Call it hormones, call it the residual effects of a weekend of amazing food and even more amazing... well, some things are best kept private... Call it post-Mother's Day gushing, but I feel it necessary this morning to spew out a little mush.
This week will be perhaps the busiest week I have all summer. One can hope. In addition to my normal work schedule, here is a glimpse of what is to come (and yes, I realize this may be boring and TMI, but stick with me here):
1. Clean. House. Today. Like, now, before brain explodes due to endless mental repeating of the phrase, "Cluttered house: cluttered mind."
2. Laundry. Before the stench of the southern-and-vegan-fare workplace aprons starts mingling with the Irish workplace pants, resulting in a hybrid mutant aroma of Deep Fried Shannon Reuben Sandwich.
3. Have 2003 federal tax return transcript faxed to attorney's office so we can get this bankruptcy on a freakin' roll already.
4. Visit Solomon at "the kitty hospital" before child's endless repeating of the phrase, "I miss Solomon, Mommy," drives me into guilt-ridden trip straight to said hospital, where I just may yank the poor guy right out of surgery, mid-snipping, and bring him home drugged and bleeding to a confused and now permanently psychologically scarred four year old.
5. Find babysitter for Friday, as Patsy is not available this week (any takers?).
6. Try not to gag with affectionate, empathic joy as G (he will henceforth on this website be known only as "G", so as to avoid attracting potential stalkers, which, trust me, do exist, and even though most are friendly I'm sure, he'd freak out and go into hiding if he knew how many times people are referred to my website every month after Googling his name... Resume thread...) ... as G recounts his tales of wonder and awe after seeing his favorite guitar player, The Edge, perform in Chicago last night.
7. Saturday: 9:30 am meeting at Irish workplace.
2 pm meeting at southern-and-vegan-fare workplace.
4:30 pm: Work at Irish workplace until 10 pm.
8. Sunday: Work at SVF workplace, brunch, noon-5.
9. Subsequently call editor at newspaper for which I am supposed to be writing article for July issue to inform said editor that I have DROPPED DEAD.
10. Somewhere in the midst of all of this, start actual writing process of said article.
Yikes.
Not exactly "mush," I know, but it leads me there, thus:
How in God's name did I get here? G and I stopped at a park in Door County this weekend, got out of the car, and walked to an advertised "looking point." On the way, we saw approximately eight deer standing in the woods, some close enough to touch outside the open car windows. The only sounds were of silence, wind in the trees, birds and insects, and the occasional deer darting off into the woods. Down a few steps to an overhang, where we stood fifty feet above sure death in the rocks and branches below, holding each other and trying to reassure one another in our shared fear of heights, and staring out over the water. Memories come flooding in: sitting on the edge of the Cliffs of Moher, rock climbing with my ex-husband years ago, waking up in a hospital bed and going outside to watch the sun rise over the lake and thinking, "I just gave birth.", exchanging vows on a day like this in a natural environment something like this with a person I wasn't sure I'd be with five years from then. All the times I went camping with someone I was too young and stubborn and hopeful to admit was not, despite how much I loved him at the time, my life partner.
I thought of what could be going through G's mind in that moment: past lovers, the last time he drove through Door County, sadness over the passing of a formerly promising relationship, hope and comfort in where his life has led him, whether or not he is happier now than he was then, both with himself and with his choice of partners.
I thought of home. My house, his house. Our houses. We pulled into the parking lot of his combined workplace and house and he said, "We're home." Not, "I'm home," not, "Here's my house." We're home. His grill and the flowers he and my daughter picked out on my balcony, my ribbons above his bed. The bands on our fingers - mine on my left, where he put it, and his on his right, out of respect. My daughter, coming home from her dad's house with secret letters in sealed envelopes, signed "Love, Maddie", for a man who is not her father, but loves her as much.
How did I get here?
A local magazine will be publishing my first professional attempt at writing, knowing full well that I come with no resume, no professional experience; just a load of passion, a determination to exceed their expectations, and a lifetime obsession with the written word. All because of the gentle encouragement of, yes, that one person.
My daughter will be entering kindergarten in a few short months. Last chance for a slow dance: here it is. Gone will be the days of alternately screaming at her to pick up her shit and smothering her to death in my effort to somehow convey how much I love her. She will soon after start riding buses, walking full blocks alone, when just yesterday, as we crossed a street downtown with a cat in my hair and my hands, therefore, unavailable for her holding, she cried huge, dropping tears because, "I'm scared to cross the street by myself!"
"Maddie, I'm right here, honey. I'm right beside you. Just hold onto my shirt."
"I'M SCARED, MOMMY!"
"We'll get there just fine. You'll see."
I don't know where my partner will be in five years. I hope it's with me. I hope that one day, he will, despite those nagging voices of insecurity, make a decision to go forward, to stand by the person who every single waking moment is striving to be the kind of person who deserves to be his wife. I hope he recognizes that now, in many ways, I have already become that person. Or at least, I've come quite a stretch down that path. I hope that he will honor my daughter's hope that one day, he will spend the night "forever and ever."
So I loosen my grip. Fear makes us cling. I'm reminded of a bit of advice I heard years ago regarding partnerships and marriage: Hold onto it like you would a bar of soap. If you squeeze too hard, it slips right out of your hands. Let it lie there, cupped in your fingers. Don't grab on. Just hold it. Catch it carefully. I write these words to an audience, the majority of which is unacquainted with him, knowing full well that he himself may never read these words. They're not for you. They're not for him. They're not even for me. I write these words to a Promise, to a God or a State of Enlightenment that sits in the silence and hears me and knows. Go Ahead. Go on, ya good ting. You'll get there just fine. You'll see.
Maddie is learning to read. Not just recognizing words, but actually trying to sound out the letters. Each one makes a sound, and those sounds put together make words that mean something.
Last weekend my partner and I drove through Wisconsin. This fall, it will be Ireland. Poland. Maybe even the Czech Republic. We will stand on overhangs, listening to the wind, holding each other gently and reassuring one another that we will not fall. Most of our days in between these excursions are relatively mundane, day-to-day life stuff. Dishes. Laundry. Work. Oil changes. Meals. Trying to quit smoking. I think of a day in the future when all of these efforts will be officially combined, and maybe it's because I've done it before, or maybe it's because I just envision it this way, but I really don't think much about The Day itself. It'll be sunny; it'll be rainy. It'll be cold; it will be muggy. We'll be outside; we'll be in a courthouse. I'll wear a dress. Who cares what color or kind. He'll be there. I think about what I'll say to him, and my mind goes blank. Not out of a lack of feeling, but because of an overwhelming sense of peace. I'll say what comes naturally. Five years from then, we may not remember our vows, the specific individual words that were said, but I will remember this: All of our experiences, the big ones, the little ones, may not seem like much individually. But put together, they mean something. And that Something means more to me, and to my daughter, than any human, object, or idea in this world.
A look over an overhang. A sudden gasp, a wave of calm, and two left feet, stepping forward together.
We'll get there just fine. You'll see.
I love reading this type of entry - makes me go "aaahh". You are wise beyond your years in many ways, darling daughter.
With much pride and love,
Mom