Family

Tripping Over Boxes

And here we are. Down to the last days of summer, which for me means a turmoil of angst, packing, and insomnia. It’s cool here in NY this morning, and I want to scream, “No! I don’t want it to be cool, a reminder autumn is just around the corner. I want it to be hot and sunny, and lie on the beach pretending I never have to leave!” Last week I was still doing just that, got on the train with Flower Child and spent the day in Brooklyn.

Under the B train

Ever wonder why the sand has that oily film on it?

When my children were young, I practiced attachment parenting, mostly. I used a midwife, breastfed, made my own baby food, carried them in pouches on my chest and slings on my hip. There are many facets and ideas behind it that might draw someone to attachment parent, and the one I’m thinking about this morning is the idea that children who are raised this way grow to be more independent, more secure. As an older parent now, with older children, do I believe this is Truth? Maybe; it worked for us, but there are so many factors involved in raising children, so many variables, I don’t believe there is a one size fits all approach.

Man Child is preparing to go back to school. He’s entering his second year in a small, private liberal arts college, and his head and heart are ready, if his suitcases aren’t. This is our sixth year of helping him pack up and leave for school. He attended a small private, boarding school for high school. Seems like the antithesis of attachment parenting, doesn’t it? Maybe, maybe not. Boarding school was his idea, supported by the staff at his middle school. He earned a full scholarship to attend, and did well there; successful academically, grew as a person, made friends, connected with teachers, and came home frequently for both long breaks and quick weekend visits. The school wasn’t that far away, so it was an easy drive–if you weren’t trying to get there or back through the hell that is the Lincoln Tunnel on a Friday–or he could and often did take the train.

DSC00562.JPG (Photo credit: Kramchang)

Originally, I was vehemently opposed to the idea of boarding school. Not my kid, uh-uh-no-way. First of all, I like my kid, why would I support him leaving the house 4 years earlier than I “had” to? Second, boarding school, what the heck is that? Is that the new politically correct term for jeuvie? He’s a good kid and a good person, spent hours each week serving food to the homeless beginning when he was 12 because it hurt him to see people hungry on the street. We were (and are) a close family, wouldn’t boarding school destroy that bond? Then there was the cousin of not-my-kid, you know, my-kid-would-never. I don’t believe in my-kid-would-never, some kids might be more or less likely, but every kid, given the right/wrong circumstances– can make mistakes, show poor judgement, or be caught up in something before they know they’re caught.

But. He campaigned, and eventually, I promised to keep an open mind.

View of the Blue Ridge Mountains from Asheville School Campus (View 1) (Photo credit: AdmissionsQuest)

Which meant listening to the teachers and staff at his middle school, when they talked about supporting opportunities, the safety of boarding schools as opposed to riding the subways each day, the endowments available for scholarship monies, the beauty, the support of teachers and staff who actually live with the kids, and on and on. So we went to look, he interviewed and filled out pages of applications, we both wrote upteen essays. Husband and I were bowled over by the opportunities available, the breadth of courses, the safety, the indescribable beauty and history of the campuses, the people who had attended these schools and the kids who were attending. These were not cold, impersonal places to dump your kid while you jet set around Europe (or some such idea I had from Harold Robbins novels). *This picture is not a school he attended, nor one that we visited, but the beauty is representative of many campuses we’ve seen. *

I was excited for him, I was proud of him–it was his efforts, his hard work, his maturity, and his humanity that opened the way for this opportunity, affording him a choice of schools offering full scholarships when the decisions came in. Leaving him at school that first day was among the most difficult days I have ever faced as a parent. I cried all the way home. Husband (who had been even more opposed than I when we first heard the term boarding school) held my hand and reminded me of all the reasons we were doing this, the way I had talked about wishing I had had this type of opportunity, and of course, how soon we would go visit him. I thought it would get easier. Experienced parents told me it would get easier. Wrong. I have cried every year, and every year it got harder, because I knew and know exactly how much I would miss him.

And now, it’s Nerd Child’s turn. He is leaving in a couple of weeks to attend Hogwarts. Not the same boarding school Man Child attended, but the one that is perfect for him. If my heart broke from having to smile and pack up for one child, it’s absolutely melting doing it for two. Any morning now I’m going to wipe my eyes and find my aorta in the Kleenex. Nerd Child, how can I let him go? This is the toddler who would wail if I went anywhere without him, trying to stick his little fingers in the crack under the front door so he could reach me. He isn’t wailing now, he isn’t even visibly nervous. He’s psyched and he’s ready to embrace every opportunity that he can earn, learn from every experience he can have. Like Man Child, he earned this opportunity, was blessed with several acceptances and excellent offers, and he’s headed off with a full scholarship and strong values to help him navigate the pitfalls of high school–cause after all, it’s still high school.

During these anxiety ridden days of preparation I ask myself why I’m doing this. I have friends who wonder why I’m doing this, even as they’ve seen the positives through Man Child. Believe me, life is easier with the two of them home, they make me laugh, they help with Flower Child, they help with the heavy lifting of life in the city. Because I believe it’s my job as a parent. To help them see what’s out there, what they can strive for, and how to find and make use of opportunities, so their adult lives will (hopefully) be easier than mine and Husband’s. My kids don’t have a lot of stuff, they know all about living on a tight budget, and they don’t arrive in their dorms with fabulous matching everything and the latest in clothing trends. They arrive with strength, faith, and hope. I expect them to do the “right” thing because it’s the right thing, even though it’s often the more difficult choice. The least I can do is the same.

Hogwarts (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Editing for clarity: Boarding school isn’t right for every kid, nor is it right for every family. For us, it seems to have been the best choice for both boys, I don’t assume the same is true for all.

Huzzah!

RenFaire 2012-parade

What else would a family of nerds do for their splurge day? Celebrate with hundreds of other fringe folks at the renaissance fair, of course. Yes, it’s true, I confess, I love ye olde faire. We hope to go every year, but it’s an expensive day, so we usually get there every other year or so. There’s something about the day of fantasy; the guys hawking huge pickles making bawdy jokes, the actors walking around, staying in character as they ad lib, and the costumes, oh the grand and glorious costumes.

First stop–always–Flower Child gets her hair braided.

Cascading Crown Braid

For this fabulous crown, we waited an hour and a half. Ludicrous, sure. Just the type of thing where Mrs Fringe would keep a tight hold on the girl’s hand and say, “absolutely not.” But it’s RENFAIRE!!!! It’s also a lovely way for her to ease into the day, she can sit in the shade, watching the actors–and guests– walk past in their costumes. Because, of course, the braiding booths are just past the entrance. The women doing the braiding love Flower Child, she waits patiently and doesn’t fidget, swing her head around, or bop up and down while they’re braiding. Part of her disorder involves excessive fatigue, so this is an excellent “activity” for her. We only have the front half braided, whatever design she gets, and she does have beautiful hair that goes past her waist, she’s an excellent walking ad for them once we’re done.

For a large gathering of many people on often crowded pathways, with alcohol and weaponry being sold, it’s amazingly…friendly. Kinda like Disney World, only with peasants, elves, fairies, and wenches instead of Mickey, Cinderella, and Pooh. It feels safe, inside this dusty nerdland bubble. Heavyset women are applauded, as their generous boobage is the perfect accessory to the low cut costumes; any child or adult in a wheelchair is bowed down to, gawky teenaged boys are engaged in long conversations, often involving dungeons and dragons references, about swords and catapults, hilts and scallywags.

It is a great teaching opportunity for children, any and all rides and games are powered by hand, history and mythology lessons abound. However, purists need not bother. I had a friend who is a history buff attend with her kids one year, she was horrified. Renaissance costumes and wares are mixed with medieval, age of exploration, and Camelot. Turkey legs and mead are sold alongside lattes and quesadillas, pewter figurines and wooden staffs next to earrings made from Swarovsky crystals and belly dancing costumes.

We don’t stroll in and forget the budget, but we don’t go unless we are ready to pay for just enough to make it a stress free, special day. There are plenty of customers dropping hundreds, sometimes I think it must be thousands, on elaborate costumes, accessories, and general tomfoolery that when I say something is out of budget, we aren’t pressured by anyone, and are free to look at everything.

I’m not sure why I enjoy this so much, there’s no sand, no ocean, and if the day is hot it can be uncomfortably ripe. Actually, I’ve never been a fan of historical romance for this reason, I can’t suspend disbelief enough to stop thinking about how long it’s been since the hero bathed, the heroine had the nits removed from her hair, and the stench of manure on a forbidden moonlit ride. But it’s straight fun, pretending that one day we’ll all be outfitted in pantaloons, cloaks, and feathers, hearing the serving wenches’ voices ring out as they jump up and down to maximize and flash the aforementioned boobage, “Huzzah for the generous tipp-ah!!!”

want

The Crown Jewels

Sandy Hook, NJ

No, I’m not posting about the beach today, but I was there yesterday, so I thought I’d look at this photo while I wrote. Crazy wild waves that this photo doesn’t capture, but beautiful.

On to the subject at hand. As mentioned, I spent several days of the past week sorting and packing my mother’s apartment. Still a long way to go, but that is to be expected. What I didn’t expect was one spot where I was caught in memories, and was unable to pack away one thing.

When I was a girl, I loved to play with the contents of my mother’s jewelry box. There in my mother’s closet, was the ornately sculpted-to-look-like-a-miniature-armoire box, in all its pressboard glory. Over the years, the subject of playing with our mothers’ jewelry has come up with various female friends. Maybe it’s a girl thing, maybe it’s a Brooklyn thing–though Flower Child enjoys the same.

carved jewelry box (Photo credit: Serenae)

There is and never was anything of value in that box, different colored beaded necklaces and bracelets, clip on paste rhinestone earrings (why? her ears were pierced), an old skate key (whose?). And pins, lots of pins. For the younger generation who might be reading, women used to regularly wear pins (brooches) on their blouses and sweaters.

beads (Photo credit: moirabot)

I would ask, is this real? is this one real? My mother’s answer was always yes, though these things are all inexpensive costume pieces.

Really, my mother was not a woman who was “into” jewelry, costume or otherwise. She had a few things she liked and wore regularly, but she didn’t hesitate to leave those pins tucked away, much like girdles, as soon as they were out of fashion. What she loved throughout her life was her collection of Lenox. Accumulated over years, she’s got enough of those ivory colored pieces to fill two aisles in a Hallmark store.

Memories that I didn’t know I had zipped to the surface as I handled each pin. The oddly shaped gold pin with a cluster of “pearls,” firmly attached to a black nylon blouse. A beautiful silver oval with blue, green, and black stones, stabbed through a gray sweater. An elaborately wrought gold flower in a nest of something I still can’t identify, dragging the collar of my grandmother’s green wool coat.

I went through the box on Sunday afternoon, put everything back and closed it. Sunday night after dogwalking I went back to do some more packing with Husband. When we finished the kitchen, I went back to the jewelry box, and showed the pieces to him. Again, I put everything away as it had been, and tucked it back into the corner of the closet.

I’m not sure why I couldn’t pack it up, why this sliver of her life has me stuck, in a way her treasured collection of Lenox knick knacks doesn’t.

Brooch (Photo credit: hannah karina)

On the Downhill Side

Downhill (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

This week I’ve been feeling as if I’m in a winding down phase. Summer isn’t over, but I know it will be soon enough. This makes me very sad, as it does every year. Kinda nutty, to live for three months a year, but I do.

The budget being what it is, we haven’t really done much with the kids. Add in time spent focused on unwell Flower Child and dying mother, and the past 7 weeks have been lost.

I’ve begun the process of cleaning out my mother’s apartment. It’s slow, she had an incredible amount of stuff packed into that tiny space. Strange, because she seemed to be the opposite of a hoarder. Why did a woman who never entertained and never cooked need enough china for 50? Also, I’m pretty sure the salt I found in the shakers belonging to that set was from 1961.

P1140885-1 (Photo credit: leechungyu)

I haven’t even begun the work of sorting through photographs. I know that will take forever. My parents weren’t big on pictures or photography, but still, it’s a lifetime. More than one, because I’m sure I’ll find the photos from my grandmother, and whatever my father had from his family. For all the purging she did, I never saw my mother throw a photo away. I get it, it feels wrong to do so, the guilt of a sin. When I first got a digital camera, the concept of the “delete” button for terrible photos took a while to sink in. Should I do it? Maybe I’m going to need four shaky, dark photos of that door knob. Is anyone looking? Yes, yes I can delete the fuzzy picture of the floor taken by one of the kids. Liberation of the digital age!

Can’t I just stay on the beach for the next three weeks? I know there are plenty of people around me who will. The problem is knowing that this gentle, mild-palpitation inducing slide downward will be full tilt careening within days. Three weeks, and I haven’t finished paperwork! Two weeks, the boys still need clothes! And shoes, and everything else. One week, where did the summer go, can’t we squeeze one fantastic splurge day out of the budget? Flower Child still hasn’t recovered from the last school year.

English: Kirnu, a steel roller coaster in Linnanmäki. Suomi: Kuva Kirnusta. Français : Les montagnes russes finlandaises Kirnu à Linnanmäki (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I don’t do roller coasters. Ever. But if all goes well, I’ll be on the beach later today.

Life Happens, and Death, Too

When I began this blog last week, I had every intention of posting every day for at least the first month. I didn’t even make it a week.

You know how you look forward to summer, and have grand ideas for seeing and catching up with all your friends, even if you can’t have a fabulous vacation? I make these plans in my head every year, and then usually, about a week before Labor Day, realize I haven’t seen a quarter of the people I wanted to, and the precious last days of summer must sadly be filled with obligations and getting the kids ready to go back to school.

This summer has been different, and I’ve already seen more than half of the friends I’d hoped to. Stellar planning? No. Funerals. In the past month, the mothers of two of my closest friends have passed away, as did the child of another long time, childhood friend (the very fact of which is a pain more exquisite than any other imaginable). Not exactly the way we’d all hoped to get together.

And, three days ago, my mother died. Tomorrow is her funeral.

Deutsch: Trauerkranz an einem Grab in Baden-Württemberg, Deutschland; bestehend unter anderem aus roten und gelben Rosen sowie Lilien (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I am grateful to have friends to offer comfort and support to me, Husband, Man Child, and Nerd Child, and Flower Child. The understanding offered, born of many years of long standing relationships, of how complex mourning is. Even now (especially now?), forty thousand years old and finding we need to have funeral attire at the ready in our closets for all seasons.

So, for anyone who might have been becoming interested in my ramblings, I haven’t disappeared, and will continue to post, but the beginning is and will be a bit more sporadic than I had hoped.

Thanks for reading.

Why Peripheral?

Why Peripheral?

Life on the edge sounds so exciting, glamorous. Except when it has nothing to do with sky diving, race car driving, espionage, or vampires. Sometimes the edge is crumbling, and what lies below is an abyss of bills, uncertainty, medical needs, caregiving, and desperation. Oh yeah, another feel good blog.

You know those fabulous apartments you’ve seen on tv and in the movies showcasing life in Manhattan? Luxury buildings that line the parks, brownstones on tree lined, historic side streets? They exist, but that isn’t me. We live in one of a series of buildings that went up in the late ’60s and early ’70s; designed to keep working class and middle class people in the city. The rent isn’t pornographic, but the overall cost of living in the city is so high that the grocery bill is. People earning $200,000 a year consider themselves middle class around here, and they aren’t far from wrong. Husband’s plan of getting into a smaller apartment in one of these buildings to then transfer to one large enough to accommodate us didn’t quite work out. So we’re 5 people, 2 dogs, and a reef tank in a 2 bedroom, 1 bath apartment. Jealous yet?

Yes, all the best restaurants, shops, museums, schools, and medical care, but we can’t patronize any of these. It’s kind of like being a two year old visiting at Elegant Grandma’s adults only condo, decorated in shades of white and ecru, “Don’t touch!” So yes, I live on the periphery of that Manhattan you see in the movies.

I used to write regularly, even considered myself a writer (though never a writ-ahhh). I dreamed of a beach house somewhere beautiful and clean. I imagined having enough, and being enough. Now that I’m forty thousand years old, I dream of eight hours of uninterrupted sleep followed by two days of peace.