Manifest

Every so often, I make a biting comment about my mother within earshot of the girls. When the words are escaping my mouth, I think nothing of them. They are my thoughts, my complaints, my perspective, my truth.  

The girls see it quite differently though. They love my mom, and their entire extended family fiercely, but from a distance. As children should be, they are only exposed to the best of the best and shielding from the unsavory moments. 

These are the moments that make Matt and I parent the way we do, with our sometimes excessive amounts of hugs and I Love You’s. If there is such a thing. We talk about hopes and frustrations openly. We encourage discord and yelling if for no other reason than to make sure the feelings are liquid and flowing instead of ice slowing turning into immovable burgs. We talk about bodies and femininity as is appropriate with the pre-school set.   

And we talk about how we can talk about anything.

One story that I will certainly tell the girls, when the time comes, is about how many of those things were broken in my childhood. It’s the kind of story that comes up fairly regularly with girlfriends because every so often, anyone can get caught completely off guard by an early cycle.

I was 12 years old when I got my period. It is bit unbelievable (from the raised eyebrows I get from friends), but I didn’t know much about menstruation despite it being 1990. I was the first of my very small group of friends, and must have been one of the first in my grade to get it. It was terrible. I didn’t know what to do, and was afraid to talk to my mom.

She and I didn’t talk about anything.  I take that back, she constantly talked, and I might have been listening, but it wasn’t substantial conversation. Right now, sitting here typing, I can only recall one substantial conversation with her in my entire life. And it was in the last year. She didn’t prepare me. She didn’t warn me. She didn’t even notice anything was wrong with me.

And so I kept my secret, slyly taking maxi pads from under the counter and searching the dryer for forgotten dimes. For six months, I kept my secret, only to be undone by an Aunt who noticed a change in my skin. It was a crass moment, filled with soul crushing shame on my part and screeched words and laughter on hers.

I still remember how I shook, so afraid of my mother’s reaction to the news that her daughter wasn’t a physiological little girl any more.

I remember how her face blanched at the realization, presumably, of her failure.

There was still no conversation. Just the arrival of my own supply of maxi pads on my bed the next day.

And so, Matt and I talk to our girls. About everything. I don’t cover my body in front of them. I don’t like shut doors. We ask about days and friends and loves in the hope that nothing will be big enough to be kept secret.

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This post was inspired by the novel Afterwards by Rosamund Lupton. After witnessing her children's school set ablaze, Grace attempts to find the arsonist as her teenage daughter lies in a coma in Lupton's suspense thriller. Join From Left to Write on April 11 as we discuss Afterwards. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

 

My Saturday Night

I've made a new friend. Which, ya know, is kind of a big thing for me. This woman has seamlessly incorporated me, my whole family, into her life.

Even more, she's  extended party invitations. "You should come!" she insisted, "Its a Girl's Night Out. You'll love it!" And has hence incorporated me into her friends lives.

Which is surreal.

It takes a lot for me to talk to people. I need a plan, mental index cards with conversation topics, most of which usually revolve kids and the weather. I know, it's bad. Which is why I avoid social situations. But I walked into our friendship blind, and it has flourished; so I walked into her circle of friends blind too.

While it is to early to declare myself a success with the circle, I can say that night one was good. I was quiet, but I was myself. I made an ass of myself, and it was embraced, heralded even.

"You are one of us now!" they exclaimed in triumph, smoothing over actions that would have crushed me in any other group.

 And so, in a group of strangers that I have little in common with in the day to day, I now possess what seems like a teflon bond of foolishness.


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This post was inspired by Saturday Night Widows by Becky Aikman. After being kicked out of her widow support group for being too young, Becky creates her own support group with an unusual twist. Join From Left to Write on February 14 as we discuss Saturday Night Widows. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Needing and Knowing

My  job used to be  part of the odd world of Need to Know.

I don't talk about what I do much, because it's really not that exciting. I work for the government, and in the government, there's always some function of Need to Know. I always wonder if what I say today is going to affect me tomorrow.  And if the fact that the federal government has my fingerprints on file, as part of  my mediocre mid-level job, is ever going to come back to haunt me.  

If you've ever been through the security clearance process, it's a surreal thing. They want to know everything about you, and your parents, and your family. They want to know if we've been to a foreign country, and oh-my-goodness if you say yes: How long were you there? What did you talk to anyone? Did you make any friends? 

It's a little bit nerve-racking, even though I know I have nothing to hide.

I always wonder how much I don't know about people around me.  I know I have friends and neighbors that do something for the government, but they are Need to Know kind of jobs. The terrible kind, that they they love like a child, but also alienates them from their children. 

And I've always been so glad that's not my world, and could never be.
Because honestly, I really don't Need to Know. 

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This post was inspired by mystery thriller novel The Expats by Chris Pavone. Kate Moore sheds happily sheds her old life become a stay at home mom when her husband takes a job in Europe. As she attempts to reinvent herself, she ends up chasing her evasive husband's secrets. Join From Left to Write on January 22 as we discuss The Expats As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Blurred Lines

Growing up, I thought the world’s population fell into 3 categories:

1. Irish or Polish Catholic

2. Italian Catholic

3. Other

In my little Chicago suburb, we have 3 Catholic churches within a 2 mile triangle radius of each other. You were defined by the church you attended. The Polish church said one of three masses a day in Polish. The Irish church’s Father had a thick brogue. Our family bucked tradition, and attended the church with German roots, but was taken over by a mix of the remaining who had quarreled with the other two parishes. Plus, it was an easier walk from our house than the Irish church.

When I was in my early tweens, my Aunt married into an Italian family, and my experience with cultures that didn’t stew cabbage on a regular basis was expanded. I think I loved my new Uncle from the first moment I met him, pronounced by the fact that he is Clare’s Godfather. Still, some in the family whispered about his parent’s off-the-boat Southern Italian bloodline. He’s not white. What on earth were they talking about?

When I went to college, it was the first time I was put in a situation where not everyone I knew fit into categories 1 and 2. My first assigned roommate was Shaniqua from East Saint Louis. Seriously. While I made jokes about we might be confused with each other since our names were so similar, I was terrified to know that the person I would be sharing a small room with for the next year was coming from such a hard area. She never showed up though. Instead, the day before school started I was assigned a new roommate, Emily, who was a transplant from a blessedly soft suburb much like my own. While we were not best friends by any stretch, we were definitely solid enough that she explained what a perm was. If it wasn’t for her, and later Chris Rock, I would be clueless.

When I started taking my Political Science courses, I became friends with a black guy who was a constant in many of my classes. We would study together relatively often, I presume because we were in the small faction that wasn’t already set on the notion of law school. One day, as we sat in an open quad after class going over notes, a group of black girls past us. I was mostly oblivious, but he groaned. Moments later he told me that he couldn’t study with me in the open any more, that the fact we had just been spotted together was going to earn him a lot of grief with his friends. I can’t be seen with a white girl, it ruins my chances with anyone else. What on earth was he talking about? He later apologized, but we never hung out again after that day.

Today, I think I have finally found a place where I can surround myself with like minded people, regardless of race, and more importantly, have been able to incorporate Grace and Clare into environments where they see more that Irish and Polish faces. From the time they were born, they have been cuddled, cared for and honestly loved from faces spanning the world. Mexico, Cameroon, Somalia, Egypt, South Africa, India, Iran, China and Japan on skin. Catholic, Methodist, Protestant, Jewish and Muslim in hearts. I love the fact that culture, outside of our new slice of suburbia, is a constant in their school and lives.

We talk about race occasionally. Most of the time it is about tradition and celebrations, but occasionally, skin color comes up. When playing doll dress up games on my iPhone, Grace often picks black skin colors. She asks if she had dark skin, if she would still have freckles, because dark skin colors are so much more fancy in their pigments; but, then decides that she likes her white skin because she doesn’t want to take the chance of NOT having those freckles anymore.

I know that these experiences won’t stop someone from not wanting to be their friends because of skin color, but I do hope that it isn’t even a factor for friendship for them.

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 This post was inspired by The Black Count. 

Alexandre Dumas' works were heavily influenced by his father, also named Alexandre Dumas. In the biography The Black Count, author Tom Reiss tells how Dumas went from slavery to become the equivalent of a five star general in the French military. Join From Left to Write on October 11 as we discuss the The Black Count. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes

Sacrifice

When I was pregnant with Grace, the world seemed so black and white. To me, there were lots of hard questions with easy answers.  Matt felt more grey.

 It's an age old childhood question forcing you in a corner to choose between friends: The house is on fire and you can only save one person. Who do you save? Our conversations, considering my high risk status, was always my press of: If something goes wrong and you have to choose, I want you to choose the baby.

For me, the conversation was black and white. Of course I would sacrifice myself for someone I already loved. I would give everything. Matt saw the greys of a life without me. I also think he was gripped with the heartbreak of knowing that if we were pressed to make a terrible decision like that,  he would be powerless.

Luckily, we never even came close to making a decision like that. There were slight hiccups, but nothing that made us much different from the billions of childbirth stories out there.

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This post was inspired by The Bloodletter's Daughter. The description below says that this book is about murder and power. I believe that it is about self sacrifice. What struck me the most was the end of the book and the choices the protagonist makes for those that she loves.
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Inspired by a real-life murder that threatened to topple the powerful Hapsburg dynasty in the 17th century, The Bloodletter's Daughter imagines how one young woman holds more power than she thought possible.  Join From Left to Write on September 25 as we discuss the The Bloodletter's Daughter. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.

Cookies

The last two posts I've put up were kind of throw aways. Two weekends in Chicago, over 1200 miles in the air. It's exhausting.

But it's been making me think about family a lot.
All of the things we are missing. All of the memories that aren't being made for us and our girls.

During the first weekend, my mom was at the center of the trip. She had grand plans for Gracie. She wanted to make up for lost time with some of those memories. She wanted to bake.

Armed with three kinds of chocolate chips, they worked together, side by side, in a sweltering kitchen without pause.

I'll crack and you stir.
You pour and I'll stir.
Careful, only the eggs are supposed to go in the cookies, not the shells.
Let's taste. Does it need more chips?

There is something so back to basics about baking. I can't imagine a childhood without it; without those memories of stirring, pouring and kneading. Teaching your kids how to cook is like teaching them about soul. How to put love into something inanimate, that has the ability to animate.

And I'm glad that Grace was able to have that afternoon in the kitchen with my mom baking cookies.

Eggshells, salt pockets and all.

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This post is inspired by Sarah McCoy's The Baker's Daughter. In a small Texan town, Reba discovers Elsie's German Bakery and falls in love with more than the pastries. Shes drawn to Elsie's life in Germany during the last year of WWII. Join From Left to Write on August 29  as we discuss The Baker's Daughter. As a member, I received a copy of the book for review purposes.