Holiday Memories

I pulled a big box of Christmas decorations up from the basement and the kids were all over it. They wanted to hang stockings and set up the nativity scene. Seizing upon their enthusiasm, I played The Nutcracker on the stereo. Suddenly, in my mind I was transferred to my old kitchen, watching my two little ballet dancers twirl and leap over cracked linoleum with unbridled joy. At age 4, Lil’J would try to jump and spin higher and higher, and 2-year-old C would be daintily walking on tiptoes and then gracefully hopping from foot to foot. We would turn the lights off in the kitchen and dance by the filtered light from the dining room. “Spin me,” one of them would inevitably request, and I would lift my baby into the air and spin around like the Sugar Plum Fairy. We often danced through the whole CD.

They don’t remember their grand performances, but they do remember the music from the Nutcracker, and I catch them humming or whistling the tunes during the holiday season. I miss my children. I mean, I still have them and I love each phase of their childhood, but I miss the littler versions of them. I miss their openness and playful spontaneity. While still fun and enthusiastic, my teen and ‘tween are just that much more self-conscious. Gone are the days of ballet dancing in the kitchen to the Nutcracker.

Christmas brings out a montage of memories, and when we decorate the tree my favorites are the photo ornaments that feature the kids during different stages of their childhood. These used to be photos that pre-school or kindergarten teachers took, and then turned into ornaments. Now they’re school photos in frames from the Christmas Tree Shop. I got two new photo-holding ornaments this year, and I eagerly await the kid’s school photos (they both did re-takes this year…go figure.) One special ornament that probably started this whole tradition is a white heart that holds a picture of Big J and I kissing on our wedding day. What a great gift from a good friend. Our tree, I’ve decided, is even more beautiful because it tells the story of our family.

As my solace in this fast-moving motherhood blur, I remind myself constantly that we’re still making memories. C and I made cookies this past week, she made the batter all on her own. Lil’J and I will take our annual Christmas shopping trip together next week, and we’ll crack up over the stupid present ideas and imagine Big J’s response when we buy him a “soap on a rope.” Yes, I miss my little son and daughter, but they’re still little, aren’t they? Maybe, to me, they always will be.

Fantasies Disrupted

NOTE: I wrote this ten years ago and just found it on my computer. Here's the answer to the question you will ask at the end: Yes, I still do that in my car.

It’s happening more and more. Reality keeps interrupting my fantasies. It’s like that pre-recorded message from the Emergency Broadcast System that interrupts TV shows, but this show is in my mind: WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY TO INFORM YOU THAT YOU ARE A THIRTY-FIVE YEAR OLD WOMAN WITH A HUSBAND AND TWO CHILDREN, AND THIS COULD NEVER, EVER HAPPEN TO YOU!
I’ll never, for example, be a rock star. This is the fantasy I usually have in the car. I’ll drop the kids off at pre-school, take their “Raffi” tape out, and pop-in my own selection.
“Ahhh, my own music!”
I sing my heart-out to Paula Cole, Alanis Morissette, Madonna, Annie Lenox, or better yet, Cheryl Crow. “Jump in let’s go...lay back, enjoy the show...” The music transforms me into a leather-clad, slouchy, cool-chick baring a sleek and toned midriff. On stage, I pour my heart into the microphone. Oh, did I mention I’m really thin, too?
In the audience are old friends and some old enemies, cheering, and dancing wildly: college roommates, ex-bosses and co-workers, my old boyfriend, and the woman he dumped me for. They’re next to Mr. Bugle, the singing teacher who didn't pick me for the select choir. They’re all there, and I think, Ha! I showed you! My voice sounds great. “Everybody gets high, everybody gets low. These are the days when anything goes...” I turn around to smile at the guys in the band -- they’re so talented.
I savor this moment, but I know it’s coming...that high-pitched beeping that precedes the recorded announcement. WE INTERRUPT THIS FANTASY, it says, BECAUSE IT’S TOO LATE IN YOUR LIFE TO BECOME A LEAD SINGER IN A ROCK BAND. FACE IT, the announcement intones, IT AIN’T GONNA HAPPEN.
“Oh yea,” I say to myself, remembering that I just dropped the kids off and need to buy Wisk at the grocery store. Back in scruffy jeans and a sweatshirt, I try to hum, at least to the end of the song, “Everyday is a winding road...”
I really don’t have a problem with aging. I’ve greeted each of my thirty-plus birthdays with enthusiasm. I’m happy to be healthy and alive. I don’t worry about wrinkles, and I’ve always colored my hair, so I don’t care about gray. But leaving my youthful dreams behind is tough. In fact, I’m getting a little obsessed.
My son announced he wants me to be a ballerina.
“Maybe I’ll be one for Halloween,” I told him.
“No,” he said, “I want you to be a real one!”
Well, why aren’t I a dancer now? I ask myself. I took dance for fifteen years of my life. Why did I stop?
Now, I realize that many adventures will just have to stay in my dreams. I’ll never: 1. live in New York City, 2. date a guy who drives a jeep and plays the guitar, 3. go skydiving, 4. hitchhike across Ireland -- just to name a few. And even if I do any of these things, it won’t be the same as in my dreams, because I won’t be doing them young.
I could say that I’m better-off. After all, I’ve done a lot so far. I’ve traveled a fair bit (never enough) and had a complete, successful career before I became a mom. I must emphatically proclaim that I am happy with the choices I’ve made, choices that have led me to a wonderful husband and incredible kids. No, I wouldn’t change a thing, even if I could... But the question is, how do I let go of my fantasies?
Should I modify them to fit my responsible position in life? I guess I can still travel, although maybe not hitchhike, when the kids get older. We could move to New York City after we retire, but it wouldn’t be the same. Skydiving and the Jeep-guy are out of the question. Then there’s always Karaoke... Pathetic!
Maybe I just need new fantasies. I’ve been toying with “Great American Novel” fantasies -- a wise author at her cluttered desk. Myself on-stage, in a nice suit, receiving an award. That would be a good one, although not exactly rock-star material.
Or, there’s always the danger of becoming one of those weird parents who never achieved their personal dreams, so they try to re-live their life through their children. My daughter will become a rock star! Or the dancer! Maybe my son will drive a jeep and play guitar! How strange would that be?
Maybe some fantasies are meant to stay exactly that...fantasies. Or, as Webster’s puts it, “the free play of creative imagination.” (Rather poetic for a dictionary, don’t you think?)
I read somewhere that very depressed people have “too realistic” a view of themselves. Perhaps their lives are so based on the mundane tasks -- driving kids around, buying Wisk -- that they lose hope. Maybe the opposite is true. Maybe people who imagine themselves in grandiose terms -- a rock star or Pulitzer Prize winner -- can better survive daily drudgeries. Maybe an active fantasy life actually makes me a better and happier person. After all, standing in line at the grocery store isn’t quite so bad when you’ve just given a concert in your car.

I’ve decided I like my old fantasies. I’ve become attached to them. I know they’re just silly dreams, but don’t they still, in some way, make me who I am? Aren’t they as much a part of me as my real successes and failures? Letting go of my old fantasies would be like blanking out parts of my life, even though they are just parts of my imaginary life.
I think I’ll keep the old fantasies, and maybe make room for some new ones, too. Like a dvd collection, I’ll add new fantasies, but still watch the old ones. There’s nothing like a good classic for a really long drive.
Through thick lashes, I peer soulfully out to the audience. They are entranced. Disposable lighters flicker around the stadium. "If it makes you happy, it can’t be that bad..." Then, when I hear that high-pitched beep, the start of the WE INTERRUPT message, I just tell the guys in the band, “Hey! Crank it up!”

Pain in the Neck!

It was a morning like any other. I woke Lil’J, who headed to the shower, and I trudged back to my room to change out of my PJ’s. Somewhere along the line…crick…shooting pain from my neck down my back and into my left arm. Just one small movement did it -- pinched a nerve, poked a disc, or maybe even popped a thingamajig. Whatever it was, my head was firmly cemented facing forward, and looking neither left nor right was a possibility.

Okay, so I popped some Aleve and got a heat pack and went about my day. But, my day was tough. Backing up in the car was totally mirror dependant. I survived, and didn’t run anyone over. Laundry, walking the dog, any household chores were completely out of the question. Even talking on the phone was difficult. By 10 a.m. I was already depressed and frustrated.

So, I had a few hours (24) of pain. Slow stretching and deep breathing helped. Plus, I’ll admit it, I have a stash of some really strong muscle relaxants from a few years ago and one before bed did the trick. I slept like a rock and awoke with at least some neck mobility. But my pain in the neck left an impact. This being the Thanksgiving season and all, I couldn’t help but be really thankful that I would not have to endure another day of pain and depression.

My good health brought to mind many of my friends and family who are suffering on a daily basis. People very close to me are battling with Lupus, Fibromyalgia, neck and back pain, not to mention a close relative who just had a knee operation. If I found one day of pain exhausting, imagine what these people go through every day. So, I’m planning to check in on my friends who are having a tough time, and to remind them of their bravery. It’s a helpless feeling, being around someone in pain. But maybe talking, checking in, or just an acknowledgement that they are doing a good job dealing with their pain can help.

WHO Are You?

Last week my siblings and I celebrated my Dad’s 86th Birthday. While he has some of the health problems that come with age, he often tells me “I don’t feel my age,” inside. His personality, sense of humor and outlook have not aged at the same rate as his body. I guess he feels young, but his body sometimes reminds him that he's getting on in years. That sentiment was echoed in a conversation with my oldest brother, who is only a bit over 50. He feels the same as he did in his 20’s. Little did I know that within the week I’d be in a huge stadium with thousands of people who clearly had a strong desire to re-experience their youth … I went the see The Who in concert.

When we were invited by some friends, I thought the concert might be fun. Until the second song, I didn’t realize just how much I was going to enjoy this show. The playlist ranged from classics to songs that I had completely forgotten about. And the thing about Pete Townshend and Roger Daltrey is that they just don’t hold back. They put so much energy into their music, it’s easy to forget they’re in their sixties! A highlight for me was the song Love Reign O’er Me, in which Daltrey sang with total abandon. I don’t know how his voice, reaching such scratchy, wailing highs, has lasted so long.

The crowd at the Boston Garden was filled with middle-aged folks, at least age 40 and above, but once the lights went down it could have been a stadium of teenagers. Everyone was singing and dancing to the music as if it was their first concert ever. And while seeing The Who made me feel young, it also brought back a lot of memories from days gone by. Some were fun memories, even treasured memories. Other memories made me in wonder, "what was I thinking?" And I decided that, while I like maintaining the kernal of my personality from my youth, I so much prefer my later years. And even though I'm getting old, it doesn't mean I can't still ROCK! In the end, it was good to leave the Boston Garden as a grown-up.