The Ask

“Mom?” says my nine year old. “Why is it that only boys can ask out girls? Why can’t girls ever ask boys?” I stopped in my tracks. She is nine. But here in 2010, I had absolutely no good rationale for her. Part of me is amazed that, in fourth grade, we are already dealing with liking boys. And the other part, the feminist part, the girl-coming-of-age as Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem were throwing off shackles and burning bras and asking just these sorts of questions, well, that part of me was thrilled. “There is no reason,” I said. “No reason you can’t ask.” Inside I was glowing a bit, feeling a moment of pride and hoping against hope my daughter would always see things this equally, the way little kids are born colorblind until they absorb prejudice through osmosis. Somewhere in there she had listened and observed, I thought to myself. Somewhere in there my daughter had gotten the message that girls were just as valuable as boys—that they could be rocket scientists and cure cancer and be president (almost) and do anything a guy could do. And so I only hesitated for a second before answering. The hesitation part- that was probably the tradition and decorum side of me; the part that had worn white gloves and learned how to foxtrot at dancing school and had waited all year for the once chance—at Sadie Hawkins dance -- to legally ask a boy out in Albany, NY. This boy thing, it had been creeping up. I’ve long been shut out of most of the doings of my oldest son and daughter. They worry that I talk too much or write too much or share too much with my sisters (their aunts) and the mothers of their friends. We’ve never had one of those “soul-bearing-tell-Mom-everything-in-the-car” relationships, my older kids and I. But then again, I didn’t with my own mother either as a teenager. But my daughter? At nine she is too young to fully grasp that there are other places to go to for advice. I’m still sort of cool to her. She thinks I know lots of things. And so she has told me – and I’ve been careful with this knowledge -- that she likes a boy. And her friends have told her he likes her back. Now my daughter is pretty fearless. She has guts and balls and knows how to stick her chin out. But inside she is mush. Nick names can hurt her and she loves to be snuggled and tickled and she has just the softest, softest skin, like those tissues with built in moisturizer. How can we have gone from baby soft skin to asking boys out? My babies are all gone now. “Ahhhhhhh” says the voice in my head, the one who got two teenagers to where they are now. “You know how this happens—it happens like greased lighting, like a bungee jump off a cliff.” And it happens especially if you aren’t looking. “I like Jimmy,” she tells me. “Yeah? What do you like about him?” I’m playing it cool. “He’s nice.” She smiles. Nice is on the right track. And so the next day, when she comes home from school, breathless and bursting with excitement and shutting the door abruptly on her twin sister so she can tell me the news alone, she has asked him out. “What did he say?” I ask, but I can already tell from her smug smile and the high color on her cheeks, that it has gone her way. “He said yes,” she looks down, beaming, as if all that happiness in one nine-year-old body is just too much to bear. Fast forward a few weeks and by now, the initial excitement has died down. For a while there Jimmy seemed slipped into every conversation. But not much happens when you go out in fourth grade. You don’t really even acknowledge or talk to one another. That would be too embarrassing. But its hard not to be proud—proud of what it took for her to ask the questions, of me, to ask him, to take control of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big believer in tradition. I like ritual and ceremony. I am more drawn to old things; things that contain the secrets of generations, things well-worn and wise, over the shiny and new. But I’m proud of my daughter for questioning the status quo and for not settling. There will be enough of that in life and relationships – mixed in with the great parts she will uncover a little settling , a lot of compromise, some tempering of dreams and a dash of cold reality when she charts her own course. That’s simply how most of us move through the world as human beings. Its not a cop out. It’s life—with all its peaks and valleys. But for now? I love that I get to watch her burn bright and strong, like the tail of a comet. “Mom?” says my nine year old. “Why is it that only boys can ask out girls? Why can’t girls ever ask boys?” I stopped in my tracks. She is nine. But here in 2010, I had absolutely no good rationale for her. Part of me is amazed that, in fourth grade, we are already dealing with liking boys. And the other part, the feminist part, the girl-coming-of-age as Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem were throwing off shackles and burning bras and asking just these sorts of questions, well, that part of me was thrilled. “There is no reason,” I said. “No reason you can’t ask.” Inside I was glowing a bit, feeling a moment of pride and hoping against hope my daughter would always see things this equally, the way little kids are born colorblind until they absorb prejudice through osmosis. Somewhere in there she had listened and observed, I thought to myself. Somewhere in there my daughter had gotten the message that girls were just as valuable as boys—that they could be rocket scientists and cure cancer and be president (almost) and do anything a guy could do. And so I only hesitated for a second before answering. The hesitation part- that was probably the tradition and decorum side of me; the part that had worn white gloves and learned how to foxtrot at dancing school and had waited all year for the once chance—at Sadie Hawkins dance -- to legally ask a boy out in Albany, NY. This boy thing, it had been creeping up. I’ve long been shut out of most of the doings of my oldest son and daughter. They worry that I talk too much or write too much or share too much with my sisters (their aunts) and the mothers of their friends. We’ve never had one of those “soul-bearing-tell-Mom-everything-in-the-car” relationships, my older kids and I. But then again, I didn’t with my own mother either as a teenager. But my daughter? At nine she is too young to fully grasp that there are other places to go to for advice. I’m still sort of cool to her. She thinks I know lots of things. And so she has told me – and I’ve been careful with this knowledge -- that she likes a boy. And her friends have told her he likes her back. Now my daughter is pretty fearless. She has guts and balls and knows how to stick her chin out. But inside she is mush. Nick names can hurt her and she loves to be snuggled and tickled and she has just the softest, softest skin, like those tissues with built in moisturizer. How can we have gone from baby soft skin to asking boys out? My babies are all gone now. “Ahhhhhhh” says the voice in my head, the one who got two teenagers to where they are now. “You know how this happens—it happens like greased lighting, like a bungee jump off a cliff.” And it happens especially if you aren’t looking. “I like Jimmy,” she tells me. “Yeah? What do you like about him?” I’m playing it cool. “He’s nice.” She smiles. Nice is on the right track. And so the next day, when she comes home from school, breathless and bursting with excitement and shutting the door abruptly on her twin sister so she can tell me the news alone, she has asked him out. “What did he say?” I ask, but I can already tell from her smug smile and the high color on her cheeks, that it has gone her way. “He said yes,” she looks down, beaming, as if all that happiness in one nine-year-old body is just too much to bear. Fast forward a few weeks and by now, the initial excitement has died down. For a while there Jimmy seemed slipped into every conversation. But not much happens when you go out in fourth grade. You don’t really even acknowledge or talk to one another. That would be too embarrassing. But its hard not to be proud—proud of what it took for her to ask the questions, of me, to ask him, to take control of the situation. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a big believer in tradition. I like ritual and ceremony. I am more drawn to old things; things that contain the secrets of generations, things well-worn and wise, over the shiny and new. But I’m proud of my daughter for questioning the status quo and for not settling. There will be enough of that in life and relationships – mixed in with the great parts she will uncover a little settling , a lot of compromise, some tempering of dreams and a dash of cold reality when she charts her own course. That’s simply how most of us move through the world as human beings. Its not a cop out. It’s life—with all its peaks and valleys. But for now? I love that I get to watch her burn bright and strong, like the tail of a comet.

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The Yellow Boat

“Whoa!” I jumped up off my beach chair and began waving my hands in the air over my head, trying to get his attention. “Slow down!!!!” I did a thumbs down move designed to get him to cut the speed. My Dad had just barreled past the five mile an hour buoys in the bay at a fast clip and brushed too-near a kayaker in our busy August bay who was shepherding three swimmers. As he raced past her, oblivious of the speed, she set her paddle down and turned her head. I could not see her expression up close but her body language said everything. My Dad was flying, but the look on his face was priceless. He was in heaven. For him, the open water was the last place in his life, the last place on earth, that he had any autonomy. It was a sunny day and puffy white clouds were just beginning to poke over the tops of the mountains. The lake was calm, his grandkids were on the beach, the wind was in the wisps of his hair and plastered across his face was a big, self-satisfied grin. My Dad has Dementia, or maybe it will soon be diagnosed as Alzheimers. I don’t much care what the term is. He is, little by little, being erased. The strong parts, the parts that cared for me and supported me are now fading. It is the three of us, his daughters, who now care for him with our Mom. Finally, a few yards beyond our raft, he saw me with my arms signaling wildly. His face fell, childlike in disappointment. I could tell he wasn’t sure exactly what he had done wrong, only that something was wrong. I was angry, maybe overly angry because I had been his last advocate. I’d been the one arguing the case to keep his dignity intact for just a few more weeks till summer came to an end. We’d taken away his driver’s license on the road, stripped him of independence in so many other areas. He’d always been a careful boater and I’d argued that if we kept watch on the shore, or volunteered to accompany him on each trip, that we could make it through this summer. By next summer it would be a whole different story. I admonished automatically in the same tone my mother uses, like an adult patronizes a child. “Dad, you were going too fast. Dad, you almost hit the kayak. Dad, there is a five mile an hour limit.” He deflated. “Well, I guess this is my, my swan song,” he stammered. His face was cloudy, his head down like a recalcitrant child. I marveled that he had pulled that phrase out of nowhere. That was a flash of my old, eloquent Dad. I argued with my sisters. “Lee, he cannot drive the boat anymore. No more boat. He is going to kill or maim someone,” said my youngest sister Meg. “Well, kill isn’t good but maim might be acceptable,” I said, to break the ice. We McConaughys were known for our gallows humor, always a wonderful diffuser to deal with strong emotions and overcharged moments. “Yeah, I guess if he just clipped off an ankle on a swimmer that wouldn’t be too bad,” said Nancy, rolling her eyes. “We’re just going to have to find a way around this, “ I said. “We need to have someone go out with him when he goes. That way we can gently remind him of the speed limit.” “We have to hide his keys,” said my sister Meg. And so, because it was two against one, we put them in a secret place in the boathouse. This way he would have to find one of us to remember where his keys were. The next day, by the time he found me, he was anguished, all riled up. He told me he had been looking for his keys for a long time. “Lets check here,” I said reaching into a coffee can. “Maybe you put them here,” I tried to keep my voice non-chalant and level, despite the deception. He looked pained, searching his memory, I assumed, for why the man who always removed his shoes indoors and carefully hung his keys on a peg each afternoon would ever put them in a rusty coffee can. He jangled the keys in his palm. “Dad, I’d love to go,” I said. “Would you take me?” It was the last thing I felt like doing. I’m not a huge boat person. Nerdy, I know, but I’d much rather read a book. I had just gotten down to the dock and spread out my towel, pulled my novel out of the beach bag. I unclipped the ropes from the dock cleat and we puttered out past the five-mile-an-hour buoys. We crossed to the other side of the lake. Sitting at the bow of the boat I helped him see the markers, gently using hand signals to indicate the rocks he needed to go around. He nodded each time. This kind of muscle memory would probably be the last to go in some ways. He’d been driving this bright yellow Boston Whaler and its aluminum predecessor before that for decades. He knew the lake and its craggy shoreline instinctively. We glided past the multi-colored sails of Sunfishes and poked into a deep bay where a turtle hopped off a log. We stared up at the face of a cliff where once, as a young man, he had climbed and almost perished before he grabbed for a small root sticking out of the rock. We had made him tell that story to us a hundred times as kids. “You wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for that root,” he’d say, sweeping his arm up toward the cliff. And we’d all stare upward, imagining my father, young and muscled, pulling himself up the face of the cliff with sheer will. He had taken us to this spot a hundred times by boat. Now, a mile across the lake from our own beach, I felt the wind tousle my hair, felt my shoulder muscles relax. I looked back at my Dad, so proud and in control at the steering wheel. This was heartbreaking, this slow leaving, this long and sputtering good-bye. What did he remember? What had he forgotten? Later that night he grabbed me and pulled me to him, for the moment confusing my name with that of my sisters, but the emotion is clear. “I love you so much,” he says to me. “I am so proud of you.” “I love you too Dad,” I say, breathing in the faint mothball scent of his summer shirt. Its muscle memory for us both.

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All That Stuff

“This is all your fault,” I mutter to myself in a low level simmer as I’m knee deep in boxes. I am talking to my husband, although he’s not home. But I’m talking to him alright. And maybe it’s better he can’t hear me. I’m not being nice. This dream of his, to move to a smaller, more streamlined house with more sunlight and solar heat and a smaller carbon foot print, well that’s just dandy. But now, as the designated pack mule for the family, sneezing repeatedly in foot thick dust in my son’s room and sorting through old baseball trophies and college applications that never got filled out, it feels a lot more like a labor camp. Prison labor. “In one more year we’ll be down to two kids,” he tells me. But as I pack up Tupperware and hold the tiny baby shoes of my twins, worried about where, in God’s name, we will store momentos in this new jewel box of a house, I wonder why I let him talk me into this. Like most Americans, we have too much stuff. Although we’ve moved nine times in 22 years of marriage—this being our tenth—the stuff keeps accumulating. Like a steady snowfall. How do we get all of these things in our lives? I’ve started being ruthless. When birthday party goodie bags come in, I stuff them in the trash in a flash. All those pencils and candies and plastic rings. Poof. Gone. I have a personal vendetta against birthday party goodie bags anyway. But as I combed through rooms and pared things down, putting them in piles for either a tag sale or giveaway or to keep, I began to feel a lightening of the load. My anger and resentment at doing this was dissipating. Maybe this wasn’t so bad after all. A new start. A fresh beginning. What would my children DO with all this saved stuff in the end? Would their spouses care about the third grade reading certificate? Would they? In the first year of our marriage, my husband and I headed to Beijing, China to live and teach at a school there. The quarters were rudimentary. All we brought were two large back packs of possessions, with a box shipped by sea that arrived much later. We’d left behind all that china and the wedding presents, the engagement ring with the diamond, fancy clothes and shoes. Our life together was stripped of “stuff.” And we’d never felt freer or happier. There was no encumbrance. It was a great way to start a marriage – you were forced to stand and deliver, to work it out and talk it out. There were no rooms to hide in, no stuff to obscure the important issues. Nowhere to shop, really. And after we’d built a solid foundation in that first year of marriage with one another, it felt wonderful to come back to the states and construct a nest together, although we would move that nest many times. What that year overseas taught me was how really little we actually need. How unimportant the silver bowl is, the tea set from Grandma or the cashmere throw you HAD to have. The one that has sat, neatly folded, for a decade over the back of a couch. One of my friends is moving too. She is sorting through all of the heirlooms that her mother has given her over the years and she’s decided she is going to pare them down to one thing. That one thing will be representative of all of the others; all of the relatives, all of the past, all of the demitasse spoons and candle snuffs. Whether it’s a vase or a tray or something that we don’t always find a need for in our modern every day life, she will choose one thing and she has vowed to use and appreciate it. So after muttering, now I’m embracing more. Through all that dust and clutter and sorting and activity I’ve seen the light. I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the edited approach we need to adapt for our own lives. And so I’m editing. And editing. And I’m lightening the load.

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