was walking, jumping, running without hesitation.
So, I had resigned myself to sleeping in Cliff's room, pinning my hopes, based on his history, on this too being a phase; we just had to wait it out. There are worse things, I suppose, than having a comfortable bed all to myself.
Then, one night, after Cliff had gotten settled in my room and had dozed off, I went downstairs for awhile. (A glass of my favorite cabernet had become one of my coping mechanisms.) When I came up an hour later, I found Cliff in his room, asleep.
And just like that, with no explanation and after 16 puzzling nights, my son had decided it was time to sleep in his own room again. In the morning, he awakened to see me standing there. We smiled at each other and I sang a silly song. All was, once again, right with the world.
This is life with Cliff. Puzzling, and at times frustrating. Ken likes to call Cliff a mystery wrapped in an enigma. What can I say? Cliff's a quirky guy. This is also life with Cliff: amidst the odd phases and the stubbornness there exists an exuberance for life, an absolute appreciation for the simple things of the world, a willingness to love deeply and purely without reservation or condition, and always forgiveness of my failures to understand. Love, magnified.
For two weeks and two days, I hadn't slept in the same bed as my husband. For sixteen nights, sleeping in my own room was not an option. It had nothing to do with the state of our marriage, but rather the very unique situation of living with a 26-year-old intellectually disabled son who was afraid to sleep in his own bedroom. I had no earthly idea why. Nor did I know what to do about it.
The first night, Ken was away on business and I thought Cliff had simply had a bad dream or perhaps missed his dad. So I allowed him to stay with me and he drifted off nightmare-free. But the next night, he refused to leave my room. My tired husband, arriving home at 2 a.m., observed the kid in the bed and resignedly made his way to the couch downstairs.
Each night after that brought its own set of challenges, none of which led to an end to the standoff. At first, Cliff would not even go near his room. Coming out of the bathroom after brushing his teeth, his body turned left instead of right. It walked him right into my room, no matter what I said. We were firm. ("Cliff, it's time to sleep in your room tonight.") We threatened. (Mommy is going to be mad if you don't sleep in your own bed!") We pleaded and cajoled. ("Could you please, please just try to stay in your room?") He would give me a baleful look, eyebrows furrowed, at once sweet and stubborn. Bedtime had become a battle, and I suddenly seemed to have a 5-foot toddler. His "No!" answer to every, single, solitary thing I said had the tone of someone who was responding to a request to eat an earthworm. Sometimes I said nothing, using sign language (Time. Bed. Sleep.) with the same results.
One night, about a week after the standoff started, he agreed to go into his room. He sat on the bed, his eyes darting fearfully around the room. Undaunted, I started out softly speaking about sweet dreams and how everyone has to sleep in his own bed and boy,oh boy, mommy missed her bed and (as he slowly began scooting off the bed) Hey, where are you GOING? THIS IS RIDICULOUS, CLIFF! YOU'RE 26 YEARS OLD! DO YOU SEE MAX OR OLIVIA SLEEPING IN MOMMY AND DADDY'S ROOM FOR GOD'S SAKE?" He looked at me, temporarily suspending his progress and gave a frustrated huff. Sighing, I decided to lie down at the foot of the bed, hoping he'd drift off and remember how wonderful sleeping in his own room could be. Instead, I drifted off and before I knew it the scooting was complete and he was off and running.
At the core of this new and concerning behavior was fear. Knowing this, I wanted desperately to understand his refusal to go to bed in the room he's had to himself for the last 12 years. I was frustrated to be sure, but imagine how frustrated he was! Imagine having the language but not the speech to say what you are thinking! While I understand his thinking most of the time, other times he's like a lidded box with a padlock and I don't have the key.
This isn't the first time his behavior has defied explanation. When he was 18 or 19, he refused to eat solid food. He would push his plate away and leave the table. The dentist found no cavity or mouth sore. The doctor was stymied. For three months, Cliff would eat only soft foods and liquids. Then one day, he simply started eating normally. Damned if I know why.
More recently was the phase during which he couldn't walk unaided, always taking someone's arm to walk across a room or across the driveway to get onto his van. At Special Olympics, the only way he would run his practice races was by holding onto my arm or the hand of one of the coaches. His fear of what I assumed was one of falling, prompted a trip to the eye doctor. Peripheral vision failure? Then we were off to the podiatrist for an evaluation of his feet and gait. All checked out fine. After a year and a half, whatever fear he was grappling with gradually dissipated until he was walking, jumping, running without hesitation.
So, I had resigned myself to sleeping in Cliff's room, pinning my hopes, based on his history, on this too being a phase; we just had to wait it out. There are worse things, I suppose, than having a comfortable bed all to myself.
Then, one night, after Cliff had gotten settled in my room and had dozed off, I went downstairs for awhile. (A glass of my favorite cabernet had become one of my coping mechanisms.) When I came up an hour later, I found Cliff in his room, asleep.
And just like that, with no explanation and after 16 puzzling nights, my son had decided it was time to sleep in his own room again. In the morning, he awakened to see me standing there. We smiled at each other and I sang a silly song. All was, once again, right with the world.
This is life with Cliff. Puzzling, and at times frustrating. Ken likes to call Cliff a mystery wrapped in an enigma. What can I say? Cliff's a quirky guy. This is also life with Cliff: amidst the odd phases and the stubbornness there exists an exuberance for life, an absolute appreciation for the simple things of the world, a willingness to love deeply and purely without reservation or condition, and always forgiveness of my failures to understand. Love, magnified.
Friday, September 23, 2011
The End
"I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground./So it is, and so it will be, for so has it been, time out of mind:/Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned/with lilies and with laurel they go;/but I am not resigned."--Edna St. Vincent Millay
Today is the day I have been dreading for months. You may laugh, but you had better not let me hear you when I tell you why. Today is September 23, 2011, the day of the last episode of my soap opera "All My Children". It's going off the air after 41 years. It is proving to be one of the saddest days of my life, and each time I contemplate its end, I cry.
As a freshman in college, one day I walked into the student lounge to warm up and to relax before my next class. I sat down with about twenty other students and joined them in watching the soaps on ABC. I watched them all: All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital. But the one that I became hooked on was AMC. I was 18 years old.
In the ensuing years I watched it on and off, then mostly on once I could afford a VCR and could watch it after my job teaching English to middle schoolers. Sometimes I was exhausted but I never wanted to miss an episode of Erica Kane slapping someone across the face, or Tad the Cad bedding Dottie or Hillary or Liza and her mother. There was the time Erica yelled at a bear in the woods and scared him away. "(Go away, bear. I am Erica Kane!) I was mesmerized by the love stories, the way they took on social issues like AIDS and abortion. The characters came and went. Some of them I missed, some not so much. I watched through good writing, bad writing, and characters who came back from the dead. There were switched baby stories and people who got married to someone new every couple of years. God, I loved the silliness of it, the oftentimes banal banter of characters who never seemed to learn from their mistakes. But it was also a smart soap opera with a lot of heart. It was pure escapism and I have been watching, and escaping, ever since.
Naturally, watching one show from the seventies to now, one could call me obsessed. Certainly anyone who knows me well, knows AMC is the show I'd choose if I could choose only one show to watch for the rest of my life. They also know my devotion to Susan Lucci. I have the books, the dolls, the perfume, the jewelry, and the Malibu Pilates chair to prove it.
I write this as a warning to my loving family and friends, especially as they may be unsure about what to do and say to me today, of all days. After all, I am about to lose my best friends, the routine of some thirty-odd years, and my daily devotion. I will tell you that if I hear an "Oh brother", or see an eye-roll or smirk, if I sense that you think this loss is no big deal, you'd best avoid me altogether.
If you can't understand, perhaps I can help you. Think about spring--spring after a long, snowy, dark winter. What if spring ceased to exist? What if you knew you could never again see flowers bursting from the ground? Or hear birds noisily chattering in the boughs of leafy green trees? What if the sun ceased to shine on your face? Would you miss it?
What if, in some insane nightmare, there were no more books? They just disappeared from the whole world? Or, for my sports-minded friends, what if the Yankees or the Red Sox broke up, and all of baseball went away? How would you feel then?
Stop saying I'm being ridiculous. Just because you don't care what happens when 1:00 comes around Monday through Friday, doesn't mean it shouldn't matter to me. I want you to know that if you can't say, "Celia, ( or Mom)I'm so sorry your show is gone. I know how much you've loved it all these years.", then don't say a damn thing to me.
At 1:00 today, I will go into my bedroom and shut the door. The t-shirt I'll be wearing says "Pine Valley University, est. 1970". I will watch the very last episode of my show and, at 2:00 I will be inconsolable. So just leave me alone.
Because if I hear so much as a snort or a sigh when you see me with tears in my eyes, or if I see in your face the slightest evidence of pitiful, trust me when I say I will slap you across your snarky face, and I'll do it Erica Kane style.
Today is the day I have been dreading for months. You may laugh, but you had better not let me hear you when I tell you why. Today is September 23, 2011, the day of the last episode of my soap opera "All My Children". It's going off the air after 41 years. It is proving to be one of the saddest days of my life, and each time I contemplate its end, I cry.
As a freshman in college, one day I walked into the student lounge to warm up and to relax before my next class. I sat down with about twenty other students and joined them in watching the soaps on ABC. I watched them all: All My Children, One Life to Live, General Hospital. But the one that I became hooked on was AMC. I was 18 years old.
In the ensuing years I watched it on and off, then mostly on once I could afford a VCR and could watch it after my job teaching English to middle schoolers. Sometimes I was exhausted but I never wanted to miss an episode of Erica Kane slapping someone across the face, or Tad the Cad bedding Dottie or Hillary or Liza and her mother. There was the time Erica yelled at a bear in the woods and scared him away. "(Go away, bear. I am Erica Kane!) I was mesmerized by the love stories, the way they took on social issues like AIDS and abortion. The characters came and went. Some of them I missed, some not so much. I watched through good writing, bad writing, and characters who came back from the dead. There were switched baby stories and people who got married to someone new every couple of years. God, I loved the silliness of it, the oftentimes banal banter of characters who never seemed to learn from their mistakes. But it was also a smart soap opera with a lot of heart. It was pure escapism and I have been watching, and escaping, ever since.
Naturally, watching one show from the seventies to now, one could call me obsessed. Certainly anyone who knows me well, knows AMC is the show I'd choose if I could choose only one show to watch for the rest of my life. They also know my devotion to Susan Lucci. I have the books, the dolls, the perfume, the jewelry, and the Malibu Pilates chair to prove it.
I write this as a warning to my loving family and friends, especially as they may be unsure about what to do and say to me today, of all days. After all, I am about to lose my best friends, the routine of some thirty-odd years, and my daily devotion. I will tell you that if I hear an "Oh brother", or see an eye-roll or smirk, if I sense that you think this loss is no big deal, you'd best avoid me altogether.
If you can't understand, perhaps I can help you. Think about spring--spring after a long, snowy, dark winter. What if spring ceased to exist? What if you knew you could never again see flowers bursting from the ground? Or hear birds noisily chattering in the boughs of leafy green trees? What if the sun ceased to shine on your face? Would you miss it?
What if, in some insane nightmare, there were no more books? They just disappeared from the whole world? Or, for my sports-minded friends, what if the Yankees or the Red Sox broke up, and all of baseball went away? How would you feel then?
Stop saying I'm being ridiculous. Just because you don't care what happens when 1:00 comes around Monday through Friday, doesn't mean it shouldn't matter to me. I want you to know that if you can't say, "Celia, ( or Mom)I'm so sorry your show is gone. I know how much you've loved it all these years.", then don't say a damn thing to me.
At 1:00 today, I will go into my bedroom and shut the door. The t-shirt I'll be wearing says "Pine Valley University, est. 1970". I will watch the very last episode of my show and, at 2:00 I will be inconsolable. So just leave me alone.
Because if I hear so much as a snort or a sigh when you see me with tears in my eyes, or if I see in your face the slightest evidence of pitiful, trust me when I say I will slap you across your snarky face, and I'll do it Erica Kane style.
Beautiful
"She walks in beauty, like the night/Of cloudless climes and starry skies/And all that's best of dark and bright/Meets in her aspect and her eyes;/Thus mellow'd to that tender light/Which Heaven to gaudy day denies/"--Lord Byron
"Well, she was just 17. You know what I mean. And the way she looked is way beyond compare."--The Beatles
The door opens and she walks into the house, no, makes an entrance into the house, all soft-curls and perfectly straight, white teeth, and says in greeting, "Hey". Not the typical teen-age "hey" dedicated to boredom, or disinterest or feigned exhaustion; this "hey" has a more sing-songy, multi-syllabic quality. She has announced her arrival. Each time she breezes into the kitchen reminds me of effervescent champagne bubbles. Sparkles in diamonds. Lights, camera, action.
There are times I look at my daughter and wonder where she came from. She seems to have none of the awkward shyness of her mother at that age. In place of the paralyzing inadequacies of my high school years, I see in her the qualities I always wished I had had. Confidence, contentment with who she is, a general loveliness. How different my life would have been!
She can get up on a stage and perform, or stand in front of a classroom and give a speech without feeling faint. There are exactly, as of this writing, 2,640 pictures of her on her Facebook page. Many of them are those iconic teenage photos that one takes of oneself while holding the camera skyward, at arm's length. It seems to me one snapshot is more beautiful than the next.
Why, then, are there often days when her view of herself is so critical, it pains me to hear it? She's announced plans to get a nose job when she's older. I don't know if that's before, after or at the same time as the chin implant. My response is to roll my eyes at her pronouncements that she isn't good enough or pretty enough the way she is. I don't understand because all I can feel when I look at her is wonderment.
It seems like this is the road our daughters are on, on that trajectory forced on them by the media, by a society which values physical beauty over inner beauty. It's almost impossible for me to find the right words to convince her that she is beautiful enough, smart enough, talented enough.
Then I remember the times when I have felt most beautiful and the most confident. And I have the answer. The answer is this: It's love that makes you beautiful.
I remember once, when I was in my twenties, asking a former boyfriend if he thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world. It was a test that my father taught me. If he said yes, then I would know he loved me. If he said no...well. So I asked him and he replied, "What, are you asking if you are more beautiful than say, Christie Brinkley or Cindy Crawford? Now those women are beautiful!"
Clearly, I wouldn't have considered marrying that one. I did, however, marry the man who does tell me I'm more beautiful than any other woman. He makes me feel like a Victoria's Secret model sometimes! It's love that makes him think so.
There has never been anything more true. You are beautiful to everyone who loves you. Love makes you beautiful, Liv. That's all you need to know, all you need to believe.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FMtxACKlYM (Watch and learn)
"Well, she was just 17. You know what I mean. And the way she looked is way beyond compare."--The Beatles
The door opens and she walks into the house, no, makes an entrance into the house, all soft-curls and perfectly straight, white teeth, and says in greeting, "Hey". Not the typical teen-age "hey" dedicated to boredom, or disinterest or feigned exhaustion; this "hey" has a more sing-songy, multi-syllabic quality. She has announced her arrival. Each time she breezes into the kitchen reminds me of effervescent champagne bubbles. Sparkles in diamonds. Lights, camera, action.
There are times I look at my daughter and wonder where she came from. She seems to have none of the awkward shyness of her mother at that age. In place of the paralyzing inadequacies of my high school years, I see in her the qualities I always wished I had had. Confidence, contentment with who she is, a general loveliness. How different my life would have been!
She can get up on a stage and perform, or stand in front of a classroom and give a speech without feeling faint. There are exactly, as of this writing, 2,640 pictures of her on her Facebook page. Many of them are those iconic teenage photos that one takes of oneself while holding the camera skyward, at arm's length. It seems to me one snapshot is more beautiful than the next.
Why, then, are there often days when her view of herself is so critical, it pains me to hear it? She's announced plans to get a nose job when she's older. I don't know if that's before, after or at the same time as the chin implant. My response is to roll my eyes at her pronouncements that she isn't good enough or pretty enough the way she is. I don't understand because all I can feel when I look at her is wonderment.
It seems like this is the road our daughters are on, on that trajectory forced on them by the media, by a society which values physical beauty over inner beauty. It's almost impossible for me to find the right words to convince her that she is beautiful enough, smart enough, talented enough.
Then I remember the times when I have felt most beautiful and the most confident. And I have the answer. The answer is this: It's love that makes you beautiful.
I remember once, when I was in my twenties, asking a former boyfriend if he thought I was the most beautiful girl in the world. It was a test that my father taught me. If he said yes, then I would know he loved me. If he said no...well. So I asked him and he replied, "What, are you asking if you are more beautiful than say, Christie Brinkley or Cindy Crawford? Now those women are beautiful!"
Clearly, I wouldn't have considered marrying that one. I did, however, marry the man who does tell me I'm more beautiful than any other woman. He makes me feel like a Victoria's Secret model sometimes! It's love that makes him think so.
There has never been anything more true. You are beautiful to everyone who loves you. Love makes you beautiful, Liv. That's all you need to know, all you need to believe.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2FMtxACKlYM (Watch and learn)
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Always
"To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun. A time to be born and a time to die..." Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
I saw it on Facebook just the other day. It seems to be the new way to find out someone you know has died. I would much rather have preferred a phone call, the way one used to find out such sad events. The picture of her was accompanied by a post, stating that "yet another one of God's angels is gone from my life. Rest in peace Diane." The photo, added by Jen, who works at the group home not far from my house, was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking that face, that expression. The background showed the red and white of the track at a local high school, where I last saw her, where her caregiver was trying to talk her into throwing the softball and running the 50-meter race. She would have none of it. It always took her some time to acclimate to new places and activities. But she usually agreed, when she was good and ready, and after being promised her beloved ice cream.
Her face, her beautiful face, accompanied by the ever-present head band holding back her thinning brown hair, was the face of my friend, Diane, who happened to have been born with Down syndrome a little more than 50 years ago. I first met her at the group home where my friend, Richard, lived. Diane approached me then, and I was warned by her caregivers that she sometimes pulled hair. I obliged when she came in for the hug, knowing I was taking my chances but hoping for the best. She didn't pull my hair that first time, but eventually she did! It might have been the third or fourth time I visited. It was funny, actually, the way the caregiver admonished her and ran over to me to help me extricate my hair from her fingers. When she let go she had a smile on her face, as if to say, "Ha, gotcha!"
After Richard died, I continued to see Diane, though infrequently and mostly at the park or when Cliff and I attended the Special Olympics practices. Even after a long absence, she would say shyly, "Hi Cee-ya!", making me wonder at the Alzheimer's diagnosis the doctor gave her last year. She always knew me.
The day I found out Diane had passed away unexpectedly from pneumonia, I cried because I was so very fond of her. And she was gone too soon. She was funny and stubborn, fun-loving and sweet.
She was, come to think of it, a lot like Cliff. I will always miss her.
When Cliff came home from work on the day I found out about Diane, I held onto the hug a little longer, tried a little harder to make him laugh, listened to his loud, off-key singing a little more patiently. Whenever I looked at him, it was impossible not to think about Diane and Richard. Impossible not to think about life expectancy, and the pain I sometimes feel when my imagination goes wild.
That's where faith comes in, I suppose. Faith that all is as it should be, and that there is love, always love.
I saw it on Facebook just the other day. It seems to be the new way to find out someone you know has died. I would much rather have preferred a phone call, the way one used to find out such sad events. The picture of her was accompanied by a post, stating that "yet another one of God's angels is gone from my life. Rest in peace Diane." The photo, added by Jen, who works at the group home not far from my house, was a little blurry, but there was no mistaking that face, that expression. The background showed the red and white of the track at a local high school, where I last saw her, where her caregiver was trying to talk her into throwing the softball and running the 50-meter race. She would have none of it. It always took her some time to acclimate to new places and activities. But she usually agreed, when she was good and ready, and after being promised her beloved ice cream.
Her face, her beautiful face, accompanied by the ever-present head band holding back her thinning brown hair, was the face of my friend, Diane, who happened to have been born with Down syndrome a little more than 50 years ago. I first met her at the group home where my friend, Richard, lived. Diane approached me then, and I was warned by her caregivers that she sometimes pulled hair. I obliged when she came in for the hug, knowing I was taking my chances but hoping for the best. She didn't pull my hair that first time, but eventually she did! It might have been the third or fourth time I visited. It was funny, actually, the way the caregiver admonished her and ran over to me to help me extricate my hair from her fingers. When she let go she had a smile on her face, as if to say, "Ha, gotcha!"
After Richard died, I continued to see Diane, though infrequently and mostly at the park or when Cliff and I attended the Special Olympics practices. Even after a long absence, she would say shyly, "Hi Cee-ya!", making me wonder at the Alzheimer's diagnosis the doctor gave her last year. She always knew me.
The day I found out Diane had passed away unexpectedly from pneumonia, I cried because I was so very fond of her. And she was gone too soon. She was funny and stubborn, fun-loving and sweet.
She was, come to think of it, a lot like Cliff. I will always miss her.
When Cliff came home from work on the day I found out about Diane, I held onto the hug a little longer, tried a little harder to make him laugh, listened to his loud, off-key singing a little more patiently. Whenever I looked at him, it was impossible not to think about Diane and Richard. Impossible not to think about life expectancy, and the pain I sometimes feel when my imagination goes wild.
That's where faith comes in, I suppose. Faith that all is as it should be, and that there is love, always love.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Sleepless in Franklin
"Adolescence is perhaps nature's way of preparing parents to welcome the empty nest." ~ Karen Savage and Patricia Adams
The timeline: Thursday afternoon
4:00 pm Max has left the house before I get home from work, without telling anyone where he's gone. I assume he's with his friends Andrew and Chris. It's spring break at his college and he is still in "I-don't-have-to-tell-anyone-anything-if-I-don't-want-to" mode.
7:00 pm We eat dinner without him, which is not unusual.
11:00 pm Time for bed. Ken and I fall asleep easily, confident that Max will be home at a reasonable hour.
Friday
1:30 am I wake with a start. Something doesn't feel right. Looking in Max's room, I see the empty bed and quietly walk downstairs to see if he's fallen asleep on the couch. No one is there. My text to him is: " It's late. Come home now." But I get no response. I'm having trouble keeping anxious thoughts at bay.
1:45 am Back to bed. Ken is awake now. Sleeping is an exercise in futility, knowing our 19-year-old son is out late and unreachable. Where the hell could he be? Worrying begins in earnest.
3:00 am Ken's turn to call Max. He leaves him a message because Max's phone seems to be off. "Max, where are you? It's 3 o'clock in the morning. Please call home. We're worried about you. Just let us know where you are."
3 am to 5 am Our imaginations have gone wild. He's dead in a ditch. He's passed out from drinking. Someone has beaten him and left him for dead behind the mini mart. He has to be hurt. Otherwise why wouldn't he call?
5 am to 6 am We're exhausted from lack of sleep, so we make coffee and hope we'll make it through the work day. I say a prayer that sounds like a mantra: "Please let him be ok. Please let him be ok."
6 am Someone must be up at Chris' house by now. Chris' mother checks his room. "No, Chris is home. He got home early last night. He says he hasn't seen Max since late afternoon yesterday." My heart is pounding as I dial Andrew's house. "Andrew says Max hung out with someone named Kamali last night," Andrew's mom says with concern in her voice.
6:15 am Ken calls Kamali's house. Kamali is a young man Max knows from school who lives in the next town. Kamali's parents haven't heard from their son all night either. But we learn they went somewhere together last night.
6:30 am The house phone rings. It's Max calling to say he's on his way home. His phone died yesterday so he's calling from Kamali's phone. Now I ask you, why couldn't he do that before his parents waited up for him all night?
7:30 am Max walks in the house. "Hi, Mom." Just like that. As if nothing much has transpired in the last eight hours that didn't take years off my life. I don't know whether to hug him or strangle him. I opt for neither. "Don't even talk to me, Max." He sheepishly retreats to his bedroom to get some sleep.
2:20 p.m. I come home from work, calmer now. My son walks into the kitchen. I stare at him for a moment, hands on my hips, hoping I am having an unnerving effect on him. "Why didn't you call to tell us where you were? And by the way, where were you?" I find out he was at a party an hour from home (it was St. Patrick's Day) and was too tired to drive back (i.e. he had been drinking). He makes the unbelievable and preposterous claim that he texted me after midnight to ask if he could stay over and that I texted him back with just one word: No. I tell him I never received such a text so I couldn't have texted him back. And anyway I NEVER would have said no. How many times have I said I don't want him on the damn road if he's tired or had been drinking? How many times have we had that conversation since he started driving? I'll tell you: more times than I can count.
2:25 p.m. I have forgiven him, but I don't plan to forget. In fact, I plan to bring this up as often as possible to make him understand that we are happy to give him the freedom he wants, with some reasonable constraints when he's home from school. I tell him to please not do that to his parents again, that we can't go through a night like that again. At least not until Olivia starts pulling this crap too. Hopefully I have a couple of years recovery time.
A week later we are sitting in a restaurant with Kamali and his parents to discuss a possible move out of the dorm and into a house near their school. I can't help but bring up the events of the week before. When I tell them I thought they were dead in a ditch, they thought it was hilarious. I laughed along with them, but I don't tell them about the terror I felt that night. It was not the time or place for it. I couldn't tell them how, when I don't know if he's okay, my mind goes to the unimaginable, the most awful place for a parent. Life stops and nothing can make it continue, nothing can make it all right until I hear his voice.
People tell me not to worry about things that are out of my control.Well, shoot, Life is out of my control! How can I not feel scared? I've seen the bumpersticker on the cars of the faithful, "Let go and let God." I hate that saying. First of all, it's grammatically incorrect.Where is the second verb? Let God what? Second of all, isn't that what's happening anyway? God is in charge and is making all the decisions.
My eye doctor told me that the twitch in my right eye is due to stress and lack of sleep. He suggested I take half a valium before bedtime. I'm strongly considering it. That way, if someone doesn't come home, at least I won't know until I've had a good night's sleep. Works for me.
The timeline: Thursday afternoon
4:00 pm Max has left the house before I get home from work, without telling anyone where he's gone. I assume he's with his friends Andrew and Chris. It's spring break at his college and he is still in "I-don't-have-to-tell-anyone-anything-if-I-don't-want-to" mode.
7:00 pm We eat dinner without him, which is not unusual.
11:00 pm Time for bed. Ken and I fall asleep easily, confident that Max will be home at a reasonable hour.
Friday
1:30 am I wake with a start. Something doesn't feel right. Looking in Max's room, I see the empty bed and quietly walk downstairs to see if he's fallen asleep on the couch. No one is there. My text to him is: " It's late. Come home now." But I get no response. I'm having trouble keeping anxious thoughts at bay.
1:45 am Back to bed. Ken is awake now. Sleeping is an exercise in futility, knowing our 19-year-old son is out late and unreachable. Where the hell could he be? Worrying begins in earnest.
3:00 am Ken's turn to call Max. He leaves him a message because Max's phone seems to be off. "Max, where are you? It's 3 o'clock in the morning. Please call home. We're worried about you. Just let us know where you are."
3 am to 5 am Our imaginations have gone wild. He's dead in a ditch. He's passed out from drinking. Someone has beaten him and left him for dead behind the mini mart. He has to be hurt. Otherwise why wouldn't he call?
5 am to 6 am We're exhausted from lack of sleep, so we make coffee and hope we'll make it through the work day. I say a prayer that sounds like a mantra: "Please let him be ok. Please let him be ok."
6 am Someone must be up at Chris' house by now. Chris' mother checks his room. "No, Chris is home. He got home early last night. He says he hasn't seen Max since late afternoon yesterday." My heart is pounding as I dial Andrew's house. "Andrew says Max hung out with someone named Kamali last night," Andrew's mom says with concern in her voice.
6:15 am Ken calls Kamali's house. Kamali is a young man Max knows from school who lives in the next town. Kamali's parents haven't heard from their son all night either. But we learn they went somewhere together last night.
6:30 am The house phone rings. It's Max calling to say he's on his way home. His phone died yesterday so he's calling from Kamali's phone. Now I ask you, why couldn't he do that before his parents waited up for him all night?
7:30 am Max walks in the house. "Hi, Mom." Just like that. As if nothing much has transpired in the last eight hours that didn't take years off my life. I don't know whether to hug him or strangle him. I opt for neither. "Don't even talk to me, Max." He sheepishly retreats to his bedroom to get some sleep.
2:20 p.m. I come home from work, calmer now. My son walks into the kitchen. I stare at him for a moment, hands on my hips, hoping I am having an unnerving effect on him. "Why didn't you call to tell us where you were? And by the way, where were you?" I find out he was at a party an hour from home (it was St. Patrick's Day) and was too tired to drive back (i.e. he had been drinking). He makes the unbelievable and preposterous claim that he texted me after midnight to ask if he could stay over and that I texted him back with just one word: No. I tell him I never received such a text so I couldn't have texted him back. And anyway I NEVER would have said no. How many times have I said I don't want him on the damn road if he's tired or had been drinking? How many times have we had that conversation since he started driving? I'll tell you: more times than I can count.
2:25 p.m. I have forgiven him, but I don't plan to forget. In fact, I plan to bring this up as often as possible to make him understand that we are happy to give him the freedom he wants, with some reasonable constraints when he's home from school. I tell him to please not do that to his parents again, that we can't go through a night like that again. At least not until Olivia starts pulling this crap too. Hopefully I have a couple of years recovery time.
A week later we are sitting in a restaurant with Kamali and his parents to discuss a possible move out of the dorm and into a house near their school. I can't help but bring up the events of the week before. When I tell them I thought they were dead in a ditch, they thought it was hilarious. I laughed along with them, but I don't tell them about the terror I felt that night. It was not the time or place for it. I couldn't tell them how, when I don't know if he's okay, my mind goes to the unimaginable, the most awful place for a parent. Life stops and nothing can make it continue, nothing can make it all right until I hear his voice.
People tell me not to worry about things that are out of my control.Well, shoot, Life is out of my control! How can I not feel scared? I've seen the bumpersticker on the cars of the faithful, "Let go and let God." I hate that saying. First of all, it's grammatically incorrect.Where is the second verb? Let God what? Second of all, isn't that what's happening anyway? God is in charge and is making all the decisions.
My eye doctor told me that the twitch in my right eye is due to stress and lack of sleep. He suggested I take half a valium before bedtime. I'm strongly considering it. That way, if someone doesn't come home, at least I won't know until I've had a good night's sleep. Works for me.
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