Halfway From Mom

When I woke up this morning, I felt something had shifted.  I’d been aware of this upcoming milestone of sorts- the day that marked the halfway point. Today, on this exact day, I have been without my mom in my life for as long as I was with her. Twenty-nine with, twenty-nine without. At fifty-eight years old, I am already two years older than Miriam was when she died. Losing her was such a searing loss, it’s sometimes hard to remember what it even felt like to have a mother.

Significant life-passages in the second twenty-nine years make it hard to relate to the first half as me being the same person. It often feels as though that was another person altogether, going through my childhood, my teens and into adulthood. My mom was there for that part. But she missed the delicious parts, the parts that give my life so much meaning and not having her to share that with has been heartbreaking on so many occasions.

There is a great comfort though in feeling that the further away I get from her death, the more I remember her life. And today for some reason, I am focusing on my mother’s hands.

My mom Miriam was left-handed and her hands were lovely with long, thin fingers. When she wrote or typed for long periods of time, a numbness in her fingers caused her to stop writing, shake out her hands for a minute and then continue. Her handwriting always reminded me of the perfect examples in my “How to Write Cursive” book from elementary school - flowing, easy-to-read, beautiful.

When she died, I took her brown leather purse and over the years, each time I have found something she wrote, I put it in the purse. Now I have a whole collection and each year, my sister Sue and I take the purse out for a spin.

Re-reading years of letters written to us can be so hard, causing us to cry the inconsolable tears of the motherless daughters and then suddenly, minutes later, bringing us to our knees in great gales of laughter. Like the letter about her driving clear across San Francisco to buy a six-pack of her favorite soda (Fresca…only ONE calorie!) because it was on sale for .50 less than usual and then calculating that what she saved in the cost, she paid for in gas in her piece-of-shit ‘ 76Toyota Corona station wagon. That car gave her more pain than pleasure. Mechanics hated working on it and complained bitterly when she brought it in. And she brought it in a lot. Before she died in 1983, she referred to that car in one of her purse letters, accurately predicting that, “this damn car will probably outlive me.” 

There were letters full of advice (some taken, some ignored) and many pages fervently wishing for a life partner like Robert Browning wrote about in his poem “Rabbi Ben Ezra” – “Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be…” She was a romantic and instilled in her girls the notion of true, requited love as being something of an ideal for which to strive.

Reading the now-yellowed newspaper clippings, my sister and I are reminded that Dear Abby was something of a hero to her, recommending that girls simply “keep their legs together” as a way to avoid all kinds of unplanned teen maladies and that "if the boy really loved you, he would not ask you to go all the way". Having her daughters regard themselves with self-respect was extremely important to her.

In her most pensive moments, she talked about her desire to “leave a mark” or have some type of legacy that meant something to somebody.  Miriam’s legacy is my sister, me and all of her grandchildren and how we conduct our lives. None of us would be who we are without having had her for that first half, teaching, advising, writing to us. And each year on July 22^nd I am reminded how much a part of me she still is and will continue to be. I may not have her beautiful hands, but in quiet moments, I sometimes still have her voice in my head.

Hey, can you just W.A.I.T.?

W.A.I.T.

Why Am I Talking? It's one of the coolest acronyms I learned from listening to Anne Lamott. It reminds me that sometimes the best action to take is no action at all. As a mom, it's one of the most challenging lessons I need to learn.

Recently, my 30-year old came for a visit. In the past, he's asked me pointedly not to do his laundry when he comes to visit. A simple request, right? One would think. I walked by the washing machine, noting that it was closed and cycles done. I looked inside & saw his clothes, and automatically started to transfer them into the dryer. Suddenly, his request popped into my head & I methodically took the clothes I had just put into the dryer  and placed them back into the washing machine. I closed the lid and walked out of the room, shaking my head as I considered how stupid that seemed, but at the same time, proud of my actions. 

It's actually the inaction that was important, just as the unspoken has proven to be my saving grace when communicating with my kids. Holding my tongue and not jumping immediately to solutions or worse, plying them with probing questions I think has improved my relationships with them more than any advice I may have given.  

I read this quote recently and it took me by surprise. 

"God grant me the serenity to accept the people I cannot change, the courage to change the one I can, and the wisdom to know it's me."  (Anon...)

Well of COURSE it's anonymous- who would really want to admit writing that? But it's good to have the reminder that looking honestly in the mirror and making changes is necessary and humbling. 

To keep evolving is key to having mutually satisfying relationships with my adult kids. Knowing when to shut up is equally important as knowing when not to butt in. Even a facial expression which conveys an uninvited response can be read with little effort. I need to utilize "W.A.I.T" more often & practice just listening and nodding. 

I guess it's a bit like finally letting go of the bicycle seat or letting go of them in a swimming pool- all scary prospects but necessary for them to learn and necessary for me to take a step back. It's no different today really, they're just bigger and smarter and they know me better . Now I know when to pull back, even if pulling back sometimes means just keeping quiet when I still want to offer the advice. I have learned this - a supporting actor is a critical role to play and sometimes the supporting actor's job is to simply keep their mouth shut. Hey, like falling off a log.

The more things change, the more they change

Watching a blinking cursor is not good for anyone, especially me. I know many writers often hit blocks, but I have hit a writing wall and for the past four months, have had many excellent essays roaming around my brain, but alas, that is where they've stayed.

So I'm back & I appreciate everyone (anyone's?) indulgence and patience and I promise to keep these essays churning out at a regular pace now that I'm out of my writing coma. My revelations about being a mom come at a nonstop rate and I am constantly in awe of what an unusual and ever-present role this really is. I really made a very inaccurate assumptions that though my role was one of constant change and adjustment, I would be okay with the change. I'd roll with it in a relaxed and accepting fashion. As if.

There are delightful and sometimes painful surprises along the way and I will admit right here and right now and I in fact have NOT been "rolling with it" as well as I'd expected. The physical distance between me and my kids grows larger and with it, the emotional connections sometimes falter. No sense in handing out blame and I accept my role in this phenomenon. But I surely do not like it. I know, I know- it's what I bargained for and in so many ways had hoped for. Independent adults, living their lives anywhere and in any way they wanted. I knew intellectually that I was not to be a part of their everyday lives, decisions and experiences. But the actuality of this has been more difficult to accept. That is my problem, not theirs.

Many friends whose kids left for college never to return to the San Francisco Bay Area shoot me borderline menacing looks when I sigh and complain. The Sberlo kids were around the homestead for much longer than most - until well into their twenties. I argue then that my adjustment is that much harder. In a previous blog, I wrote about September 2009, when within two weeks, my oldest kid left, my youngest kid started college and my dog died. Talk about ripping the bandage off quickly.

Years ago I attended a lecture by Hope Edelman called "Motherless Daughters". It was attended by, as you might guess, a few hundred of us motherless daughters. Each woman had her story but it wasn't until a gray-haired woman in the back of the hall stood up and said, "I have just lost my mother and I am devastated." Having lost my mother when I was 29 years old, I am ashamed to admit that my first thought was, "You were lucky to have had your mother through your seventies!" And then she uttered a sentence that put me in my place, "I had my mother for so long, I don't even know how to live without her." 

Einstein really had something there with his Theory of Relativity. We get accustomed to something being a certain way and the longer that is the case, the more difficult it is when it changes. And it goes without saying that that applies to both positive and negative change. It's up to me to make those adjustments and understand that it's okay for the paradigm of my relationship with each of my kids to morph into something different. 

I find myself going through waves of mature, thoughtful adaptation and acceptance and then periods of sadness, loneliness and even a little heartbreak. My goal here is to not put that burden on them and to continue whatever stream of communication works for both of us at the time. Texting is a Godsend, emails can be fun and seeing their face on a screen is the best of all. I think I ought to call my dad right now...

My new, old relationship

It's weird to feel like a daughter again. For so many years, I was only a mother, a sister, an aunt - I never really thought that I felt something was missing. In the wake of my parents’ divorce more than 30 years ago, the relationship with my dad was so painful and fragmented that I just let it go & decided to live my life without him in it. After all, there were many tumultuous years prior to the divorce and maybe I was using those as an excuse to excise him from my life. I know one thing. The minute my mother died, I felt as though I ceased to be a daughter of anyone.

Following her death in 1983, I used to dread my dad coming back to San Francisco for a visit.  I resented him for being the one who was alive when my mom wasn’t, for leaving her five years earlier, for causing my nuclear family to implode like a mushroom cloud, leaving so much emotional debris everywhere. Time passed, life went on, and the relationship remained tattered and tenuous. 

And then, in 2007, my dad turned 80 and something I didn’t anticipate happened: I decided to finally visit him. My sister and I flew to Portland, rented a car and showed up for this milestone birthday. It was peculiar, as neither of us felt particularly close to him, and yet we both felt it important to mark the occasion, and going together made it that much easier. Soon we found ourselves sitting in his living room way up in the northwest corner of Oregon, talking about the past and listening to him talk about his life.

While he was talking, I watched him and listened intently to him talk of dreams both met and unfulfilled and his hopes for the rest of his life, "no matter how long that might be."  I felt an overpowering and undeniable sensation in my chest. I realized that it was my heart starting to crack and break. For the first time in close to 25 years I realized that I actually did love my father. The reality of his one day passing away and my never having expressed my love for him was suddenly unimaginable to me.  The more I opened my heart, the more able I was to accept him and all his eccentricities. 

When I came back home to San Francisco, two-way communication started slowly and then began to flow. I talked to my own kids about what happened that weekend, and the more accepting I was, the more they began to open their hearts. Much like my realization that I might actually need my father, my kids realized that they enjoyed the idea of having a grandfather, too. My dad played the role well and with passion, remembering everyone's birthdays with a calligraphy card, making each kid feel special with his beautiful artwork.

Now, some four years later, the love has blossomed and the dread of his visits is gone, replaced by anticipation and happiness. This year, despite breaking a hip in January and then having a stent inserted after a heart attack in November, my dad still wanted to make the trip down to see us. He can still be aggravatingly righteous, imparting spiritual principles by which he lives his life and thinks that everyone else should too. But I can forgive this and accept it and now feel comfortable enough to tell him how I really feel about his proclamations - that they sound like so much b.s. to me. And that type of honesty, generally only reserved for those you feel closest to feels great. It's real, like an authentic relationship.

I guess the lesson is that people really do change. As my friend Jeri says, sometimes it takes 80 years to really grow up. But it's also about my role in the dynamic between us and my ability to forgive, to understand, to feel compassion and to give this new relationship a chance to breathe on its own. And I admit, I like the feeling when I ask him, "How are you feeling, daddy?" and get to reclaim my role as daughter.

Anchors "Away"...

I once asked my friend Shari what, if anything, she felt was her family's anchor? That is, the one thing she felt brought her family together as her kids got older. Much to my surprise, she said, "Breakfast." Closing my eyes for just a moment and imagining the chaos that was my house early in the morning, I implored her to explain. She said that whatever time her two kids got up, she & her husband would simply get up 1/2 hour earlier and they would eat breakfast as a family.

As unfathomable as that was in MY world, I pictured a sleepy but warm gathering around her table and a lovely way to start the day. I know that each family is different but I do believe that families that tried to create some type of 'anchor' whether it was sitting together to watch baseball or football or eat Sunday brunch together, were families that felt close - even if it wasn't a daily or weekly ritual, but the attempt at togetherness often being enough.

Our anchor was always Friday night dinners. Loathe as I am to admit it, it was the one night a week that everyone was guaranteed a sumptuous, home-cooked feast. It's not like I didn't cook them dinner during the week, but with four kids, it was often a spaghetti (everyone go upstairs & put on a red shirt), grilled cheese sandwiches or breakfast-for-dinner. No one complained but on Fridays, I pulled out all the stops and the atmosphere just felt, well, different.

I knew everyone would show up. You only missed Friday night dinners if you were out of town, or had an inflexible event. But most Fridays everyone showed up and the ritual pandemonium was unleashed. In those few hours, we were connected to each other. Anchors are elements that ground us and ours did just that. The anticipation of seeing my kids around the dinner table was something I did look forward to. It helped create a feeling of belonging and a sense of rootedness for us and those are cool values to be able to impart merely with a chicken dinner.

Friday dinners created a forum for family debates, the sharing of experiences, listening to each others stories and laughing. Table conversation was not exactly deep or philosophical in nature, but touched on such far-reaching concepts like the hilarity of farting at inopportune moments or what Homer Simpson might say about a given subject. Man I miss those conversations. 

With the four of them out now out and each living in different cities, I'm a little like a ship without its mooring on Friday nights - maybe a bit adrift, though not entirely lost, I find myself feeling pathetically nostalgic and wishing for the security, the weight of that anchor. But at the time, its role to connect a vessel and prevent it from drifting out to sea I think served its purpose for all of us.

This just in...Kids move out, puppy moves in!

I swear I didn't mean to- I was just walking by one of those sidewalk puppy fairs. The ones where you know not to stop, lest you feel tempted. I stopped. I got tempted.

It had not even been 48 hours since my son left San Francisco to move to New York. After a ridiculously teary goodbye (and I wasn't the only one crying) I watched him drive down our steep hill in a stranger's '98 VW beetle, (one of those win-win arrangements made via Craiglist) driving a stick-shift after a quick 2-hour lesson, and knowing it would be a pretty long time until I saw him again. Oh, and it was raining.

Though he hasn't lived in my house for years, I still felt a palpable silence. Now that I think about it, maybe that was inside my head, but it was present nevertheless. I spent the rest of the day moping about, watching poor TV and tearing up a lot. Though the logical half of my brain (at least I think it takes up half) reminds me that this is a positive development, a perfect time in the life of a 24-year old to experience something new and different. It's what I would have done. It's what I did do.

So two days later I found myself walking down Market St, I saw the puppy. She was so needy, so thin, so...hungry looking...in that cage that I had to take her home just to feed her. I found out that we actually shared a name, albeit for odd reasons. She was being called "D.D", short for ditch dog where she had been found. She was under a year and she needed some love from a foster family and I nominated myself for the job. My husband was surprisingly OK with the plan and we took her home, immediately renaming her Bella and introducing her to our 6 year old dog, Izzy.

After a week of fostering, I now recognize a few things about myself. One- I am a sucker (I wish I could say this surprised me), Two- I get very quickly attached (again, stating the obvious here) and three- I should not keep her. She's been a grand diversion, so she's fulfilled her role in my life. And I have fulfilled mine. Her ribs no longer show.

But it was an important lesson for me...for all moms really when we go through this sea-change with our grown kids.  I know that my kids will always need me on some level (my son called me from Ohio for help in finding a supermarket). It's just not in the same way I've been there for them for all these years. It's a drastic job description change.

And I know that now, I need to start taking care of myself. In understanding what that means, my mind drifts to all the times I have flown. The tedious safety instructions are always the same - word-for-word on every airline. "If you're traveling with a child, place your mask on your face first, then assist your child."

That's not as easy as it might sound. Yeah, on an airplane I get it. But extrapolating that wise advise and applying it to my life is a bit more challenging when my maternal instinct has always been to help my kids first and think later.

I may have had to say goodbye to my son and I may have to say goodbye to Bella, but I learned a lot this week and I know they are very important lessons in my "mom education". Just when I think I am oh so smart, another lesson gets thrown in my face. Where the hell did I put that oxygen mask?

Susan Sarandon and me

One of my favorite actresses, Susan Sarandon once said, “When I turn 80, I’d like to know that my life has been completely spent. I’d like to know that I’ve loved, I’ve help the world become a better place, that my kids are happy, that I’ve tried.”

Damn I love her thinking.

For 30 years, I have been consumed with watching as my kids grow up and then as we know happens, move out. The idea of their happiness still fills my thoughts and my heart. Some things never change. It’s like one of those old-fashioned jobs where people stayed with the same company for their whole lives, giving it their all & remaining loyal and focused. I don’t need the proverbial gold watch because watching them really is its own reward for a job I believe I executed well.

But I do remember going to social gatherings years ago & being asked ‘So, what do you do?” What a weird question, if you think about it. If I really told them what I was doing on a daily basis, it would have taken hours. Suffice to say that when I responded with “I’m a stay-at-home mom”, I would watch their eyes immediately scour the room for someone, something more interesting than me. What could I possibly contribute to a normal, intelligent adult conversation if I wasn’t out in the work world actually pulling a salary. No co-workers, no admin assistant to dump off my paperwork, no boss about which to complain. I was simply raising and nurturing my four charges, tending to their every need and trying to mold them into the best and happiest people I possibly could. Try putting that into a concise, party-friendly response.

I am happy with my work. I liked my job back then and even today I am always in awe of how the job has morphed and changed and continues to challenge me.. It sometimes feels like a moving target, but I think I’ve got the formula now.

So I’m with Sarandon here.  Like her, I have loved and done so more intensely than I ever thought possible.  Her last wish, hoping “that I’ve tried” touched me because I know that I try harder to be a good parent than I’ve ever tried anything else in my life. And that’s all I really have- the trying - because I figure if I care that intensely and for that long about something, it’s sure to come out extraordinarily well.