In the Heat I Sit With You and a Boy

Dear Children,

I am writing this in the past and forwarding it to an unnamed  future time so that you will have it to reference if needed.

I am sorry I no longer know your best friend's name, or recall the dress you wore to that prom.  This does make me love you any less.

I may have asked you the same question five times already, do not be annoyed, be flattered.  I truly want to know the answer.  Knowing and remembering are very different things.  Use your regular voice and answer me again.

Do not feel sorry for me because I am asking for assistance when I travel to help me in the airport.

When you were little, I assisted you.  I held your hand and your future in my own hand and guided you as you needed.  Now I am the one who needs the guidance.  It is your turn to take my hand and my future and guide me.

You may want to cry out that this is not fair.  I am the one who has always been the keeper of all your infant memories and childhood tales that made us laugh for hours and hours upon retelling. I am glad you were paying attention each time I told them to you, I was preparing you for this moment, when you would become the keeper of your own history.

You are probably feeling sad for you and as my child, I understand that.  But do not mourn me while I am still here with you.  If someday I do not recall your face, or stumble on your name, do not yell it at me.  I retain it deep inside my heart where it matters.

You are grown now, and lead your own busy life of which I am very proud.  If I do not applaud your every new business deal, or grandchild's achievments, it is not because I no longer care.  It is because I am slipping into my own past and recalling a cold winters day when I was in third grade and a boy took my hands in his own hands and warmed them with his breath.

I never told you this story because it never seemed signifigant.  When was the time to tell such a simple sweet story?  While driving you to your lessons?  While cooking dinner, preparing birthday parties, stressing over the bills. and spending each moment I could focusing on you and your future?

It is my gift that I have given you over the years.  I have told you the stories of when you were young.  I have kept them for as long as I could.  They are yours now to pass on to your own children.  You may be too busy now being the keeper of their history, but that will change.

Did you hear my voice every time I said I love you?  Did you find comfort when I hugged you with my strong powerful Mothering arms?

My arms are not as powerful and if I forget to say I love you, there is a reason I said it so many times throughout your life; so that you would remember I do, even if I do not.

Go on now children and be your own histroy makers and keepers.  I have supplied enough memories for you to retell.   I have kept some of my own secret just for this very moment.

You may think I am not trying or paying attention, but look at my face.  Can you see the far off look in my eyes and the slight smile?

No, I can not recall your last job, or what you are doing at this moment. 

I am in third grade right now. Sitting on a bench in the cold, my hands are lacking the wrinkles they have now. A boy raises them to his mouth to blow his warm breath on them so that I might feel warm.  I am there with that boy even though I am sitting before you.

Let me sit here a while in my own past recalling each detail I can.  I sat with you in your past.  Now it is my turn.

Listen when I say I love you.  It may not come in the form of words, it may be in the sincerity of me trying to recall what you just said.  It may be in the frustration I feel because I feel lost.

Take your history.  It is also part of mine.  There may be a time when I want to hear a story about you.   I have trusted you with all these stories over your lifetime.

But right now, for this moment I am going to stay here on this bench, in the cold, feeling warmer than I ever have.

Does This Tool Belt Come in Pink?

There is an odd silence in the house this morning.  Something is missing.  After a few moments I realize that the air conditioner is not running.

My first thought was, "Fuck.  I can not afford twice in one summer to replace that unit.",  I opened one of the French doors to my bedroom and felt a cool breeze enter like a long lost relative who could not wait to take me into their arms and wrap themselves around me.

Not trusting my own senses I went to my phone and checked out all three weather applications to see if this was real.  I have been known to turn on the TV and watch the doppler when it rains instead of just enjoying the actual rain going on outside.

I have learned in this state that a "cold front" can mean anything from dropping into the 90's (today's expected high) to dropping from 90 degrees to 40 degrees in the span of a few hours.

As I write the doors are open, the eerie lack of the constant hum of the air conditioner allows me to hear the distant highway, the annoying squeak in my ceiling fan, and my dog snore simultaneously.  Amazing sounds that now resonate in my room. 

My dog has found refuge from this uncommon coolness under my blanket.

The fan is actually a bit annoying and I do not think I have had any WD40 in the house in years.  If I did manage to locate some I admit I have no idea where I would apply the greasy stuff.  I just do not have what it takes to fix things.

I can lend advice to friends in need.  I can fix a bad haircut, I can use a sewing machine, and I can dig days old crap out of the broken garbage disposal so that the sink will once again drain.  I can not however fix the disposal,  the fan,  the plumbing, or any of the myriad of things that have broken in this house.

I have contemplated more than once in taking a class on how to do basic repair.  I just can not see me actually attending or paying attention in the class long enough to learn anything.

I would spend too much time contemplating what I would wear to such a class in basic home repair.  My usual dress of skirts and tank tops would be out.  My boots cost way too much to get dirty, I do not own jeans.  I can imagine shopping for items to wear when I miraculously know how to use a hack saw, (or even identify what one is.) 

I do own several cordless drills, but have long ago misplaced the chargers.

Do they make tool belts that are cute?

These are moments when being a single parent that owns a home just sucks.  Each time something breaks, falls apart, or I am given a report of water coming out of someplace it should not, I just sigh and say, "Add it to the list." 

I hope to someday very soon hand over this list to people who have more tools than various sized allen wrenches that came from Ikea.

I am working hard to to pay back personal debts and accumulate enough cash to get the house ready to try and sell it so I can be free from the squeaking fan, dripping faucets, and hazardous deck.

When I opened the door a little while ago I thought I was welcoming in the cool breeze like a relative.  This relative however just walks around pointing out all the repairs that need to be done.

"Here Uncle Breeze, put it on the list, I am joining my dog under the covers until the air conditioning kicks on again."

If you need an allen wrench let me know.

"No Matter What Happens Louise, I am Glad I Came With You"

"I want to talk to you about sex."

This is a good opening line for talking with your child about sex. Preferably this conversation should take place when you have them trapped in a car going at a high speed so they don't contemplate jumping out.  They will still contemplate, but odds are they wont follow through if you are going fast enough.

Keep in mind that talking to them about sex gives them the same feeling you get trying to imagine your own parents having sex.  In their mind if you are talking about sex than it means you may have actually had sex once,  and that is the last thing they want to imagine. 


For me, I have always chosen the absolute most embarrassing and blunt way I could possible.  If we are going to do this conversation we are not going to beat around the bush and no pussyfooting.


Here are the basics I have tried to instill in my children:


Masturbation is A-okay


Do not let anyone pressure you into it.


Do not pressure anyone else into it.


Know how to please yourself so you can communicate that to your partner.(see first rule)


I don't care at all if you are gay or bi, I just want you happy.


Those are the basics.  But how do you explain the smallest of innuendos a person will run across in a lifetime?  How do you explain the difference between harmless flirting and flirting with intention?


Most importantly how to properly convey that sex will always be more intense when there is an emotional connection?


During some girl talk recently it was revealed to me that two people I know were planning on hooking up.  They had been acquaintances some time back but have never had a sexual relationship.  This arrangement intrigues me.  They are both consenting adults and can do as they please.


What I find curious is that they both have agreed it will be a one night only arrangement.  Going in to something knowing it will go absolutely no further than one night seems unromantic and slightly depressing to me.  For all the failings I have had in love, I still believe in love.  I want everyone I know to have the love I have experienced in my lifetime.


I am a very liberal person, and I am not against this prearranged sexual encounter.  I see it as more interesting than anything else.


I have experienced sex without an emotional connection before and while it was fine,  looking back it felt more like masturbation, only with someone else there.


Then there is the age/ life/work factor that can come into play.  I am too old to not voice my desires, I am too busy to commit, and to some degree it has to be quick as usually there are kids that will need a ride, or have been left at home.  The days of lingering in bed taking in my lover piece by piece as if all time has stopped is now an illusion.


In my life sex can begin with a text message and carry on through a day, a week, a year.  Sometimes it comes to fruition, and sometimes not. 


Sunday mornings with The New York Times, laying naked in bed having coffee, talking and making love have been replaced with short interrupted or awkward attempts.


Life becomes more complex.  Days do not seem endless, time has not stopped still.


So maybe a prearranged meeting is not the worst thing.  Maybe foreplay can take place for them in the waiting for the moment. 


I still wonder how satisfying it would be without the emotional connection.  I also wonder how it will end.  A scene from a bad movie where one slips out awkwardly while the other one sleeps?  A conversation while getting dressed that in no way acknowledges what just happened?  A text message hours later saying, "Hey that was awesome."?


If I am lucky my friend will divulge all the details to me, and I will know the answer.


Next time I have one of my children trapped in  the car I will  add to my list of things I want to tell them about sex.  That is,  before we reach a red light and they bail:


Try to be in love with the person.  Make the world stop for just the two of you.  Feel like no one else has ever felt what you are feeling.


And for God's sake wear a condom.

I Stand Before You

It has been obvious to myself and to others that I have been dwelling upon self perception. 

As I move forward with my life, family and career all going going full speed, I have had to take moments to examine the past. More specifically my youth. 

I look back and see so many boxes I was put in.  By myself or by others.  All natural parts of growing up and figuring out who I am. Some boxes had matching decor to others.  Some would cause Sesame Street to sing, "One of these things is not like the others." 

I have kept journals since I was ten years old and if need be I can always whip one out and read my immature handwriting and fel the pathos pouring out.  My daughter and I read some of my poetry I wrote in high school and we could not stop laughing.

Words of undying love written for a person I can no longer even recall.  Apparently I did not die from that one unrequited love.

I was asked by a fellow classmate what I am looking forward to about the reunion, he was wise enough to add what am I dreading.  I told him I am dreading feeling like I did in high school; like I never fit in.  He seemed shocked at my answer and said he always recalled me as being happy and fun to be around.

I also have been in touch with some people that I went to camp with every summer.  That magical summer haven where I did feel like I fit in.  One of my counselors that I spoke to recently said she basically remembers me as being a pain in the ass.  Sounds about right.  I was twelve when she knew me.  Another counselor remembers me as being sweet and cute.  But I was 14 by then, so maybe I was a little less obnoxious.

The one counselor who saw me as a pain in the ass kid, said she still sees me that way and needs to erase that memory of me.  While there are a number of memories I would love to erase, I am loathe to do so.  I would prefer to see the transformations and maturation's of people from my past than cling on to the box I had put them in.

I am going to see my Mom next week, and the issue of memory and remembering my past is now more keenly important to me than it ever was.  I am selfishly worried that I too will go in my Mother's footsteps and not be able to accurately recall my own history.

I am chasing windmills trying to get an accurate view of who I once was.  The more I chase, the more I see that it does not matter.  What does matter is who I am now, and where I am right this moment.

I am going home again.  A place that has not been my home for over two decades.  I have arranged to see old places I once haunted, old friends, old lovers.  Some I have kept up with and see me for who I am today because we have traveled the years together.  I will see people I have not traveled with, and they may look at me as the snotty kid, or the persistent young teenager, or  not notice me at all.

As long as I remain authentic to who I am now, whatever boxes I was once put in does not matter.

Boxes are typically made out of cardboard for a reason.  They can be recycled and made into something else.

Has Anyone Seen My Bra?

It is roughly 39 days and six hours until my twenty-fifth high school reunion.  So far the only thing I have done regarding the scale is stub my toe on it several times while getting out of the shower.

I finally kicked it away, somewhat out of sight.

I have spent hours not on a treadmill, or outside walking, but pondering why I care so much about this reunion.  Why my appearance in particular is what I am focusing on.

I have overlooked any and all accomplishments in my life and all I have been seeing is the negative.

I have a part of me that wants to keep up with the Joneses.  I had thought in my forties I would be a study of self confidence and acceptance.  One of "those" women that people seek out to talk to and meet for coffee.  The wise woman who is comfortable in her skin and mixed matched outfits.

Instead my career has lead me away from that comfort zone, and I find myself sweating over outfit choices and lack of makeup on my days off.

I have come to the point where I actually now keep a bra in my glove compartment for the times I do not feel like wearing one, but am paranoid I may need one, in case I run in to someone.   The added bonus is that should anyone (besides my children) look in the glove compartment and see the bra, I could always fake a wry smile and let them assume I had some illicit affair in my tiny compact car.  That would have been much more believable in my Tahoe.

And seriously if I did run into someone would I say, "Oh my god it is so good to see you, I want to hear everything, just hang on one sec while I run out to my car!"  I doubt it.

It is not a sense of hubris that keeps me from celebrating my own accomplishments, what I do on a day to day basis, is just that; what I do.

I am off to see my mother at the end of this week, which means I will be out of town for a week.  My ex husband just informed me that we will have a meeting tonight to go over the schedule for while I am away and round up the usual friends to help out.  I offhandedly said, "How many people does it take to be me?"
He did not flinch at the question, but took it seriously as if I needed to a list of people to call to duty, "I am thinking at least four."

That does not include any clients that may be seeking me in dire need of a hair emergency.

If it takes four people to fill in one week of my life, there is certainly things there that are being accomplished.

When I go to my high school reunion can I say that I have managed to get the kids to school most days on time?  Or that I have styled hair that will be seen in photographs for years to come?  Or, yesterday when I was working a fashion show on a Sunday I had a moment when I had no clue where any of my children were and furiously sent out a text to several people saying, "Do you have the kids?"

I think it is an accomplishment to not only have no idea where your children are but be able to locate them as quickly as possible.  I think it is a huge accomplishment that after working all morning in a fast paced atmosphere (without a bra because I forgot it in the glove box) to come home and make a decent dinner when there is practically nothing in the house to eat.

I think I should tell anyone at my reunion who asks what I have been doing for the last twenty-five years, that I manage a small company, where there is no retirement plan, but the benefits are excellent.   

I will show up at the reunion no pounds lighter, a bank account that is probably dangerously low, but not  overdrawn (another accomplishment) and possibly even a bra.

But if I do forget the bra, I am full of pride in knowing it will take four people to do what I do on any given day.  I'd like to see a bra manage that.