March is the bitterest month

The month of March hits me like an errant wave. It buckles my knees, knocking me down. It threatens to roll me under, sucking out my breath. Each year I find myself struggling against the undertow to get to my feet again. 

At least February, despite the ferocity of the cold and threats of blizzard, is the shortest month. You can hold your breath and soon you are on the other side, shaking your head to clear it and holding out hope for the warmth of spring. But instead you find yourself in March, with its 31 long day, some of which are tauntingly warm – maybe even a balmy 55 degrees. But then, to make sure you don’t get too comfortable in your longing for spring, the following day will be sure to drench you in freezing rain, or pile another 6 inches of snow on the tired-looking and dirty snow dunes that still flank all of the roads and driveways.

To be sure, this winter has been especially harsh, making March an even more miserable slog. Our bodies are weary from holding them rigid while we walk through the blowing winds, trying not to fall on the ever-present ice that lines the walkways. Complexions are pale from the want of sunshine; foreheads seem permanently creased in concentration. Even our eyes have adjusted to the dreary palette of white, gray and brown that marks winter. Once March arrives, we are longing for bright colors and gaiety. 

We long for something to lift our spirits so we begin to plan. My daughters scour the landscape for signs of spring – a patch of dingy grass, the first snowdrop or crocus. My gardening friends have been scrutinizing seed catalogs, comparing the brightly colored photos of various varieties of produce. For myself, I begin to plan our summer trips – a long weekend at the Cape, a camping trip in New Hampshire, maybe a week on the Rhode Island coast. We don’t have to travel far. We just need a change of scenery, some time by the ocean or in the mountains. 

When I start to plan these trips, my spirits finally allow themselves to lift. I begin to imagine a time when the sun actually warms my body, when I don’t have to shrug into a heavy coat and sensible shoes. My toes wiggle in anticipation of digging into soft sand and putting on flip flops. For me, the visions of summer vacation ground me and help me manage to get through another long day in March.

Two Hours

Today has been a long day. It started when I got up at 4:30 am. Work-related stress has been giving me insomnia this week. Sometimes it's just better to get up and do something rather than lie there thinking about all of the stuff that needs to be done. So, I got up. I made a to do list for work and then I edited a report that needed attention. When the members of my household started to get up, I turned to the task of getting them ready for the day. Lunches and breakfasts were made. Everyone was dressed. Then it was time for day care drop off, which, for a change, went pretty smoothly.

From there I was off to work. I knew I only had a few hours before I had to go to a meeting so I tried to get through as much of that to do list as I could. I also knew that I would have to leave work after that meeting to bring my mother to a doctor's appointment. All morning I was troubled by this feeling of being inconvenienced. I have so much work to do and yet I had promised to go with my mom to any of her doctor's appointments if she ever needed me. She asked. I had to say yes, even if the timing felt bad.  You can't say no to the woman who gave birth to you, right?

At 1:00 I rushed out of my office and I rushed halfway across the state to pick her up. I was late, even though I had budgeted in an extra 1/2 hour of travel time. I faced road construction and a closed street right at my usual shortcut, and I must have hit every red light I came across. By the time I got there to pick her up, I felt terrible, I had let her down. As it turned out, I didn't have to worry.

Not only did we make it to her doctor's office with fifteen minutes to spare, but the doctor was running behind so we didn't get to see him at the scheduled time. In fact, we had a two hour wait before he could see us. 

Despite the delay, her doctor was lovely. He apologized profusely for being so late. Then he got down to business. He spoke words that I'm sure he's spoken so many times. "There's a mass. We dont't think it's malignant but we have to be sure." I sat there calmly throughout the appointment. I asked appropriate questions. I took notes. After the appointment, we went back to my mom's. Her friend was waiting for her there. I rehashed the entire appointment. "There's a mass. It's probably not cancer but they have to take it out to make sure that it's not." The words felt reassuring.

On the drive home I kept thinking about the two hours we had spent waiting for the doctor. I knew I was supposed to be annoyed that it took so long for him to get to us. He had several family conferences lined up that day. He apologized. I know I was supposed to be annoyed, but really I wasn't. Not at all. We spent the time together talking and laughing. I had a chance to really listen to my mom - not the way I sometimes do, halfheartedly, when I'm on the phone with her and I'm checking my email and the kids are pulling on me. Then I don't really get a chance to listen. But really, it was great, a luxury even, to get to sit with her and talk about our family, what my kids are up to, and even what she's watching on TV.  

Before that long drive home, as I got ready to leave her house, my mom slipped me ten bucks. "It's for the gas," she said. "Mom, I don't want this," I replied. But she insisted, so I put it in my pocket. You aren't supposed to say no to your mother, right? I will find a way to slide it back to her. I know it's her way of paying me back for those two hours. But I don't want her money and I wouldn't trade those two hours for anything. Two hours is not such a long time.

Life (or something like it)

We've decided that on the day we leave for vacation, we won't rush to get out the door. Being in a rush does no one any good, it just makes us more stressed out than we need to be. So, now we have a leisurely breakfast and take our time packing up the car. The girls help put clothes into their suitcase. They choose books and stuffed animals to bring with them. And I don't freak out that the house isn't spotless for our ten year old neighbor who watches the cats while we are gone. These small changes have helped us to ease into vacation.

So, this was the state of things on the Monday in July when we started off for our week at the RI shore. I had dumped the compost before I left, but I completely forgot to deal with the bunch of parsley I'd stuck in a glass of water while I was cooking over the weekend. It stayed on the table all week, the glass now drained of water, the parsley getting yellower and yellower until our return on Saturday.

As the spouse was unpacking the car, I noticed the parsley and was about to dispose of it when a brilliant splash of green with speckles of black and gold caught my eye. There was a big caterpillar among the dried out leaves. I immediately called Nina over to see it. She's very fond of caterpillars, having adopted Jimmy last Memorial Day. She was thrilled at my discovery and went to go get her bug house.

We put the caterpillar inside and I went out to the garden to get some fresh parsley leaves. Nina named this caterpillar Jimmy 2 and we made it as comfortable as we could. I thought it might be a butterfly caterpillar but I wasn't sure what variety. We really had no idea what might happen with this creature that found its way into our house. We've never had good luck keeping fish, so who knew what to expect. We replenished the leaves and cleaned out the poop (and this little guy pooped a lot!) for almost two weeks, at which point we noticed that Jimmy 2 was spending a lot of time hanging out upside down on the top of the bug house.

One morning as we were getting ready for our day, I noticed that Jimmy 2 had entered the chrysalis stage. I was truly surprised when this happened, despite reading Eric Carle's Very Hungry Caterpillar on MANY occasions. I didn't have any idea how much time it might take for the beautiful butterfly to emerge but we were all eagerly waiting to see if it would actually happen.

It's amazing what will work out if you just let things be and don't try to rush them. After a week and a half it happened. I was at work, on the phone with Paul. He had just gotten home with the girls and we were probably talking about what to do about dinner when all of a sudden his voice changed. He sounded genuinely surprised and excited. He said, "Oh my god! There's a butterfly! It's right here on the counter. It's so pretty!"

Whenever I replay this conversation in my head, I smile. It's not often as adults that we let ourselves experience wonder in this way but there is almost no other response I can imagine after witnessing this miraculous transformation.

By the time I got home, the girls were really excited and wanted to help let Jimmy 2 go free. We went to get the neighbors so they could watch. We all gathered around the little bug house. I not-so-gingerly cracked the top off (since Jimmy 2 was now too big to go out through the corked entrance). The lovely black swallowtail butterfly had to be coaxed out of his house. He seemed a bit confused as he sat among the greenery.

Soon he figured it out, spread his wings, and was off into the neighbors' yard before we could even get a photo of him in flight. We watched him go and comforted Nina that we would see him again -- we do have a butterfly garden, after all -- and then we continued on with our lives, although we are not quite the same as before.

Lucky

This morning I cracked three eggs into a blue ceramic bowl and discovered that two of them had double yolks. Must be my lucky day.

As the girls and I ate breakfast, I told them they each could make a wish because of our lucky eggs. I tried to get Nina to tell me her wish but she knows better than that now. The last time she made a wish, it didn't come true and I told her that some people believe wishes don't work if you say them out loud. So, now she has a second chance and she’s not going to say a word to me about her wish.

This whole incident started me thinking about luck. What is luck and how do we get it? Do we make it for ourselves? Are we born with it? Or is it just about how we view the world?

I hear that advocates of The Secret, that much-touted, Oprah’s list book, believe that if you merely think positively – if you just wish hard enough – then all of your desires will be realized. It’s like the ultimate get-rich-quick scheme (and it seems to be working for the book’s authors). At the same time, these people also believe that you can give yourself cancer with your negative thoughts.

If you want my opinion, this is just bunk. Luck is all a matter of perspective.

One of our family traditions each summer is to spend a weekend on the Cape. We head out towards the end of June when hopes for summer weather are high, but the hotel rates have not yet risen to match them. The girls really look forward to this trip and I’ve written about it before. We always leave our house with high expectations for our long weekend adventure but reality sets in about an hour into the journey. There is something about vacationing with small children that is very challenging. So while we are building really great memories with our kids, we are also trying to keep our sanity while driving four hours in our car and then sharing a small hotel room for three or four days.

Each year, as they get older, the trip will get a little easier. Perhaps one of these times, they won’t flop themselves into the ocean fully clothed within the first five minutes of seeing the beach. Maybe they will eventually learn to use an indoor voice in the hotel’s common breakfast room or maybe I will just ignore the looks I think I’m getting from other guests.

As the mother of these two lovely and rambunctious girls, I typically spend part of the weekend feeling annoyed and frustrated. But this year, just as I was beginning to feel unlucky, we met the family staying two doors down from us at the hotel. There was a single mother with two kids, a boy and a girl. It was clear that the son had some developmental issues and was hard to deal with. But this woman was doing it alone, smiling and patient the whole time. To me it seemed as if she had figured it out, even though you could tell it wasn't easy to deal with her energetic son. She was amazing to watch – calm and loving, where I would probably have been tense, anxious and cranky.

Maybe we do only get as much as we can handle in life. Maybe good luck and bad luck are just flip sides of the same coin. Maybe in those moments when I start to feel unlucky, I should remember to pay attention to the beauty around me.

Watching the girls as they run and play together on the beach, seeing the excitement in Nina’s face as she watches the waves (usually with her mouth open), and the wonder in Rita’s eyes when she figured out that the “statue” in downtown Provincetown was actually a real person (she couldn’t take her eyes away). These are the moments I need to pay attention to. I like to listen to them as they tell each other stories or play pretending games. They are much more relaxed and fun when we don't interfere with a correction or shushing. These two little girls are such a treasure and we are lucky that they look out for each other and love each other so much.

My work is in learning to let go of - or at least loosen - my expectations and be okay with the fact that things are not always going to go exactly as I think I want them to. I have to try to find the beauty in what comes instead of always trying to control it. And, I have to remember that I am lucky.

Snuggle Time

It's 7:15 a.m. There are dishes in the sink, unfolded laundry in a basket by the chair that we pile the folded clothes onto before we decide we want to wear them, and cat hair tumbleweeds blow freely across the floor. My husband is making the lunches but breakfast still needs to be prepared and I am sitting on the couch under the comfortable heft of my three-year old, while her older sister sits beside me, holding my arm in a vice-like grip. She's trying to train herself to stop pinching me but it's slow-going. They are drinking milk. It's our morning snuggle time. I try to forget about all of the things that aren't getting done around me as I sit, tethered to the couch. I try instead to inhale the smell of my daughter's hair and enjoy the cozy warmth of their little bodies.

This is how most days start at our house and I've learned that when we miss our morning snuggle time, things don't go quite as smoothly as when I surrender to it. Someone eventually starts screaming or refuses to get dressed or brush her hair. These are alternatives that I can do without. It's hard enough to get all of us out the door on time in the morning when things go well.

Despite my knowing that morning snuggle time is the key to peacefully starting our day, it is not in my nature to sit like this. I constantly work at it. I am a chronic putterer. I do my best thinking and problem-solving while meandering around the house putting things in order - doing dishes, folding laundry, sorting socks.

To the casual observer, it may appear that I am simply performing mundane tasks, but in reality, I am solving the world's problems. Okay, that's not true, but I am considering the various predicaments under my jurisdiction at home and at work. My puttering time is typically when creative solutions pop into my head, so I relish it. Besides, when I spend time this way, there are definitely fewer cat hair tumbleweeds in the house.

However, I also know just how important is to make sure that I take the time to really be present for these strong-willed, bright, funny girls. Making space for them to talk and letting them lounge on me without my being distracted is the best gift I can give them, but sometimes I find it so difficult to do. My mind will be racing along at top speed, working on who knows what, and I'll abruptly be pulled back to the present and realize that I have two kids climbing all over me. When I do give them all of my attention, the payoff is so great. Everyone feels happy, heard and valued. Isn't this what we all crave? Why do I struggle so much with giving this gift to my girls? Each day, I have to set an intention to do this small thing because I know it is what really matters for them in the long run.

Sensitive

The bruise on my forehead is an ugly patchwork of blues and yellows. It will be a week old tomorrow but it's still sensitive to the touch. I try to hide it behind my hair because otherwise people tend to gape and ask questions.

I almost wish I had a more dramatic story to explain what happened because the truth is a bit humiliating. It was raining. I was at the store and wanted to get into the car quickly. I whacked myself in the head with the corner of the car door. Instant swelling. Ugh.

By the time I got home, I had a bump the size of a small hen's egg over my left eye. I'll never forget the look on my husband's face. He was horrified. "Just get me the ice pack," I said. I didn't want the girls to see it because I knew I looked like a monster. But really, how was I going to hide it from them?

At dinner both of my girls had to see the "boo-boo" on my head. Rita, who's three, looked up at it with her mouth wide open. "I can kiss it, Mama," she said. She looked so scared that I had gotten hurt. It was upsetting to see her this worried, and it brought me back to a time when I saw my own mother get hurt and I was equally afraid.

I was probably 12 or 13 at the time. My mother had decided that she wanted to start exercising more regularly, so she took a ride on my sister's ten-speed. Only five minutes later she was back and it was clear that she was hurt. She had been riding along the side of the busy road that ran close to our house. For some reason she was looking over her shoulder and she rode right into a telephone pole. She hit it full force with the side of her face. It was swollen and bruised and she was crying.

I remember feeling very scared and worried. What if she had really done damage? Should we bring her to the hospital? I called my friends down the street and spoke with their mom. I told her what happened and I fully expected her to come down and make everything right, but instead she laughed at me. "She'll be fine," she said. In hindsight, I’m sure she was right but at the time I was really angry at her reaction. My mother was crying and I needed someone to fix it.

Maybe it was because my mother has always been so careful about not showing her emotions, but I was totally freaked out to see her so hurt and upset. It was out of the ordinary and I didn't know what to do with it. I was convinced that she needed to seek immediate medical attention.

So, now I know where my first instinct came from, the one that said that I shouldn’t show my girls the giant bump on my head. It's ingrained in me not to show my kids things that may make them uncomfortable. In the end, it was probably better that they did see it. And, they saw me put ice on it to bring the swelling down.

It seems that the lesson for me here is that it's okay for my kids to see that occasionally one of the grownups in their life may be hurt - physically or emotionally - but that we can (and do) make it through the pain to be okay again. God, who would have thought it would take 40+ years to figure out something that seems so simple?

Going Round and Round

Work! I'm doing work right now. What is the matter with me? It's my writing night but because I won't be in the office for the next two days, I'm tidying up a bunch of email. This is not what writing night is all about. I am supposed to be sitting here, thinking about witty things that I can write short essays about. And, truth be told, I have a backlog of unfinished posts that I am having trouble finishing. I'm not sure why this is.

My semester as a grad student is finished and most of my big events at work are wrapped up until the fall, but I seem to be spinning my wheels here. I was hoping to spend time this summer writing for fun and maybe trying to publish something (while trying not to get my hopes up on this - plus, I that means I would actually have to finish something and submit it). I have set aside one night a week as writing night where I get together with a friend who is on deadline to finish her dissertation. I also get up early to write three pages of whatever comes to me in the morning.

For the past two weeks, I have been unable to complete anything concrete. I scribble in my notebook or I surf the web. Maybe I am still coming down from a very intense time and I just need to give myself a break. But at some point, I think I just have to write and finish something - and here I was about to go on to say, "or give up on this dream" but then I literally stopped myself and deleted those words before they were finished. I mean, who cares if I don't finish a thing? If I don't create a single, coherent written piece? I just like the act of writing, of choosing words and phrases that go together and linger in my head for a while, that I can see on the screen or on the page.

The act of writing helps me to process things differently than I do when I am just in my head without pen and paper or keyboard. I often end up in a very different place than I imagined I would when I started. It's like somewhere in my brain there's a path I have to follow and it feels comfortable and familiar but I don't know where it leads until I get there - and then when I do get there, I realize that there is still a lot more path ahead. I guess this is my roundabout manifesto on why I need to keep pursuing this act of writing, without judging how or where it's going.