Magdalene,
The other night I took the kids to a McDonald's for dinner. I know the nutrition is cringe-worthy at best, but we have a small pile of gift cards from Christmas, and the cold weather lately has made us more hermitic than I like. Meaning: We're all driving each other nuts, even after exhausting all the craft supplies on hand and hours of imaginative play in the snow.
So off we went. We slipped and slided across the icy parking lot, urged on by the smell of french fries. We shuffled carefully with our loaded tray into the playplace, where we were greeted by other harried-looking parents, gleeful children, and the strange, misplaced smell of chlorine. In total keeping with their personalities, my oldest, Armand, inhaled his meal and asked--mid-swallow with his last bite--if he could go play. My almost-two-year-old, Eliza, having taken perhaps four and a half nibbles, also declared herself to be done. The baby was waking in his seat and I was only halfway through my own hamburger, so I relented, burbling reminders about removing shoes and staying together.
Of course these reminders quickly dissipated amid the onset of pretend adventures. The shoes were shucked quickly into the colorful cubbies provided, but it wasn't long before the 6-year-old had ditched the 2-year-old. This wasn't for lack of caring: his much longer legs ferrying him to the top of the structure within seconds, he'd yell down to his sister to huuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrry. She, however, is not a lady to be rushed, and soon enough I was juggling the baby and my remaining quarter of hamburger, swaying by our coat-laden table and using my super-mom vision to track my girl as she made her way through the plastic and nylon Mc-jungle.
Inevitably she encountered a spot she could not maneuver by herself, impressive, tiny abdominal muscles aside. A trio of girls, maybe 8-10 years old, reached to help her instantly, exchanging grins with my tiny lass. They told her how cute she was and asked if she needed any more help, and instead of being moved by the sudden comradery these big girls were showing, I was embarrassed that my other child (the older one) had failed to help his sister. I called to him where he was whirling down a slide: "Armand! Come help your sister!"
Even as I said the words, I wondered why I felt so urgently that it needed to be him rather than the strangers--the girls--assisting Eliza. I'd thrown a wrench in their cooperation, as Armand scrambled to get to where the girls, big and little, had bottle-necked at a point where Eliza was struggling again. The big girls looked at me innocently, questioningly. I felt embarrassed for my scrutiny of them, as if we were adult women competing for a promotion or awkwardly vying for the last elliptical at the gym. These were kids. They were willing to help my daughter without prompt or reward. And I was prickly-protective because I didn't/don't want to need help. From anyone. Even kids.
"It's okay, Armand. Eliza's made some friends," I said. I smiled reassuringly at all the girls, and they smiled back, and returned to their play.
I sank into my chair, holding the baby to my chest, and put myself on a mental time-out to interrogate my inner brain and heart for reasons. Why, why, Self, is this your instinct, to slap away an outstretched hand, to hold in higher admiration a set jaw rather than a warm smile? I remember a time when I hugged freely and without restraint, and perhaps it sounds silly, but I freeze up a bit now when people outside my immediate family try to embrace me. Even when it's from good friends, I catch myself when I slip close to the divide between vulnerability and independence. This is probably all indicative of a much larger Something going on with me, but I know in other ways I'm not alone, because (ironically) I can think of friends I've counseled to accept help, accept assistance, accept invitations to branch out beyond the walls of their home and share life-- burdens, joys and all.
What is community to our generation? ... When grandparents live in homes for the elderly rather than upstairs, and even on Facebook, we can choose whom of our 'friends' to hide (Who shall see my pictures? My posts? When I'm online?) There are so many shades to this aspect of our social culture; I take no firm stand, just yet, on my feelings about it. This I'll confess to: I often feel more at ease Googling for answers than searching for them in conversation with those I call friends. Sometimes I'd rather piece conclusions together from articles and posts than hash them out in person. And I don't think I like that about myself.
-Victoria
The other night I took the kids to a McDonald's for dinner. I know the nutrition is cringe-worthy at best, but we have a small pile of gift cards from Christmas, and the cold weather lately has made us more hermitic than I like. Meaning: We're all driving each other nuts, even after exhausting all the craft supplies on hand and hours of imaginative play in the snow.
So off we went. We slipped and slided across the icy parking lot, urged on by the smell of french fries. We shuffled carefully with our loaded tray into the playplace, where we were greeted by other harried-looking parents, gleeful children, and the strange, misplaced smell of chlorine. In total keeping with their personalities, my oldest, Armand, inhaled his meal and asked--mid-swallow with his last bite--if he could go play. My almost-two-year-old, Eliza, having taken perhaps four and a half nibbles, also declared herself to be done. The baby was waking in his seat and I was only halfway through my own hamburger, so I relented, burbling reminders about removing shoes and staying together.
Of course these reminders quickly dissipated amid the onset of pretend adventures. The shoes were shucked quickly into the colorful cubbies provided, but it wasn't long before the 6-year-old had ditched the 2-year-old. This wasn't for lack of caring: his much longer legs ferrying him to the top of the structure within seconds, he'd yell down to his sister to huuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrry. She, however, is not a lady to be rushed, and soon enough I was juggling the baby and my remaining quarter of hamburger, swaying by our coat-laden table and using my super-mom vision to track my girl as she made her way through the plastic and nylon Mc-jungle.
Inevitably she encountered a spot she could not maneuver by herself, impressive, tiny abdominal muscles aside. A trio of girls, maybe 8-10 years old, reached to help her instantly, exchanging grins with my tiny lass. They told her how cute she was and asked if she needed any more help, and instead of being moved by the sudden comradery these big girls were showing, I was embarrassed that my other child (the older one) had failed to help his sister. I called to him where he was whirling down a slide: "Armand! Come help your sister!"
Even as I said the words, I wondered why I felt so urgently that it needed to be him rather than the strangers--the girls--assisting Eliza. I'd thrown a wrench in their cooperation, as Armand scrambled to get to where the girls, big and little, had bottle-necked at a point where Eliza was struggling again. The big girls looked at me innocently, questioningly. I felt embarrassed for my scrutiny of them, as if we were adult women competing for a promotion or awkwardly vying for the last elliptical at the gym. These were kids. They were willing to help my daughter without prompt or reward. And I was prickly-protective because I didn't/don't want to need help. From anyone. Even kids.
"It's okay, Armand. Eliza's made some friends," I said. I smiled reassuringly at all the girls, and they smiled back, and returned to their play.
I sank into my chair, holding the baby to my chest, and put myself on a mental time-out to interrogate my inner brain and heart for reasons. Why, why, Self, is this your instinct, to slap away an outstretched hand, to hold in higher admiration a set jaw rather than a warm smile? I remember a time when I hugged freely and without restraint, and perhaps it sounds silly, but I freeze up a bit now when people outside my immediate family try to embrace me. Even when it's from good friends, I catch myself when I slip close to the divide between vulnerability and independence. This is probably all indicative of a much larger Something going on with me, but I know in other ways I'm not alone, because (ironically) I can think of friends I've counseled to accept help, accept assistance, accept invitations to branch out beyond the walls of their home and share life-- burdens, joys and all.
What is community to our generation? ... When grandparents live in homes for the elderly rather than upstairs, and even on Facebook, we can choose whom of our 'friends' to hide (Who shall see my pictures? My posts? When I'm online?) There are so many shades to this aspect of our social culture; I take no firm stand, just yet, on my feelings about it. This I'll confess to: I often feel more at ease Googling for answers than searching for them in conversation with those I call friends. Sometimes I'd rather piece conclusions together from articles and posts than hash them out in person. And I don't think I like that about myself.
-Victoria
Victoria-
I've
been reading a book lately that's made me think of you on more than one
occasion, and your McDonald's incident brings it to mind once more.
It's The Paris Wife: an imagined account of Ernest Hemingway's
first wife, Hadley, and her life with him as an expatriot. Granted, the
expatriotism is about all your respective lives seem to have in common. Well, other than this: Hemingway's wife was fearless.
I
DID say fearless! That's you, dear Victoria. Hadley was, at first,
quite cowed by the ultra-enigmatic black-hole-ish-ness of Ernest, and
tried to be just what he wanted her to be: flexible and strong all at
once, but never needy or
dependent upon him. But in the middle of following him around Europe,
trying to be his model wife/muse, she found a core of strength. Or
maybe the core simply grew, like an alpine violet that bursts up through
the last crust of damp snow in springtime. In any case, the strength
was there to see her through some ugly, trying times. Now, I'm not
implying that you're having ugly times, but my goodness are
they trying times. And you are brave when you come up against them. So
I say (quite supportively, I promise), don't worry too much about this
feeling of Something going on. You've told us all a hundred times to
grant ourselves some grace, and I'll spit those beautiful words right
back at you: may you recognize the grace. Which, by the way, you did,
when you saw your stepping-in for what it was -- unnecessary -- and
backed off.
As far as
this generation knowing about community, it will take people like you
(and maybe me, if I could be so brave) pushing up and out of the layer
of snow again and again to show our loved ones that there is sunlight up
here! Up in the stratosphere of interactions and awkward hugs and
shared life! It's so bright that it hurts your eyes at first, but it's
vital.
I've been
trying to soak up my own bits of sunshing in this middle-winter
stagnation. Of course, today it feels like springtime down here, which
is doing my pre-February anxiety no good. I dread that month. It is
unending, is it not? I'm worried that all of this beautiful warm air
means we're in for a nasty spell of frozen weather (which would only be
natural), so my knickers are in a twist before these horrid 28 days have
even commenced.
Earlier, I took the
baby out to the swingset. I had no choice, really, as he was fairly
beating down the door with desperate fists. If he had known the words
for OUTSIDE NOW, STINGY WOMAN! I feel certain that he would have yelled
them at me over and over. In his mind, I'm sure he did. So we went,
and he was promptly lulled into semi-consciousness by the swaying of the
bucket-swing. I could have been an invisible, pushing hand, for all
the attention he payed me while he flew through the air. He's taken a
drug, I thought. A powerful, seratonin-like drug that is only produced
by being weightless and powerless and completely free.
Do
you know, I can't remember the last time I went swinging? When the
girls were younger, probably, I sat with them on my lap while
we pumped our legs in rhythm. But by myself...I just don't remember.
So this morning, I sat on the open swing next to my oblivious boy, and I
flew. I leaned back as horizontally as I could manage, and pointed my
toes to the sky. Above me, the clouds were thick and gray, dark with
withheld rain. The tree branches were black and jagged, damp with
humidity. For a minute, the birds stopped singing and the wind picked
up and I closed my eyes and inhaled on an upswing and lost the world
completely. I was sure my hair was about to drag the ground, but there
was just no ground there. I was sure the swingset was about to groan
and creak in protest of my ambitious height, but there was no protest. I
was simply in the atmosphere, weightless and free --
I loosened my grip and jumped from the very top of my
arc.
And I swear, as
soon as my feet hit terra firma, the birds started singing again. The
highway moaned in the distance. The wind slowed. A single raindrop
landed on my cheek. The baby looked at me, startled, like he was
wondering where on earth I'd just flown in from.
Maybe
my prescription for you, Victoria, will be to go swinging. Propel
yourself higher and higher, close your eyes, and jump off when you feel
like you could burst from the opposing gravitational forces. It's
wildly freeing, in the way that no google search or forced acquaintance
will be, and you can do it in any country in the world. You don't need
to be friends with it, you just need to trust yourself. And your
fearlessness.
Love,
Magdalene
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