gracielou's Open Salon Blog

Oh, This Child of Mine

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 08:02:13 -0500

I hear her in the upstairs bedroom, the one that was hers for so long and is now filled with her younger sister’s things, giggling into her phone. “I know, right?” she laughs. I hear the joy, the flirtations, and the cautiously optimistic tones. And I pray. I pray that the boy, the man (this one), on the other end of the conversation hears it too.

Oh, this child of mine…

My first. My first real responsibility. She came to me when I was even younger than she is now. Dropped into my lap, looked up at me with those bluer than sky blue eyes, and quietly called me “Mum.”

Oh, this child of mine…

Whose birth certificate read Baby Girl X until fifteen. This survivor. This woman who works so hard to make her way in the world. This beautiful heart, born without the stops the rest of us carry and use as weapons.

Oh, this child of mine…

The one I refused to give up on and who never ever considered giving up on me. The daughter I grew up with, both of us experiencing growing pains simultaneously. The twenty seven year old who will still come and lay her head on my shoulder while I do dishes and whisper, “I love you, Mom.”

Oh, this child of mine…

Home for the first time in a year. She updates her status. “Another fun day with Mom.” Does she know how much this simple thing means to me?

Oh, this child of mine…

Never thinks twice when she looks me in the eye, grabs my hand, and says, “What would I have done without you?” What would I have been without her? My challenge. My reason for being. My first? She agrees. Little sister needs to be named my medical advocate. “I’d never be able to unplug you. Never.” She and I both know that she’ll be the one holding my hand. No doubt.

Oh, this child of mine…

I have such faith in you. You will find your place, your love, your soft place in this world. You will.

Oh, this child of mine…

Stuck Between The Chapters Of My Life

Tue, 1 Dec 2009 09:12:40 -0500

A real life exchange between my youngest daughter and me last night on Face Book. I guess this says it all.

Mom,

I’ve been thinking about you lately and I wonder sometimes if you're fulfilled?

I know how I get when I want something more in my life, but I can't put my finger on it. When you know you want something and you don't know what it is…

I don't know, maybe I'm completely off base here and, perhaps, you are perfectly happy and content with where you are in your life.

I just see that you have so much to offer. You're smart, compassionate, driven and, Lord knows, you have love coming from every action in your life. But passion without an outlet is wasted. Sometimes I worry that you might be lonely or even just bored.

I think about Danny and Julie and how after their children grew, they did what they had always wanted to do. And how when Grammy and Grandpa retired they moved to the beach. How Carol traveled the world. Now, I'm not saying leave Dad and move to Italy, but I feel like it's about time you did some soul searching and found your thing. Your next great something.

I have a theory that in the past twenty years you devoted so much of yourself to a husband, your children and a household that you may have trouble defining yourself without those things.

I think it's time you regained your individuality. What do you want? Don't think it is just you! For example, try to imagine Dad as retired. Everyone faces the dilemma of what's next. But… I feel you might be stuck between chapters.

As always… I love you and like you. I only want you to be as happy and fulfilled as I know you can be. Perhaps you are fulfilled and, if that is the case, ignore this as just a daughter’s concern.

I love you and J and I are looking at phone plans. So, I'll call as soon as I can.

Love,
S

Ha! Dear S,

I couldn't have expressed it any better than you did. Stuck between the chapters of my life. That's a perfect description. It's like you're in my head.

You've always been the most perceptive of all of us. I do need a "something." And, don't worry, I'm not going to leave Dad and move to Italy. Although, going to Italy sounds fun.

Yep. I guess the best way I can explain myself is this...It's like I've been working this great job for 25 years, done well, loved my work, took the challenges with the rewards...And then? And then, someone walks into my life and says, "Job well done. Moving on. You're too old for this now and we don't need you in the capacity you've been in." And then they just walk out. It feels like the rug has been pulled out from under me.

I remember all of your faces when you were just graduating high school. Everyone said, "It's a big world. You can do anything you want now. Just figure out what that something is." I remember seeing on your face something like, "Oh Shit. It's a big world and I don't have any idea what I'm going to do now." It is a very big world, indeed.

I remember the year you spent working at the music store. How important it was that you took the time to just "be." And plan. And build up your courage before you jumped into your life. That's where I am now. I know I have to be very careful not to stagnate and become less of who I am. I need to find a passion.

What will that passion be? I can honestly tell you this. I have no earthly idea. I haven't been very aggressive in my search yet. And yes, I am starting to get bored. My back is soooooooo much better now. I have no real excuse NOT to begin my discovery.

In some ways I am very excited by what is in front of me. In other ways, I'm scared. I'm not nearly as brave as you are, S. For whatever reason, I have this fear of failure. I'm not sure where that comes from but I have this deep seeded fear of looking foolish...just typing it sounds silly to me. But, it is there. That's my main challenge, I think. Getting over my fear. That and the fact that change is never easy for me.

I do know a few things though. One, I am very fortunate. I have the support of your dad. Emotionally and financially, to do anything that makes me happy. He genuinely wants whatever I want for myself. How many women can say that, I wonder?

Two, I'm pretty capable. I'll be able to do something, anything really, until I find that passion...that "thing" that wakes me up in the morning and drives me until bedtime.

Three, I isolate myself. For all my extroverted tendencies, I still tend to hide. I was thinking about how that's not good for me. I need to meet some good people. Make some interesting friends to share with.

Dad is the love of my life but there are many things I want to get out and do that he's not interested in doing. A long time ago we decided, on lots of levels, we are very different people. But, that's okay. It's not healthy to depend on one's spouse for all of our happiness. I know that too.

I like very much to have something to look forward to in my life. I need to adjust my thinking and begin looking forward. I've run a few scenarios through my head...working mentoring young adults or back to special education? Both, I know I’m good at but would that be going backwards? Starting an adventure travel group for women my age? I’m sure there are many women my age, like me, who dream of outdoor adventure but have no one to share that with. Perhaps going to travel agent school would be an important step in that direction? Although, to be honest, school...uugh... Travel writing? Travel writing would be a dream job. That pie in the sky. And then I think, but...would I be able to do that alone? That's when I get scared. Alone...I've not been alone for a very long time. I don't know how I'd be.

So...Dad and I are going to NYC for a week. He'll work during the day and I'll see the city. We'll meet up at night, go to dinner, and sleep in the same bed, nice and cozy. I'm giving this thing a test drive in a way. I'm planning on taking pictures and journaling and, hopefully, put it all together when I get home. A "NYC for the woman of a certain age" adventure.

Dad's plans have leaned towards consulting in his "golden years." He's always said that if I go with him then he won't mind traveling for work. He has always hated sleeping alone in hotel rooms. We'll see how this trip goes.

Anyway, baby steps, right?

Hey, by the way, thanks. Thanks for the letter. It's good to know you think about me like I think about you. And, Yeah! Phone plans are good :)

Dad says Hi! Be careful shredding the gnar and give J a big hug for me. Tell him that it's toffee season. I made the first batches last weekend and they turned out pretty tasty. You guys get the next batch!

I love you S. I'm always thankful for you. Always. And, like I said before...you are one of the greatest joys of my life.

Love,
Mom xxxooo

***Update: Hubby just called and the show is a no-go. So, thanks to everyone who offered up visits and info on seeing NYC. Looks like I'll have to take you up on your kindness at a later date. Oh, well...there's always a next time.

Hey, Y'all! Welcome To The South!

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 12:08:08 -0400

Would you like a glass of tea? I’ve got coffee on. Are you hungry? Let’s go sit. Tell me how you’re doing. How’s your mama?

People have asked me, especially when I lived in California, what it’s like to be a Southerner. Below I’ve listed some cultural observations, mostly related to my own family experiences. After all, I’m no sociologist. I’m just a southern mama, daughter, sister, wife, friend, and neighbor. If you, like my own Sweet Husband, relocate or just come for a visit the tips below may come in handy.

We appreciate politeness. The first, and most important, thing you must know about southerners is that we are polite. Please and thank you are musts. M’am and Sir are among the first words a baby learns to speak. Young people are taught to shake hands and make eye contact. Men stand and give up their seats to women, hold doors, and tip hats. Women thank them. In fact, we all hold doors, help the infirm and elderly. Everyone holds a mother’s bags while she reins in an unruly child. We carry groceries, change tires, give directions, smile, say “hey”, wait our turn (offer cutsies to those obviously older or in a hurry), and ALWAYS say thank you. Always. If you learn nothing else about southern culture, learn to say thanks. If you are rude, curt, or demanding you are doomed. Our children learn if they are well-mannered then people will assume they are smarter and better looking than they really are.

We tell stories. Story telling is a long standing southern tradition. We like to laugh. At ourselves and each other. In my family the first people on any guest list are the best story tellers. We sit around and tell stories and laugh our asses off. And we never let the facts get in the way of a good story. If you can do physical comedy and imitations, all the better. We appreciate our quirkiness. We revel in our differences. You will have to let go of your need for fact checking and just learn to roll with the fun. Learn to laugh at yourself most importantly. You can’t give it if you can’t take it.

We like to party. And I mean we love to throw down. I don’t care if it’s a Baptist church social or a weekend kegger or anything in between. We love to party. Food is always the main attraction. And we all bring something. If you are giving a party and someone asks, “What can I bring?" honor them by letting them bring a casserole, or some fresh corn, or a twelve pack. Any excuse to get together means a party but the best shindigs are family reunions. If you are ever invited to a family party, then you are in. Just remember to bring something. Never show up empty handed. Ever.

We network. If you need help with something, a new car, a washing machine, your house painted, plumbing, ANYTHING, then we all know “a guy” who can help you. I don’t know why the yellow pages even bother publishing here. Really. The lady who cuts your hair may be my sister’s husband’s niece. And when you go to see her? Mention my name. We all give, and get, friends and family discounts or bonuses.

When Sweet Husband first moved “home” with me I had to explain this to him. It went kind of like this: “Baby, when the plumber gets here don’t just open the door and take him upstairs to the bathroom. He’s not just some guy. He’s here because he’s a friend of my brother’s and he owes my brother some favors. That’s why he’s coming today and not next week. So…when he gets here shake his hand, bring him into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, shoot the breeze for a few minutes, and when HE stands up and says, 'Let’s take a look at that toilet,' THAT’S when you go upstairs.”

We keep track of favors and we always, in some way or another, repay. Give a little, get a little.

We grow things. Everyone worth his or her salt grows something. Vegetables, flowers, fruit trees. And we share. If my tomatoes are coming in gangbusters and I know yours won’t be in for a week or so then I bring you some of my best. Not the little ones. The pride of my garden. I honor you with the brightest, freshest tomato I ever grew. And we look at, and discuss, our gardens. We admire and touch and walk around each other’s yards. And we always bring flowers if they are blooming. I know you like daylilies? If mine are at their peak I will drive a big bunch with their stems in a bucket of water to your place and leave them on your doorstep. When your pear tree bears fruit, you reciprocate.

We honor physical work. It doesn’t matter if you are a neurosurgeon or a lawyer or governor of the state, if you don’t do you own yard work or clean your own house then you set yourself apart (President Jimmy Carter builds Habitat houses and still takes his turn mowing the grass at his church in Plains). That’s just the facts. The words, “He’s a hard worker.” are the greatest compliment you will ever receive. We all know how hard it used to be, most of us grew up poor, and we respect the fact that you still know how to work. One of the most respected men I know is a doctor who built his own deck and mows his own hay. If you built it, sewed it, painted it, or fixed it, we respect you. If you don’t know how? Well then, we will gladly help you. There is always time to help someone out. We all help when it’s time to move.

We dress to go to the Piggly Wiggly. Unless you are in the middle of digging up your septic tank and desperately need Gatorade, you are presentable in public. At the very least comb your hair and put on a clean shirt. A ball cap will do if you’ve been playing ball or cutting the grass. Parents who take babies to the store in just a diaper are considered negligent.

We go to funerals. And christenings. And graduations. We show up. It’s just expected. When my mother passed and we held her memorial service my childhood playmates, mom’s oldest friends, my kid’s friends, the ladies who worked at the retirement home, co-workers from years past and more were all there. It’s a sign of respect for the family. We celebrate and mourn with you. The saddest thing in the world is a small funeral.

We are physically affectionate. We kiss. We hug. We pat kids on the head and each other on the shoulder. It would never occur to me not to kiss my aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, siblings, friends, and family upon greeting or parting. If we like you, we hug you. It’s that simple.

We take care of our mamas. And our grandmas. And our aunts. Family comes first. Period. Southern mothers are held in the highest regard by their children and grand children. We call them, we visit, we bring food. We take care of them as they age. We drop everything we are doing if mama needs us.

So, there you have it! Southern 101 in a nutshell. If you are ever in my neck of the woods, be sure to stop by and say hey! We always have time for a visit.

Mama Ain't Raising No Grandbabies...v.2

Thu, 4 Jun 2009 07:06:37 -0400

When my kids were teenagers and starting to date I was the condom Nazi. I bought Trojans by the gross at the big box discount stores. I set them out, right by the door, in a huge, fancy, cut crystal bowl. Like Halloween candy. Take as many as you need I told them. Just leave enough for the others.

In my mommy wisdom I said things like, "If someone will have sex with you, they'll have sex with anybody. Protect yourself." I also made them say something to me as they headed out the door on dates that my brother finds hilarious.

"Say it!" I would demand as I handed over the car keys.

"Jeaze..ok. Mama ain't raising no grandbabies. NOW can I go?" And out the door they would fly. Into the world, navigating with their hormones.

Just a little reminder to them… the choices they made that night were their responsibility.

I am a realist at heart. I know that the human species is programmed to reproduce. Teenagers are driven to procreate. I was one and I know a lot of them. They are just like rabbits. Horny rabbits.

Oh sure, Sweet husband and I had all of the obligatory conversations with them. You know the ones.

The one you have during their first crush: Be respectful.

The ones you have when you catch them surfing porn (teenage boys are wizards at getting around parental web controls): You haven't even kissed a real girl and you are looking at this? The porn industry is one filled with abuse and sadness. The one about the objectification of women (and men). And the you are soooo grounded Mister one.

Then they have their first "real” girlfriend/boyfriend and the talk gets real: How and why to use a condom.

We live in the bible belt. Here the public high school has bi-weekly "Character Development" sessions in homeroom. Volunteers come to the kid's classrooms and discuss good choices for teenagers. I have no problem with that. But every single year someone (read right wing religious nut freak) comes to speak to them about abstinence.

Okay. Good talk. Good point. Will they have a doctor or nurse in next week to speak about birth control? Hell no. Just say no, and sign this pledge to be sex free. Wear a "promise" ring on your finger (I promise to save it for marriage) not a rubber on your penis (I promise not to spread disease or babies around).

Call me weird but I believe in telling kids the truth. Give them the tools and then let them make their own decisions. They're going to anyway, right? Demystify protection. The alternative is difficult and heartwrenching for everyone involved.

For example, we never told them not to do drugs because drugs are bad. Our drug talk went more like this: Don't do drugs because you'll like them. Until you don't. Then your life will be screwed up and you'll end up just like your Uncle M. Do you want that? Well, do you?

We also encouraged a lot of questions around our house. We discussed sexuality, money, politics, alcohol, abuse, education, the world, love, and most importantly of all, personal responsibility.

I was raised by a single mother. Abandoned by my father. Mentally abused as a kid. I ran away from home at sixteen. I know what the unwanted in "unwanted child" means first hand.

All of my kids were wanted . Wanted by their dad and me. We always put their needs first. We provided for them. Loved them. Nurtured them. And then we taught them personal responsibility. Some of the kids we raised had never known responsible adults before us. Now they are adults. Hopefully, they understand what they will need to give in order to be good parents themselves.

I'm not sure what my blatant honesty did to our kids' budding teenage egos. They all seem to be pretty great young adults (I AM their mother and a bit biased). I will say one thing though. My sister's grandson is awfully cute. And someday…when they are ready…I hope to have some grandkids myself.

Watching Katie Run...From A Distance

Tue, 2 Jun 2009 22:06:36 -0400

*update: per a suggestion from my good friend bbd.

Please read to the end.

(whaddaya think Barry? Think that'll keep 'em?)

I live up against our local National Park. When you’re a regular on the trails like I am you get used to seeing many of the same folks over the years.

There’s Dianne, the cool older hippie from the bayous of Louisiana, whose phone I found in the mud about six years ago. I took the time to call the phone company and had them notify her. She and I, when we run into each other while hiking, always finish out the trail walking and talking together. I might even venture to say that over the years Dianne and I have become “acquaint-a-friends.” People, who know each other, sometimes even share intimate details, but don’t socialize in our regular lives.

There’s lots of other folks I see daily on my hikes but don’t know their names or anything about them other than they are walkers or runners. Slow or fast. Serious exercisers or casual strollers. I know which ladies, or groups of ladies, wear eye makeup and push up bras in the woods. Which guys have lost weight over their years of jogging. Who goes with who. Sometimes I’ll see one of a couple and wonder where their mate is that day. My dog knows everyone else’s dog and we stop and say hello a lot.

Today while hiking the four mile loop near my home I saw Katie*. I know Katie by name and there’s good reason. (*not her real name)

Katie was in the same grade as my oldest son. She attended middle school and high school with him. Oldest son is outgoing and friendly and knew just about everyone in school. He and Katie never really hung out with the same kids but they were acquainted. I’m sure they had a few classes here and there together.

I worked at the middle school the kids attended and saw Katie in the halls and she and I always exchanged greetings. Katie is a lovely little strawberry blonde, blue-eyed pixie with a shy smile. In fact, that’s what my son always said about Katie. That she was very shy.

The summer before ninth grade started for Katie and my son I was hiking the loop and ran into a woman who stopped me.

“Did you see a little blonde girl running this way?” she asked, out of breath.

“If you mean Katie, then yes, yes I did,” I answered.

Mom seemed genuinely relieved. She explained that Katie had begun running and wanted to try out for the high school long distance track team. She felt it was necessary to run on the trails where the team practiced. If she could master these trails then Katie would have a really good shot at making the team and impressing the coach. She went on to explain that this was the first time Katie had run these trails. Because there are long isolated stretches in the woods Mom felt it best if she came along.

Katie had left Mom in the dust. By my calculations Mom’s little girl was a good mile or so ahead of her.

Katie made the team that fall. I used to see her running with the pack of girls that made up the elite on the team. They would run past me all long and lean, pony tails bobbing. Nothing jiggling. Just taunt teenage muscles all working together. Running in rhythm. Right, left. Right, left. Katie was always out front. Setting the pace.

“Hey, Mrs. R.”

“Hi, Katie.”

On the path Katie was all business.

During high school Katie got a job bagging groceries at the local Publix where I shop. She always made an effort to bag my food and help me out to my car. It was during these post-shopping times that Katie and I exchanged sentences. I learned she was doing well in the science and math magnet program at the high school. She was winning with her running. She now had a driver’s license. After loading the trunk of my Taurus wagon Katie always smiled and wished me a nice day.

I got used to seeing Katie on the trails running. She was part of the scenery. No matter the weather. Rain, cold, blazing sunshine. Katie ran every day. Year round. For four years.

The day after high school graduation Katie and I crossed paths again in the woods. I sing-song-ed a “congratulations graduate!” her way and to my surprise Katy stopped. She was excited about being accepted into the freshman class at the University of Georgia. She had a new job for the summer as a swim instructor at the local YMCA. After a few minutes of chit chat, Katie smiled and jogged away. That was five years ago and it was the last conversation of any length we’ve shared.

All summer I passed Katie most days when I hiked. It seemed we had the same exercise schedule. Either very early morning before the Georgia heat hit like blast from a fire hose or late evening, before sunset, when cooler temperatures blessed us. A smile or a wave. A “hello” or a “hi” as she glided by.

Fall arrived. Katie went off to school and I didn’t see her until Thanksgiving break. When she trotted past me I noticed with alarm how thin Katie looked. She had always looked fit and trim. Well muscled. A much smaller girl passed me that day.

Christmas break. Downright skinny. Still running strong but way too thin. One meek, “Merry Christmas, Mrs. R.” No smile. A look of determination. And sadness? Possibly I was imagining things. After all, I didn’t know Katie well. I had no idea, really, who she was. Did she date? Did she have friends? What was her family life like? I had no answers to those questions. I didn’t even know where Katie lived.

Still…I had a bad feeling I just couldn’t shake.

When summer came back to the park so did Katie. The fields were abloom with daisies and blackberry blossoms. The forest green and alive. I was hiking down a long, very steep, hill when I caught sight of Katie making her way up towards me. Her eyes were sunken and dark. Her frame gaunt. She had no curves. Just bones and skin trying hard to cover them. Still, Katie was running.

As we passed I tried to conceal my concern. She made no eye contact. I could hear her labored breathing as she trudged up the hill. “Hi, Katie. Welcome home.” Nothing. Not even a limp wave. So great was her effort to make it up the incline. I’m certain she never even heard, or maybe even noticed, me.

I knew the person who passed me that day. I was that person. That scared, obsessed, compulsive, lonely, sad little girl. I went home and cried for both of us.

If you happened to visit our park in summer, four years ago, chances are good you would’ve noticed Katie. It seemed like she was on the trails everywhere you went. Running. Running. Running. She looked about twelve years old instead of nineteen. She still wore the tiny running bra and nylon shorts of a track star but they drooped and sagged on her emaciated frame. Her knees looked too big. Every rib showed. And most terrifying, you could see both bones in her upper leg.

Fall came again and with it fiery leaves and gusty winds. Katie did not return to school. With the cooler temperatures I began walking mid day. One afternoon I decided when I saw Katie on the trail I was going to stop her and engage her in conversation. She had not acknowledged me in many months. Instead, when encountering me on the path, she would drop her head and pass silently. Because Katie and I had not been close, or anything remotely like that, I tried to pass this brush off as typical “too cool” teen behavior. Although I knew in my heart she was in much deeper, more serious, territory. I wanted her to know I cared.

I never saw Katie again.

Until today.

This morning was lovely. Clear and blue. Not too hot. The pup and I headed out around nine o’clock to beat the heat. The trails were crowded, everyone with the same idea. As we made our way through the forest on the sometimes narrow trail I had to “pull over” many times to let the groups of youth camp runners pass by.

I had stepped off the trail to let a big pack of kids and their young leaders blow by me. I was watching the dog closely so she didn’t jump out and trip any of them when one of the group sang out, “Morning, Mrs. R.!” I looked up just in time to see Katie, obviously the camp running leader, jog by. I was stunned. She was back. And healthy. Perfectly healthy. Not too thin. Muscled. Strong. Vibrant. Alive.

Alive.

Katie flashed me a smile, encouraged the kids, and ran off before I could collect myself and say a word. Just before she and her campers turned the bend ahead I managed to shout out, “Good for you, Katie girl! Good for you!”

I look forward to tomorrow’s hike.