So my Blackberry honeymoon, just short of a week old, is on the wane. I'm getting a little less excited about being goosed in the side every time someone copies me on an email about contracts administration (or wants to sell me v-I-@-g-r-@). The cell reception's dreadful. And then there's that 'always available' thing. Like this:

Yesterday the boss called me sometime midday. He'd just stepped off the plane in Chicago, checked his email, and was pissed as all get-out. Erring contracts manager, inopportune cc's, import-export, admin assistant, major clients, 'you're all ignorant cowboys,' etc. etc. I think I handled it okay. Didn't shout, didn't defend, didn't say client names out loud for those around me to hear. Told him I'd handle it. Got a laugh and a 'thank-you' at the end.

Which is all in my job description and is just fine, except.  Except at the time I was shouldering three other similarly flabby-thighed middle-aged women (all also intent on quick lunch-hour fitness) in a phone-booth-sized semi-public place. And I was wearing....well. We'll just say: one sole item of clothing.

I did consider, while speaking, making myself feel a little more psychologically comfortable by putting on more clothes, but I was stymied. I'm a mother-of-two, so yeah, I've changed diapers while on the phone, done dishes while nursing, and simultaneously got the groceries, the toys, and the screaming toddler into the house in a driving rainstorm. But this one stopped me short. I think I might go to "Ask.com." I'm working on the right phraseology. Maybe:

"How to don bra while Blackberrying?"

It's the finals of the First Annual Toy World Cup.  The Purple Team and the Horse Team have prevailed over the Cute Team, the Dog-and-Cow Team, the Littles Team, and the Bear Team. Pre-game this morning took a little longer than expected because Nasty Mommy destroyed the game by putting away some of the teams last night (their after-game revelries having encompassed all available floor-space -- not that that's an excuse, of course) and lost some of the smaller members. But we're in mid-game now. Ms. 8 is the self-declared Referee and Announcer. Ms. 5, relegated to the couch, is the medical squad and occasional fan.

Ms. 8: And they're off down the field! The Purple Team tries for a goal!  But the best Horse is goalie aaaannnnd....blocks it!  Hey, Five.  Your favorite Horse blocked the goal.

Ms. 5:  [looking up from a private conversation with the injured players] Oh.  HOORRAY HORSIE!

Ms. 8:  Annnnd they're off down the field.  It's looking like a goal, but the Purple team has the best goalie, and....I was right!  Blocked!  Uh-oh...yellow card!  What happened there?  Well....but here they come up the field again.  It's kicked to Dolly, then back to Seahorse, Fawn steals it...oops!  BEEEEP.  Fawn's injured.  Five, Five, hey, pay attention.  Fawn's injured! [tosses Fawn across the room]

Ms. 5:  [mildly]  Do NOT throw the injured players, please.

Ms. 8:  Okaaaay, so we're off!  And DOWN the field.  And...

Ms. 5:  Where's Fawn injured?

Ms. 8:  [mentally reviewing the play]  Her right ear was trampled.

Ms. 5:  [turning Fawn thoughtfully] Which one is right?

A brief time-out ensues while 'right' is explained at length.  Ms. 5 cuddles down with Fawn, soothing the battered ear.

Ms. 8:  OKAY.  And we're off.  And .......... GOOOOAAAAALLL.....

"Hi, Mom! How's it going?"

"Well, I'm just cleaning up the vomit." Brisk efficiency, but no panic. "Can I help you?" No trace of irony or rancor.

I admit I was so stunned by this particular evidence of mother-love
that I inadvertently put it to the test by sitting speechless for a
moment. There was a patient pause.

"Are you okay?" nothing but concern.

I stammered and stumbled. "No! Yes! Of course! Please!"

So
I released her to go back to her vomit-cleaning for the visiting
grandchild without asking for the favor I'd called to elicit. I mean, I
am at least that selfless.

On the first anniversary of my own motherhood I wrote a poem (it's getting a little shopworn on the Xanga circuit because having written very little poetry I trot it out pretty much at the drop of a hat. But it underscores this Mother's Day point, so bear with me a second while I re-introduce it):

Since my maternity was only a year old at the time, I didn't actually KNOW. I was just beginning to start to get a sense of it. And I was still swept up a bit in the romanticism. I still hadn't internalized things.  And I absolutely couldn't, then or now, draw any lessons from my memories of having being a young daughter myself.

It's only when I find myself staggering into the house in a rainstorm laden with a backpack, six pieces of artwork and a shopping bag, and the free-hands kindergartner whines:  "Carry me?" and I shift the shopping bag and sweep her up to, that I  remember similar moments happening to me. Except I never thought Mom was being selfless, because I was so immersed in selfishly taking it as my due. 
Being a child means knowing what's due.  Being a mother means knowing what's owed.  And it's really astounding how being a daughter doesn't in the least prepare you for being a mother. 

As a daughter, I knew the comforting smell of Mom's s hands when she zipped the jacket -- carefully, without pinching -- all the way up to the top.  I knew Mom's cooking would never be anything but the best in the world, and Mom's homemade bread the only 'comfort food' that really does the trick.  I knew no matter what else was in her eyes when she sees me, love was always the underlyer.  I knew Mom left a little bell by the bedside for me to ring when I was home sick, and when I rang it -- she always came.  No matter how gross it got -- rivers of snot, pee, poop, vomit, and no small sprinkling of blood -- I always knew she'd always leave it better than she found it.

I can only hope, for my kids' sake, I've got it in me to follow the best example ever given.  Because I know that my mom's always there for me, no matter what.

I love you, Mom.

My uncle Warren, who died over a decade ago, and my aunt Louisa, who followed him at the end of March, were Beautiful People.  Tall, stalwart-framed and statuesque, they both owned distinctive and mellifluous voices that begged an eagerly listening ear.  They used their frugal incomes wisely at the start and bettered themselves and their offspring through education, travel, and successively more influential careers.  Their many homes, across time and geography and financial strata, were always rich in art and artifacts, well-appointed and welcoming.

My uncle, a military officer, was buried with full honors at Arlington and so departed the world with due pomp and circumstance.  His widow led a full, active and influential life in her remaining years.  Louisa was a vital member of her church and community, a leader in both spiritual and civic life.  She enriched the local youth through mentoring programs, hosted local politicians while supporting their campaigns, wrote plays of national significance, and painted glowing artwork. 

Louisa died as she had lived.  Diagnosed late last summer with metastasizing cancer, throughout the long winter of her decline she entertained at her home, advised over the phone, and slowly said her farewells.  On her last day of consciousness she took her youngest grandchild's watercolors and painted a glowing background of vivid white and yellow, imposed upon which a rich green seed sends tendrils swirling outwards into infinity through the outline (perhaps?) of a woman.  The painting stood on the podium at her memorial service this weekend, a wonderous and beguiling image of growth and mystery, from someone just crossing the threshold  between this world and the next.

My aunt was an amazing person.

Louisa's eldest son, Michael, is a Chairman-of-the-Board sort of man.  On his strong shoulders jackets fit smoothly.  Startched shirts are spotless across his broad chest, trousers flow without a crease out of place, and shining shoes are proud to shield the feet of such a specimen of sophisticated maturity.  Michael has 'class' bred in his bones, and he wears it well.

Many skills don't come with birth, but breeding can bring them into full flower.  Michael inherited his father's rich baritone that renders even the mundanities of the passing remark something worth hearing.  At will, Michael commands a conversation, teasing a laugh or drawing out thoughtful remarks.  Corporate board rooms attend to his consideration; family gravitates under his deft direction.

But there are some challenges that defy both genetics and training.

When Michael walked to the podium to deliver an address at Louisa's service, before an extended audience of rapt and teary-eyed friends, relatives and associates, it was evident that he faced this performance with unaccustomed unease.

"I am not actually sure I can get through this," he began, rough-voiced and red-eyed.  With visible effort, he segued into an light opener about a mock funeral in the entertainment industry.  He told stories about his mother's penurious handling of family finances in his youth. "We kids always had creative inexpensive sandwiches in our lunchboxes,"
he explained.  "I'm remembering the famous peanut butter and ketchup
masterpiece.......  Of course, she did bake bread, which we compared
unfavorably to our friends' Wonder Bread option."  he paused.  "They, we knew, were 'building strong bodies twelve different ways.'  Our
own benefit seemed at the time less appealing."  Michael praised and poked fun at his siblings.  He extolled the virtues of Louisa's many good works, interspersed with anecdotes of the foibles both known and hitherto unknown. 

 The audience laughed, and cried, and walked easily down the path he so masterfully laid as he wound to his conclusion.

"When I talked to my mother on her last day of consciousness, her voice was ravaged to the degree that I couldn't understand her.  She spoke for some minutes completely unintelligibly.  Then she said the last words I will ever have from her.  'It will be all right, Michael,' she said."  His own voice, for the first time, faltered and cracked.  "And I'm okay with that," he whispered.  "I love you, Mom."

There was no dry eye or untouched heart in the house.

Warren and Louisa not only bettered the world before they bid it farewell, Michael, but they left offspring like you to better it in your own right.

And we will all be all right, for that.

When I first heard about Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking," a deeply moving book-long essay about (and written in) the year following her beloved husband's death, and including the frightening and eventually fatal illness of her previously healthy daughter, I knew I should read it.

But I was afraid to. I was afraid to read this book because when brilliant writers delve into their own emotional crises, the reader perforce is sucked into the same maelstrom -- and I wasn't sure I could handle that in my life right now.

Now that I have read it, I realize I shouldn't have been afraid. Didion's anguish is real, and so engagingly presented that few readers could be immune.  But it isn't so much a frightening thing, as an 'aha' moment:  Oh.  This is what grief is. This is what mourning is. This is the intellectual deconstruction of deep-felt emotion. This is not how it is 'handled' (because one can't possibly 'handle' such things), but rather how it is experienced, and moved with, and moved through.

The 'magical thinking' in Didion's title refers to the part of her grief-mourning cycle which did not permit her to truly believe in her heart that her husband is dead.  She finds herself unable, for example, to dispose of his shoes.  She can't do this because not keeping his shoes is so final an acknowledgment that he won't ever return to wear them.

I was particularly taken by the concept of 'magical thinking' because I've thought often how I -- and everyone, really -- indulge in frequent magical thinking. On the mundane and daily level, for example, we get in our car and drive to work even though driving a car within a 20-mile radius of our homes is one of the most deadly things an otherwise healthy adult can do.

But on a more serious level, there's this thought.  My mother, I've heard tell, had three children 'in case.' In case one of them didn't make it, which would leave her with two more. I confess I had the same bizarre sense of wanting an 'extra' (like that extra button sewn on the bottom of the shirt, or an extra plate for your really fragile set) when I was trying to conceive my youngest. I knew, of course, that once the new little human being arrived on the scene she would no longer be 'extra,' but 'indispensable.' Still, there was that thought.

I love both my daughters, equally, more than anything else on earth. I can't imagine life without them. I can't imagine how I could survive if they were -- to use a word Didion dwells on in disbelief -- 'predecease' me.

The thing that buoys me beyond such unthinkables is, indeed, magical thinking.  And daring to contemplate that unthinkable 'what if' is what Didion, with a strong, sure hand, gently guides us through in her amazing work.

So I took the girls to Build-A-Bear and the state Science Museum over their Spring Break.  My sole consolation for the fiscal ravages of the former is that they actually appeared to enjoy the latter more.  Well.  Minimally.

So yesterday, rooting through Ms. 8's backpack, I came on her half-finished "What I Did Over Break" essay.  I believe that when she wrote "Mom went to the bingeing" at Build-A-Bear, she actually meant "beginning."  And I'm sticking to that story.  However I don't have a face-saving explanation for this bit:

"The mall was huge and green and white.  After Build-a-Bear Mom brought us to look at a store with very very expensive underwhere [sic].  Mom said that if anyone ever gave us underwhere from that store, it was a big gift!"

I'm  not sure what possessed me to walk them past Victoria's Secret (their grubby little faces at the entryway certainly amused the high-fashion sales rep no end).  But in any case, I'm sure Ms. 8's lovely, grandmotherly, deeply Christian teacher won't get the reference.  Uh - yeah.  I am sure about that.....  really.

"Remember, all of you," I intoned (the open jam jar in one hand and the peanut-buttery knife in the other leant a certain gravitas to my message):  "It's not how you win or lose, it's how you play the game."

The husband looked at me with that long-time-spouse mixture of irritation and amusement.  "But I don't know how to play the game.  That's the problem!"

Ms. 8 rolled her eyes, all exasperated expertise, and let loose, rapid-fire.  "Dad.  You're on a danger spot and she's just thrown a six.  You lose a horse, and when she lands on you you'll lose another."

Ms. 5 giggled.  My husband, gritting teeth, relinquished his cards. Ms. 8 tossed the die with self-satisfied panache. I went back to school lunch-making.

For the moment:  perfect play.

(explanatory note:  the kids were teaching my husband to play Herd Your Horses.  I was on lunch-making duty, but couldn't keep my nose out)

Winds

I woke to the wind under the door, the dark warm wind of change,
whistling at the crack, blowing through the chilly grass,
bringing restlessness, bringing spring.  Births and deaths alike
fly legion on its tail.  Goat kids newly arrived yesterday now
gambol
sturdily; the lambs are coming today, tomorrow, soon.  Even in the human
world, less touched by the natural courses, changes abound.  Bits
of news, seized half-formed in passing, note time passages
elsewhere:  the shattering war, the breaking peace, the frenzied
global swirl of world affairs and the lesser, sillier local bits-and-pieces.  Friends at work
are busier with no time for banter.  One, promoted, travels more
frequently and kvetches less, slated for greater things and
wrapped in a new whirlwind.  An acquaintance wedded in the fall is huge
and waddling toward her birthing: I joke with another bystander, both of us bemused: "Gosh, that happened
quickly; do you think she'd agree?!"  New life burgeons in the wind's wake while
old life sweeps aside. My eldest's classmate's father, not much my
senior,
succumbs to cancer.  At the funeral a wild, chill gale whips the somber graveside draperies and scatters the
tears abroad.  My aunt, the family matriarch, the model of a strong and gracious
life well-lived, is wasting away in the north.  Surrounded by
family and friends, attended daily by children and grandchildren, she's
leaving life like she lived it:  calmly, with dignity and honor, slowly but steadily.  The wind is also under her
door this morning.  Does she, too, feel its restless, readying pull toward an unknown future?

How Am I?

Twoberry very kindly asked where I was, and how I was; coincidentally
the same day another loyal reader asked whether I'd given up
Xanga. 

Today I signed the papers selling the building that used to house our
25-year-old private school.  The school's been closed since last
June.  My children have adjusted well to their new public experience, and
so have I.  This was just a coda to the whole 'ending' thing -- a
long-delayed coda: a last drop of bitter water falling slowly from the empty
glass.

To answer the questions:

I'm right here where I always was.

I haven't purposely given up anything.

And how am I?  I'm  ..... on that cusp between depression and
romance, you
know that place?  Where, when you were very young, you ran to
snuggle
in Mom's arms, and she read you a book and told you how much she loved
you, and everything was all right. 

Where, when you were a young
adult, you wandered
alone in
the dusk, all melancholy and on fire at the same time, feeling the
burn and dying to write a poem, make love, dive into the river, dance
the night away, drink into oblivion.  Feeling that if you met an
attractive stranger, you'd be seized with an equal desire to either
embrace
them
wildly or fell them with a single blow, just to express that wild
sorrowful sizzle inside. 

And where -- now that you're
way past grown-up -- there doesn't seem quite the appropriate outlet
any
more.  Except to keep putting one foot in front of the other. 
Close the
computer.  Pick up the children.  Keep the peace over
dinner.  Lay out the clothes.  Do the dishes.  Feed the
newborn goats ... look into their bright little eyes, and instead
of smiling, feel the tickle of a tear somewhere in some unshedable part
of yourself.

The Best Motivator

"Mmmm, I love you too, have a good day, and I-got-dressed-before-YOU-did-heh-heh," said Ms. 5, warm little body pressed lovingly against mine.

I was giggling all the way to work, but I was kicking myself too. 
How to get the family out of bed, dressed, and off to the morning
destinations on time?  Get up earlier and earlier?  No
go.  Make a fantastic-smelling breakfast?  Rejected with lip
upturned.  Scream and rage and guilt-trip?  Small bodies just
move slower.  Offer money and dolls for good behavior?  Not a
smidgeon of result.

But there's this:

Oversleep.

There is nothing -- how could I not know this? -- more motivating than
being dressed and fed and brushing your teeth when the Alpha Female is
still staggering around baggy-eyed in her pj's -- late to work because it's her fault, not yours.

Heh heh, indeed.