My son is at the age where we have life lesson conversations in the car, en route to some activity. We’ve had some lovely discussions, and their brevity and the guarantee of having to end when we reach our destination lends a kind of safety – to both of us. These will not be marathon conversations from which neither one of us can escape.
No, this is the snippet version – drop a topic, get a thought or idea in, then out of the car he heads. And for the record, he’s often the one that initiates these conversations, as he still feels welcome to bring gigantic, unanswerable questions to me. We’ve had some great conversations like this, on pretty big topics – how do you know if God is real, how do you talk to girls, how can he start remembering to do stuff so I can nag less, how does he want to apologize to a friend if he’s hurt their feelings, what do I remember about being a little girl, are the people in China walking around upside down (since they’re below us on the globe and if you drilled a hole through the earth you’d get directly there), and so on.
Last night, we were talking about how complicated it’s going to be for kids in his generation to hang out with their friends, as so many of his friends’ families have experienced divorce, and now the kids live in two houses. How to know which house the friend is at if you want to hang out with them? What if the schedules are opposite? Can you ever ask a kid to change their schedule with their parents?
I anticipated that we’d end up talking about cell phones and text messaging and I’d steer the conversation toward developing the communication skills to ask kids where they’re likely to be at any given moment.
“Maybe grown-ups should just like each other more when they get married,” he stated.
“Hmmmm,” I stalled for a reply. We had a few more miles to go before our destination, so I had plenty of time to add something.
My son was giving me a life lesson, and it was my turn to stay quiet after the important revelation. So I did.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Window Shopping
Although I don’t like malls, I’m a sucker for a perfect window shopping street. There’s one not too far from me, and I go there as often as possible. It’s got a lovely artisan jewelry and baby clothing store, a pretty good happy hour place, a place to buy (and therefore, sample) expensive imported lotions and perfumes, one of the few remaining independent bookstores, a lovely kitchen store, to which I have heartily offered up hours of my life in order to be surrounded by colorful table cloths and ceramic serving dishes and floor-to-ceiling gadgets, and a high end place offering handbags, shoes, and tasteful collections of erotic photography – I know, that surprised me, too, brightly colored books celebrating male and female sexuality, right alongside some greeting cards and hand-made soaps. I’m not going to describe the coffee and pastry shops, nor the fragrance of the decadent Chocolatier’s – it’s just a great place to stroll and browse.
But one clothing boutique is an anomaly. Each time I walk past, I am struck by how unattractive its clothes are. The display windows show two headless, chalky white mannequins shrouded in all black, although occasionally there are some gray pieces; some clothes are shapeless, some body-hugging, but all are monochrome and all look unfriendly. The dresses are often paired with black leggings; clunky, chunky monochrome black or grey shoes or boots; and big, black, leather satchels. Satchels large enough to hold a full picnic luncheon for a group of friends, or to be a mega-sized baby bag jammed full of diapers and wipes and bottles and clothing changes and snacks and toys and parenting how-to books, but I doubt that any woman choosing these outfits is going to a picnic, or will be anywhere near a baby.
They frequently have at least one black leather dress in the window, but never supple or soft-looking leather that evokes the desire to touch or caress it. The most recent black leather dress (sleeveless and thigh-length as we’re headed into winter) has a rather bumpy nap, like you’d expect in cheap car interiors or even a floor mat, and it’s four panels are sewn together with outer stitching lines, smack dab down the front, each side, and the back.
Behind the windows, the store is austere, with a few clothing racks in a much-too-large-space, beige walls, uninviting yet nondescript wall hangings, and, not surprisingly, the clothes are all monochrome – but there are some browns hung next to the blacks and grays. Nothing looks chic or elegant, not even vaguely “European” – even though I imagine (hope, really) it’s meant to.
The shop owner is a tall, big-boned woman, who wears black, but usually in a kind of shapeless fashion. She’s pale, which is odd because she has olive skin. She has what I grew up calling dirty blond hair, shoulder length but without body or shine. She smokes cigarettes, which ought not warrant mention, but it seems out of place these days. She doesn’t seem chic or elegant, either, but vaguely unhappy, drawn, bored even.
The one feature of the store that seems remotely lifelike is the overlarge, stuffed (black) dog bed, for an overweight, old (black) Rottweiler. But the bed is usually empty, and the dog’s obvious absence lends to the heavy atmosphere.
I don’t know who shops in this shop; it doesn’t seem to have a lot of people in it, but maybe I’m just there at its slow moments. It’s hard for me to imagine that these clothes will flatter anybody, even women with terrific figures and long, slim waists. Maybe, maybe, a runway model, with tons of color in her make-up or who could add colored stockings or somehow breathe life into these outfits; but it is too ironic to assume a rail-thin, stiletto-perched woman, empty from self-denial and starvation, could bring anything resembling vibrance to whatever she wears. Maybe the clothes are simply for really young women, the ones who can wear clothes as a dare, whose slim, still-developing figures can make a statement in low-rise jeans or in austere couture. Women who really are just wearing their youth and vitality, and yet they have to put something on when they go out.
I’ve spent months walking past the shop, thinking they’d eventually have something more appealing, something more feminine, although don’t get me wrong – all they sell is very clearly targeted for women. But I haven’t found much I like. What I do find is that I get angry each time I pass. Angry that this is what’s being offered up for women to wear, as if someone somewhere wants women to look this bad. Angry that the store seems to induce a bitterness, that it conveys I’m too old and no longer part of whatever slice of women want such clothes, and will wear them. Because, let’s be clear – these clothes have been designed and manufactured, then selected and brought in to a small boutique, hung on the (drab) racks and (pasty) mannequins, but they are expected to sell, and such sales must pay the rent of this high-rent dungeon. I don’t get this anger when I walk past other stores whose target audience is decades younger than me – I usually feel a combination of nostalgia and pleasure as these stores and their clothes radiate life and the joy of living it.
I’d like to say the anger has passed, but perhaps it’s more truthful to say it’s mellowed just a bit, and no new insults come to mind when I walk by. But I’ve also come to feel a wry smile on my face, a sense of anticipation as I walk by, as I wait to encounter the next unappealing morsel hanging there. I slow down and really look at the clothes. I analyze the fabrics, the cut, the lines. And after that, I feel smug: I will NEVER wear these things, but please, please, please, dress the whole rest of the city in these garments, because if that ever happens, I’m gonna look great standing next to these women.
I don’t claim to have much fashion sense. My clothes are not from designers, and nothing in my closet dates from “this season” – let alone last year. My stuff is just plain old, frequently purchased at consignment shops, so I mean, old. But nice. I put on my clothes, and I look good. Not runway model good, certainly not fashion industry good, not even chic, but good for me. Good with color, good even with occasional black, good somehow. I look happy. I have several friends who understand fashion, stay up on the latest trends, add a few new pieces to their wardrobe seasonally. But they never look ashen or joyless (although I’ve never seen them in nappy leather, either).
I heard once that the goal of women’s fashion magazines was to make the reader so miserable, so quickly, that within just seconds of picking up the magazine, the woman was likely to take some action to make her feel better about herself. Any action was likely to result in spending money – buying a beauty product, clothing or services so she could look and feel better. Not too unlike the evening news. Misery sells, I guess.
But maybe not to everyone. I don’t watch the news; I don’t buy fashion magazines. I don’t shop at the cold/black/gray/unhappy boutique. This little storefront initially threatened my sense of self, then reinforced that I like the way I already am. So I won’t go in to feel better. Instead, off I trot, smug and happy, to spend my time on things that generate more happiness, with nary an induction of misery in the process.
And, oh, the treasures I sometimes buy from the bright, lively, joyful shops peppered up and down the rest of the street.
But one clothing boutique is an anomaly. Each time I walk past, I am struck by how unattractive its clothes are. The display windows show two headless, chalky white mannequins shrouded in all black, although occasionally there are some gray pieces; some clothes are shapeless, some body-hugging, but all are monochrome and all look unfriendly. The dresses are often paired with black leggings; clunky, chunky monochrome black or grey shoes or boots; and big, black, leather satchels. Satchels large enough to hold a full picnic luncheon for a group of friends, or to be a mega-sized baby bag jammed full of diapers and wipes and bottles and clothing changes and snacks and toys and parenting how-to books, but I doubt that any woman choosing these outfits is going to a picnic, or will be anywhere near a baby.
They frequently have at least one black leather dress in the window, but never supple or soft-looking leather that evokes the desire to touch or caress it. The most recent black leather dress (sleeveless and thigh-length as we’re headed into winter) has a rather bumpy nap, like you’d expect in cheap car interiors or even a floor mat, and it’s four panels are sewn together with outer stitching lines, smack dab down the front, each side, and the back.
Behind the windows, the store is austere, with a few clothing racks in a much-too-large-space, beige walls, uninviting yet nondescript wall hangings, and, not surprisingly, the clothes are all monochrome – but there are some browns hung next to the blacks and grays. Nothing looks chic or elegant, not even vaguely “European” – even though I imagine (hope, really) it’s meant to.
The shop owner is a tall, big-boned woman, who wears black, but usually in a kind of shapeless fashion. She’s pale, which is odd because she has olive skin. She has what I grew up calling dirty blond hair, shoulder length but without body or shine. She smokes cigarettes, which ought not warrant mention, but it seems out of place these days. She doesn’t seem chic or elegant, either, but vaguely unhappy, drawn, bored even.
The one feature of the store that seems remotely lifelike is the overlarge, stuffed (black) dog bed, for an overweight, old (black) Rottweiler. But the bed is usually empty, and the dog’s obvious absence lends to the heavy atmosphere.
I don’t know who shops in this shop; it doesn’t seem to have a lot of people in it, but maybe I’m just there at its slow moments. It’s hard for me to imagine that these clothes will flatter anybody, even women with terrific figures and long, slim waists. Maybe, maybe, a runway model, with tons of color in her make-up or who could add colored stockings or somehow breathe life into these outfits; but it is too ironic to assume a rail-thin, stiletto-perched woman, empty from self-denial and starvation, could bring anything resembling vibrance to whatever she wears. Maybe the clothes are simply for really young women, the ones who can wear clothes as a dare, whose slim, still-developing figures can make a statement in low-rise jeans or in austere couture. Women who really are just wearing their youth and vitality, and yet they have to put something on when they go out.
I’ve spent months walking past the shop, thinking they’d eventually have something more appealing, something more feminine, although don’t get me wrong – all they sell is very clearly targeted for women. But I haven’t found much I like. What I do find is that I get angry each time I pass. Angry that this is what’s being offered up for women to wear, as if someone somewhere wants women to look this bad. Angry that the store seems to induce a bitterness, that it conveys I’m too old and no longer part of whatever slice of women want such clothes, and will wear them. Because, let’s be clear – these clothes have been designed and manufactured, then selected and brought in to a small boutique, hung on the (drab) racks and (pasty) mannequins, but they are expected to sell, and such sales must pay the rent of this high-rent dungeon. I don’t get this anger when I walk past other stores whose target audience is decades younger than me – I usually feel a combination of nostalgia and pleasure as these stores and their clothes radiate life and the joy of living it.
I’d like to say the anger has passed, but perhaps it’s more truthful to say it’s mellowed just a bit, and no new insults come to mind when I walk by. But I’ve also come to feel a wry smile on my face, a sense of anticipation as I walk by, as I wait to encounter the next unappealing morsel hanging there. I slow down and really look at the clothes. I analyze the fabrics, the cut, the lines. And after that, I feel smug: I will NEVER wear these things, but please, please, please, dress the whole rest of the city in these garments, because if that ever happens, I’m gonna look great standing next to these women.
I don’t claim to have much fashion sense. My clothes are not from designers, and nothing in my closet dates from “this season” – let alone last year. My stuff is just plain old, frequently purchased at consignment shops, so I mean, old. But nice. I put on my clothes, and I look good. Not runway model good, certainly not fashion industry good, not even chic, but good for me. Good with color, good even with occasional black, good somehow. I look happy. I have several friends who understand fashion, stay up on the latest trends, add a few new pieces to their wardrobe seasonally. But they never look ashen or joyless (although I’ve never seen them in nappy leather, either).
I heard once that the goal of women’s fashion magazines was to make the reader so miserable, so quickly, that within just seconds of picking up the magazine, the woman was likely to take some action to make her feel better about herself. Any action was likely to result in spending money – buying a beauty product, clothing or services so she could look and feel better. Not too unlike the evening news. Misery sells, I guess.
But maybe not to everyone. I don’t watch the news; I don’t buy fashion magazines. I don’t shop at the cold/black/gray/unhappy boutique. This little storefront initially threatened my sense of self, then reinforced that I like the way I already am. So I won’t go in to feel better. Instead, off I trot, smug and happy, to spend my time on things that generate more happiness, with nary an induction of misery in the process.
And, oh, the treasures I sometimes buy from the bright, lively, joyful shops peppered up and down the rest of the street.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Watch Repair
I went to the mall last weekend – a place I don’t frequently go, despite being female and having, supposedly, an innate homing response to bring me there. My watch band was broken, and there’s a watch repair shop located in a kiosk, somewhere between the JCPenney and Nordstrom anchors. You can tell by these two stores that the mall has never really found its identity. Not like the new competitor, just a few miles away, with Neiman Marcus, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, Hermes, and Ferragamo – and, of course, no lowly watch repair kiosk in the middle.
So off I go on a downpour-style rainy Saturday afternoon, tucking this task in between two other errands. My husband was working, my son was busy, so it was just me, filled with free time I could have filled with anything, but, instead, I have to take my watch in.
It’s only October, and the mall parking lot is full. Who are these people, I want to know, who willingly come here? I get it’s awful out, and not a lot to do outdoors, but, really, is there no better place to hang out?
Anyway, in I go, and I quickly find the kiosk, and the beleaguered young man who works here, by himself, in a kiosk, in a mall. He’s got his head hung over a blue leather watchband, and has four customers before me. The first is an elderly woman and her companion – they’re here for the blue watchband. I know a bit about old women, and no transaction is a quick one. So I settle in to my spot behind a tall, nondescript, mustached man, and begin to sigh loudly, breathe audibly, shift my weight from foot to foot, look disparagingly at the still-broken timepiece on my wrist, and generally make my misery public. The kiosk guy looks up and apologetically mumbles he’ll be with us shortly. Perhaps clear diction is contraindicated for kiosk work; perhaps I’m just testy.
My pessimistic presumptions are challenged, as within just a few minutes the blue watchband lady is finished. Then the stylish, trendily-bald man presents his bold, gold, chunky metallic watchband for service. Eventually an older couple comes in line after me, and we make small talk. Just this tiny bit of human connection is enough to make me stand up straight, stop sighing, and begin to engage in dialogue that is pleasant. They bring me back from the edge, restore me to my preferred version of myself – wherever you two folks are today, please accept my thanks.
We talk, we chat about nothing, we make small moments of light laughter, and then it’s the guy in front of me who’s up. The kiosk guy looks over in my direction, and I’m thinking it’s a total victory – I’m gonna be next, I’m gonna get out of here before noon, I can finish up with the other errands and get home for something pleasant to do before the day is up. The older couple has wandered into a neighboring store, and come back, leaning on the kiosk counter. The guy in front of me is done, it’s just about to be my turn, and the older man launches into his repair request while I’m staring, gaping open-mouthed and speechless, thinking I’ve just been skunked and they’ve stolen my place and it’s totally not fair. I stammer (perhaps just proximity to kiosks steals linguistic capacity) that I was here first, and it’s my turn, and the couple and the kiosk man are instantly apologetic. The couple offer up their reason for stepping forward in front of me – they are not, it turns out, skunk-like people. They thought I was with the last customer, and that it was their turn after “we” were finished. They thought I was his wife.
They see two people out for the day at the mall. The couple doesn’t speak to each other. The guy’s turned away from his mate the whole time she’s standing next to him; the woman’s broadcasting every possible message of boredom and irritation. The nice couple (remember, these are the two who had redeemed me just minutes prior) and the kiosk guy see all this, and draw the natural conclusion: these two are married.
“What a miserable marriage that would’ve been,” I joke. We’re all laughing, and of course, the kiosk guy fixes my watch quickly – for no charge – and I cheerily say goodbye to him and the nice couple, who finally have their turn. We’ve all found our words and our better selves through this funny instance of mistaken perceptions.
Had my actual husband been with me on this errand, he wouldn’t have been in line with me – he’d have seen the time requirement and excused himself to browse the really cool knife and cigar shop. But before he’d have left, it’s likely he would have stood by my side, spoken directly to me while looking at me; heck, he might have even held my hand, or stood close with his arm around my waist, letting me lean into him the way I like to (better for me to stay balanced while perched on one foot). Our vibe would have reflected something like pleasure for a small moment of connection.
I hope this is the way my marriage always looks and feels – not a testy/bored/couldn’t-care-less/keep-your-expectations-low union that’s lost its luster - even when we’re just running errands, in line at a kiosk, in the dreaded mall.
So off I go on a downpour-style rainy Saturday afternoon, tucking this task in between two other errands. My husband was working, my son was busy, so it was just me, filled with free time I could have filled with anything, but, instead, I have to take my watch in.
It’s only October, and the mall parking lot is full. Who are these people, I want to know, who willingly come here? I get it’s awful out, and not a lot to do outdoors, but, really, is there no better place to hang out?
Anyway, in I go, and I quickly find the kiosk, and the beleaguered young man who works here, by himself, in a kiosk, in a mall. He’s got his head hung over a blue leather watchband, and has four customers before me. The first is an elderly woman and her companion – they’re here for the blue watchband. I know a bit about old women, and no transaction is a quick one. So I settle in to my spot behind a tall, nondescript, mustached man, and begin to sigh loudly, breathe audibly, shift my weight from foot to foot, look disparagingly at the still-broken timepiece on my wrist, and generally make my misery public. The kiosk guy looks up and apologetically mumbles he’ll be with us shortly. Perhaps clear diction is contraindicated for kiosk work; perhaps I’m just testy.
My pessimistic presumptions are challenged, as within just a few minutes the blue watchband lady is finished. Then the stylish, trendily-bald man presents his bold, gold, chunky metallic watchband for service. Eventually an older couple comes in line after me, and we make small talk. Just this tiny bit of human connection is enough to make me stand up straight, stop sighing, and begin to engage in dialogue that is pleasant. They bring me back from the edge, restore me to my preferred version of myself – wherever you two folks are today, please accept my thanks.
We talk, we chat about nothing, we make small moments of light laughter, and then it’s the guy in front of me who’s up. The kiosk guy looks over in my direction, and I’m thinking it’s a total victory – I’m gonna be next, I’m gonna get out of here before noon, I can finish up with the other errands and get home for something pleasant to do before the day is up. The older couple has wandered into a neighboring store, and come back, leaning on the kiosk counter. The guy in front of me is done, it’s just about to be my turn, and the older man launches into his repair request while I’m staring, gaping open-mouthed and speechless, thinking I’ve just been skunked and they’ve stolen my place and it’s totally not fair. I stammer (perhaps just proximity to kiosks steals linguistic capacity) that I was here first, and it’s my turn, and the couple and the kiosk man are instantly apologetic. The couple offer up their reason for stepping forward in front of me – they are not, it turns out, skunk-like people. They thought I was with the last customer, and that it was their turn after “we” were finished. They thought I was his wife.
They see two people out for the day at the mall. The couple doesn’t speak to each other. The guy’s turned away from his mate the whole time she’s standing next to him; the woman’s broadcasting every possible message of boredom and irritation. The nice couple (remember, these are the two who had redeemed me just minutes prior) and the kiosk guy see all this, and draw the natural conclusion: these two are married.
“What a miserable marriage that would’ve been,” I joke. We’re all laughing, and of course, the kiosk guy fixes my watch quickly – for no charge – and I cheerily say goodbye to him and the nice couple, who finally have their turn. We’ve all found our words and our better selves through this funny instance of mistaken perceptions.
Had my actual husband been with me on this errand, he wouldn’t have been in line with me – he’d have seen the time requirement and excused himself to browse the really cool knife and cigar shop. But before he’d have left, it’s likely he would have stood by my side, spoken directly to me while looking at me; heck, he might have even held my hand, or stood close with his arm around my waist, letting me lean into him the way I like to (better for me to stay balanced while perched on one foot). Our vibe would have reflected something like pleasure for a small moment of connection.
I hope this is the way my marriage always looks and feels – not a testy/bored/couldn’t-care-less/keep-your-expectations-low union that’s lost its luster - even when we’re just running errands, in line at a kiosk, in the dreaded mall.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Legacies
I am the embodiment - literally - of those who came before me. I have my maternal grandfather's face structure and nose, as do my mother and brother. My mother's features don't show much of her own mother, yet they clearly shared some of their build: short-waisted and thick around the middle. Waists (defined by me as an area that should slope inward, creating two separate, visible curves of hips and bust), were not something women from this side of the family inherited. My grandmother topped this off with an enormous bust; my mother not so much. Three generations of flat, rather small butts. And good legs. My Mom's legs still look great - shapely and tanned during summer, perfect for lounging by her pool.
I had, for most of my life, this same boxy, sturdy Volvo build. I now have modest curves, a waist that indents ever so slightly, and a respectable belly. Out of clothes, I have a better body at midlife than I did in my 20's, and not many people can say that. I will forever be short-waisted, and some time well after most women accept the “facts” of what their bodies will and won’t do, accepted that I would never grow or exercise into more vertical space on my torso. And I finally understand that this - short-waistedness - is the thing that prevents me from being able to wear off-the-rack clothes with panache, not my height, my weight, my shoe size (big for my height, but I can’t figure where that comes from, as my 9½ post-pregnancy feet far surpass my Mom’s 7), or anything about my actual waist size.
The way my Mom looks so much like only one parent, I look predominantly like her. I don't have my father’s facial features, although my skin reddens like his so perhaps I have his vein structure. I have my mother’s teeth by composition, but my father’s placement (can’t really tell now, as I’ve had years of braces, night gear, and retainers). I have my Dad’s love of fried foods; we'd rather order a fried food option at any restaurant, at any time of the day. And he and I devour the fatty part of meat, rather than cutting it away and leaving it for table scraps, like we’re supposed to. My Mom’s more of a nibbler, and goes for bread ends. I have my Father’s quick irritability and just-under-the-surface capacity for dissatisfaction, as well as his youthful optimism and playfulness (harder to see these days, but give him the right moment, and you’ll see it). I have my mother's quickness to put up a hard shell - the thing that separates survivors from victims in this world, but also takes a toll as it closes off deeper senses of contentment, love and ease – as well as her love of family and ritual, and her fierce commitment to participate in any kind of celebration, as if happy moments are in limited supply in life, so not a one can be missed.
My son is now showing his inheritance of physical and emotional legacies. He has big brown eyes and long lashes, Mediterranean olive skin, a small nose and high cheek bones. I can take credit for none of these, as they are nowhere in me or in my family tree. No, the physical qualities I’ve passed down to him are a gummy smile, hair that will become curly and unruly if allowed, and his eventual need for orthodontics. He has a quickness to feel emotional overwhelm, and pronounces the letter "r" with a Jersey twang. Gee – these, too, are directly from me (no one in the family is from Jersey, but apparently mouth shape and tongue placement, crucial for the 32 different types of "r" sounds formed in English words, are genetically passed along and he's inherited my childhood speech snafu). He can't throw very well (yet), holds his breath when catching a ball, and stands on one foot when doing both (as well as his homework). I cringe to admit - these are mine. Thankfully, he’s got parental figures intent to get him up to speed with sports, so we hope to help him move with ease through boy friendship groups and playground games. He might thus outgrow the legacy of the breath-holding, one-footed-stance sports misery, whereas I never have – I still hold my breath when throwing/catching, and if it’s a sport with a ball and an object with which to hit it (softball, baseball, tennis, ping pong, you name it), I’m still likely to miss the ball completely.
My son is funny, intuitive, linguistic, creative and sensitive (mine? His Dad’s? I'd like to claim all of these, but he could easily have picked them either side of the family tree). He doesn't get cold easily, and can wear shorts long into fall; here he's channeling my brother. If he ever plays trumpet or coronet, we'll chalk that up to my Uncle Al, who is fully responsible for my years as a terrible middle-school horn player.
I have come to shape the legacies I've inherited, and add on to them from the part of me that has come from seemingly nowhere. Or at least nowhere from the physical world. My son has qualities that come from this other source as well, unknown, but clearly not passed down from person to person. He has more emotional resilience than anyone from either side of the family; he can get along with others with such ease it's as if he radiates some primal magnetism, but his isn't off-putting or offensive, just joyous. And trust me, he comes from a very long line of very good people, but none of them have an inherently joyous primal magnetism.
So I hope to get this from him, to mold myself in his image, the way we tend to think kids mold themselves after adults. He and I will never look alike - no one who sees us can find a similarity of feature or body style (unless we both happen to be standing on one foot having a gummy-smile conversation with them). But nonetheless, his legacy will be his integrity, his love of life, his joyous nature, and the sound of a Jersey twang when his kids start speaking.
I had, for most of my life, this same boxy, sturdy Volvo build. I now have modest curves, a waist that indents ever so slightly, and a respectable belly. Out of clothes, I have a better body at midlife than I did in my 20's, and not many people can say that. I will forever be short-waisted, and some time well after most women accept the “facts” of what their bodies will and won’t do, accepted that I would never grow or exercise into more vertical space on my torso. And I finally understand that this - short-waistedness - is the thing that prevents me from being able to wear off-the-rack clothes with panache, not my height, my weight, my shoe size (big for my height, but I can’t figure where that comes from, as my 9½ post-pregnancy feet far surpass my Mom’s 7), or anything about my actual waist size.
The way my Mom looks so much like only one parent, I look predominantly like her. I don't have my father’s facial features, although my skin reddens like his so perhaps I have his vein structure. I have my mother’s teeth by composition, but my father’s placement (can’t really tell now, as I’ve had years of braces, night gear, and retainers). I have my Dad’s love of fried foods; we'd rather order a fried food option at any restaurant, at any time of the day. And he and I devour the fatty part of meat, rather than cutting it away and leaving it for table scraps, like we’re supposed to. My Mom’s more of a nibbler, and goes for bread ends. I have my Father’s quick irritability and just-under-the-surface capacity for dissatisfaction, as well as his youthful optimism and playfulness (harder to see these days, but give him the right moment, and you’ll see it). I have my mother's quickness to put up a hard shell - the thing that separates survivors from victims in this world, but also takes a toll as it closes off deeper senses of contentment, love and ease – as well as her love of family and ritual, and her fierce commitment to participate in any kind of celebration, as if happy moments are in limited supply in life, so not a one can be missed.
My son is now showing his inheritance of physical and emotional legacies. He has big brown eyes and long lashes, Mediterranean olive skin, a small nose and high cheek bones. I can take credit for none of these, as they are nowhere in me or in my family tree. No, the physical qualities I’ve passed down to him are a gummy smile, hair that will become curly and unruly if allowed, and his eventual need for orthodontics. He has a quickness to feel emotional overwhelm, and pronounces the letter "r" with a Jersey twang. Gee – these, too, are directly from me (no one in the family is from Jersey, but apparently mouth shape and tongue placement, crucial for the 32 different types of "r" sounds formed in English words, are genetically passed along and he's inherited my childhood speech snafu). He can't throw very well (yet), holds his breath when catching a ball, and stands on one foot when doing both (as well as his homework). I cringe to admit - these are mine. Thankfully, he’s got parental figures intent to get him up to speed with sports, so we hope to help him move with ease through boy friendship groups and playground games. He might thus outgrow the legacy of the breath-holding, one-footed-stance sports misery, whereas I never have – I still hold my breath when throwing/catching, and if it’s a sport with a ball and an object with which to hit it (softball, baseball, tennis, ping pong, you name it), I’m still likely to miss the ball completely.
My son is funny, intuitive, linguistic, creative and sensitive (mine? His Dad’s? I'd like to claim all of these, but he could easily have picked them either side of the family tree). He doesn't get cold easily, and can wear shorts long into fall; here he's channeling my brother. If he ever plays trumpet or coronet, we'll chalk that up to my Uncle Al, who is fully responsible for my years as a terrible middle-school horn player.
I have come to shape the legacies I've inherited, and add on to them from the part of me that has come from seemingly nowhere. Or at least nowhere from the physical world. My son has qualities that come from this other source as well, unknown, but clearly not passed down from person to person. He has more emotional resilience than anyone from either side of the family; he can get along with others with such ease it's as if he radiates some primal magnetism, but his isn't off-putting or offensive, just joyous. And trust me, he comes from a very long line of very good people, but none of them have an inherently joyous primal magnetism.
So I hope to get this from him, to mold myself in his image, the way we tend to think kids mold themselves after adults. He and I will never look alike - no one who sees us can find a similarity of feature or body style (unless we both happen to be standing on one foot having a gummy-smile conversation with them). But nonetheless, his legacy will be his integrity, his love of life, his joyous nature, and the sound of a Jersey twang when his kids start speaking.
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
A Classic Car
Last night, my son was driven home from an event by another parent, who asked if it was OK if he drove his 1974, collectible, cherry red convertible Cadillac with a perfect condition red interior. "Not many more nights we can use it this year," he said. "And there's a blanket in the back."
There's no way I could have said "no" - even though my maternal instinct ("he might get too cold") was glaringly in the front of my mind. I had to be cool enough, had to pass the test with this other family (who drives around in the car all the time) and, of course, with my son.
So he came home with ice cold ears but a wide, true smile on his face. He had driven across the city, on a rare night of crystal clear skies with stars and a sliver of the moon visible. He munched trail mix in the back seat of a drop-top Cadillac with an older, much more sophisticated woman (a 5th-grader!). Foreshadowing of nights to come for my little Romeo, who I hope will one day fully understand the joy and lure of cool cars and smart, beautiful girls, and what can be shared under the stars.
There's no way I could have said "no" - even though my maternal instinct ("he might get too cold") was glaringly in the front of my mind. I had to be cool enough, had to pass the test with this other family (who drives around in the car all the time) and, of course, with my son.
So he came home with ice cold ears but a wide, true smile on his face. He had driven across the city, on a rare night of crystal clear skies with stars and a sliver of the moon visible. He munched trail mix in the back seat of a drop-top Cadillac with an older, much more sophisticated woman (a 5th-grader!). Foreshadowing of nights to come for my little Romeo, who I hope will one day fully understand the joy and lure of cool cars and smart, beautiful girls, and what can be shared under the stars.[photo adapted from meelot.com]
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