Post-Parting Depression

No one prepares you for the isolation of first and early motherhood. You are deeply lonely, yet never alone. I thought of it as being dropped down a well with a baby.

 Down in this well of mine and Lu’s, when she woke up to nurse at night (which she did A LOT), I would rock us in the green glider, sure we were the only souls awake on Earth. I would look at her, attached to my body, six inches between her face and mine. “It’s just you and me, kid,” I’d say, marveling at her in the moonlight. She was my loneliness, my joy, my wellmate, and my teacher.

 We were both novices: me at being a mother, her at being alive. We learned how to be… together, awkwardly.

 In the blink of an eye, six inches became 1,368 miles. We said our final goodbyes yesterday in Ann Arbor. She turned away from us toward some friends waiting to walk to the stadium to take their freshman class picture. The last I saw of her, she was in a clutch of blue-and-maize-clad new friends. She waved. I waved. And she was off to be a novice again, this time without me.

 I said a benediction on her head as it bobbed away with the crowd: It’s just you, kid. And I know she’ll be okay.

 Me? I am not okay. A mom on the shuttle from the rental car place asked me if I’d just dropped a kid off at college (did the UMich tee and the tears give me away?). The bartender at the Sky Lounge patted my hand.

 I can’t stop crying. I am devastated. But it’s a happy thing. We did this on purpose, worked for it even. I can’t remember this confusion of joy and sadness since…she was born.

There She Goes

Parenting can feel like an act of mapping, of surveying: where are the children and how far from my grasp are they at this exact moment? I am learning that they come and go.

You move them out of a womb to somewhere very nearby. In the case of Lu, for the first three months of her life, she was rarely more than INCHES from my body.

Then, some sooner than others, they go to sleep in a room that is feet…even YARDS from you. They are capable of this. Brighter parents than I learn this faster (Jason was one). When Lu was three months old, I came home from a happy hour to find Jason on the couch…at what was precisely Unhappy Hour with The Baby. “WHERE IS THE BABY?” “Asleep. In her crib.” For the first time in her tiny life. She made it through that night. I did, too.

Then, the moment they walk — the moment after they forget the Dumbo feather of your hand — they are walking AWAY.

And yet. When Lu figured out there wasn’t a forcefield around her crib, she came back —climbing out to stand in our doorway. “Mama?” I heard her little whisper, confused. And then I felt hot toddler breath and opened my eyes to hers: “MAMA.” And she was back for many, many nights after that.

 They are always coming and going, but mostly they are going. I have so many pictures of her in front of me, walking into school on first days. In the later photos, she doesn’t even turn around to say goodbye. Is strange and sad to think there won’t even be an opportunity for that photo for this schoolyear for the foreseeable future.

 And now, the velocity of her leaving has increased considerably: she got her driver’s license yesterday and made her first solo drive. The maps I survey will get bigger. But at least I can track her on her phone.

American Girl

I was born on the fourth of July. In the capital of Texas. Delivered by the mayor (on account of our doctor was the mayor pro-tem, and the mayor was on vacation) at Brackenridge Hospital. For the early part of my childhood, I thought the fireworks were for me. Even after a cousin disavowed me of this notion, I still knew I was special. Something about me, America, the fireworks and the homemade ice cream.

The date of my birth was a funny footnote when I won the Kiwanis club essay contest themed “What America Means to Me" when I was in sixth grade. In my essay, I (mis)quoted Voltaire: “I do not agree with a word you say, but I would defend to the death your right to say it.” (Actually Evelyn Beatrice Hall said it). I read the essay in front of a room full of civic-minded white guys (and I was BORN ON THE FOURTH OF JULY). We all felt very proud.

“American” as I am — with a Kiwanis trophy and the fireworks to prove it — I’ve never felt especially proud to be American. I certainly wouldn’t call myself a patriot. I know this indifference to being American is the luxury of being born a white child into a middle class family here. But lately, the news about the people who didn’t just get born here has me thinking about the immigrants I have known and the smudged borders that shaped me.

My mother was an accidental ESL teacher. She was a Spanish teacher, but amid the influx of refugees from Southeast Asia in the late 70s and early 80s, her administrators deputized her to teach English as a second language to classrooms full of teenagers from Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos. She had no idea what she was doing, but she was committed: a few nights every week, our little house was full of teenagers who wanted to learn.

Fast forward to my own adulthood, where I was seeing an orthopedic surgeon who was born and raised in Austin. Of course he knew the doctor who delivered me (I love to name-drop the late Dr. Dryden), but we quickly got to another unexpected connection — my mom taught ESL at the high school his surgical partner graduated from. He held up finger and said, “Wait.” A few minutes later, he came back into the exam room with his partner, a Vietnamese man in his 40s. He said, with tears in his eyes, “Your mother is Mrs. Donaho? She taught me English. And my brothers and sisters. As soon as we had enough English to work, we could get jobs to bring my parents over.”

I grew up seeing the border as a fluid, fractured, lovely place. My dad is from King Ranch country, that last flashing light before you drive down to the Rio Grande Valley. The difference between Anglos and Latinos in his childhood was a literal set of railroad tracks separating where white and brown people lived. Visiting when I was little, I’d hear people say a word that to my ear was “mohow.” It took me years of Spanish to re-hear it as “mojado” and recoil. Mohow. Mojado. Wet. Wetback. This offhand, offensive description of a group of people so closely woven into my family’s community was rooted in how they got here.

My husband is an El Pasoan, Mexican-American (and German and Japanese). Going home to El Paso with him, I feel the grounding weight and welcome of this international city. Although it’s a border city, it existed for hundreds of years before the borders were drawn. It’s a city of migrants and immigrants — whether people who move fluidly back and forth between El Paso and Juarez, temporary residents at Fort Bliss or those who’ve come seeking economic opportunity. It’s a city of cooperation — my husband points out El Paso’s geographic isolation as an important cultural and business factor in the region’s development. “If you’re gonna be El Paso del Norte, the last point of passage into the Rocky Mountains, all of you, you’re gonna have to get along.”

When the news started coming out about the families detained at the border, I felt a new wave of heartbreak and outrage. I’ve had those waves since November 8, 2016, but this was too much. Hearing the cries of those children ripped from their parents, I had the same reaction so many did. This is cruel, inhumane, un-American. I had to think again about “what America means to me,” and found myself feeling, at last like a patriot.

 Patriot. A person who vigorously supports their country and is prepared to defend it against enemies or detractors.

Yes, I am ready to support my country: a country of immigrants. And vigorously defend it against enemies or detractors, even when — especially when — those enemies are the President and those who do his bidding. Defend it against the cruelty of separating families at the border, against denying people due process, against treating immigrants like animals.

Because they are humans.

They flee their countries across deserts.

They flee violence, abuse and poverty.

They are desperate. And enterprising. They are saving their own lives.

They show up at our borders, asking us for mercy. And opportunity.

They do the jobs we don’t want. For less than they should. For less than any of us would.

The human impulse to do better for our families is strong.

We used to call it the American Dream.

Help me defend it. Will you join me in an act of patriotism in honor of my (and America’s) birthday? Will you donate to the Dilley Pro Bono project to protect detained immigrant families?

https://ifundwomen.com/projects/protect-detained-immigrant-families

This project is to help with reunification and asylum claims at the South Texas Family Residential Center in Dilley, the largest in the US — far larger than the one in Karnes City. Daily, attorneys are working to help the 2,400 asylum-seekers housed there. Please read and consider a donation. 

The Power of the Pencil

Earlier this school year, we got the news that Milo is showing signs of dyslexia. After a school assessment, the dyslexia was confirmed, and we are going down the path of getting a more thorough evaluation. I’ll write about that in more detail when I know more.

Homework is hard for Milo (and us). He charms. He stalls. He eats. He pitches fits. He does everything he can think of to avoid sitting, pencil in hand, facing the blank worksheet. This battle makes more sense now, knowing he has a learning disability. But what is hard about it — getting started? Facing the struggle? Making mistakes?

Last night, I think we got to the heart of the matter. I gave Milo a very special pencil: the Palomino Blacking 602. I explained that this was a pencil used by artists, writers and architects, which got him instantly excited. Then I showed him the special replaceable eraser. "Why do think the people who use this pencil need to replace their erasers all the time?” I asked him. And he said, “Because they have to erase a lot?” “That’s right,” I said. “When you are an artist or an architect, you have to be okay with making a lot of mistakes.” I could see this idea settle in, and we both smiled.

I am not saying a pencil is the answer to the struggles he will face. But if he can be brave enough to make mistakes, erase them and try again, he’s off to a decent start.

The Girl's the Thing

When she didn’t get the starring role in this year’s school musical, she was heartbroken, but not entirely surprised. She knew from the moment “The Sound of Music” was announced that, despite her talent and experience, there was a more obvious choice for Maria.

 I was mad. Bratty and protective, I urged her to quit, to SHOW THEM. “Mom,” she explained, “that’s not how it works.” She resolved to spend the weekend processing her rejection — she chewed the available scenery around the edges of anger, jealousy, inadequacy, all the while reminding herself and me that’s not what it’s about.

“What is it about then?” I wondered. “Why would you make yourself so vulnerable (while being so worthy) and get nothing? And then show up anyway?” Because, in theater, that’s what you do. You show up. No small roles, the show must go on, blah blah blah. I narrowed my eyes at the clichés.

She was cast in a small but important role in the show: Sister Berthe, the disapproving, imperious nun. Lu was a natural. She was more commanding and compelling than anyone on stage (in my bratty, protective opinion). And, as I later learned, she lent her musical talent, behind the scenes, to writing and arranging the nuns’ harmonies, giving such weight and beauty to a large part of the show. She was a leader.

After the show, I loitered near the front of the auditorium, waiting as she said tearful goodbyes to the show, her theater family, her childhood, this moment in time. Many of the people I encountered remarked on Lu’s talent: the show-stealing, their wish to see more of her, why didn’t she have a bigger part. I felt proud (and vindicated, still stacking chips against her loss of the lead).

Then one of the directors, a friend, gave such sweet acknowledgement of Lu’s contributions to the show, her selflessness and leadership, that I found myself trying not to weep in a middle school auditorium. I watched the kids hugging each other and crying, so proud of what they’d made, so threaded together in their vulnerability and effort. I saw a new layer in their endeavor and Lu’s role in it.

Later, I tried to talk to Lu about what I’d observed, careful not make my praise be a reflection of what I saw from other people. But it was. Though I know her heart, the “selfless leader” is a different version of the grouchy mess that inhabits a quarter of this house.

Finally, we talked in earnest. She told me how thrilled she was to be part of the show, how proud of her role onstage and off. She entertained a small amount of bratty dishing on my part, but was quickly generous in celebrating the shared victory of the production. I heard this self-possessed, emotionally intelligent, powerful woman-child…and a burst of stage clichés, which I will spare you, flared in my brain. She is my hero.

SK8

Dear Milo,

Eight years ago, this very minute, you were just two hours old. You had the puffy face and corkscrew head of a hard-born baby, but you were beautiful to me, precious, fine and mine.

Fast forward eight years, and in an act of treason against me and the body I carried in my body, you own a skateboard. You are eight. Your body really is yours now (well, somewhat more yours). Your maiden voyage in the driveway went off well enough: no broken bones, all of your big, funny teeth intact.

It is scary to see you rolling unsteadily away from me, on pavement or otherwise. But I know that you may break your bones (and will certainly break your heart), and no amount of padding can shield you from the growing up that lies ahead. Here are four big things I know about you that give me confidence you will be fine, pads or no:

You are kind. I see it in your concern for others, your willingness to give up your cookie or come to someone’s rescue, your deep sensitivity when you watch people.

You are funny. Even before you could actually read a joke book, you’ve had a sense of wordplay and comic timing. Who could forget “Knock knock. Who’s there? Owl. Owl who? Owl be seeing you.”

You are smart. Your big brain shows itself in the way you speak and the connections you make.

You are a world-builder. Whether it’s an elaborate marble run or a game whose rules keep changing, your narrative imagination and engineering brain astound me.

In addition to these qualities, you are still precious, fine and (only a little bit) mine. Skate on: being eight is not a crime.

Yours,

Mom

The Kids Went Back, the Sun Went Black

Lucy started eighth grade today. She planned her outfit, which after much thought, was effortless and cool. She was upbeat on her way out, fairly cheery when she got to the office. She talked a little more than she has lately, but she still rolled her eyes because I AM THE WORST.

Milo started second grade today. At first, he resisted physically, as in a stiff-bodied "I AM NOT GETTING OUT OF THIS BED." We subdued him with bacon. He wore his skateboard shirt. Later, when asked how he'd rate the day on a scale of one to ten, he said "8000!"

The moon stood between the earth and the sun today. We communed in crescents with strangers on the sidewalk and resisted the risk of blindness. The next time that happens, these children will be 20 and 14. These orbits are magical and relentless.

Series Finale

Tonight we say a public goodbye to our First Family. I have much more to say and think and feel about President Obama as the sun sets on his presidency, but tonight, watching him address his public, and more intimately, his family, I am struck by him and the First Lady as parents. Watching this young family grow up in the White House has been a historical backdrop for my own family and what I wanted to be as a parent: engaged, in love, ambitious, balanced, principled, fun. And this young family had a grandmother in tow. They were five, doing their best to produce good kids with all the resources they had, against the (much) larger backdrop of what the parents wanted to achieve. They were primetime dramedy characters I identified with and rooted for, in a world utterly unlike mine but made relatable to me.

Tonight, watching them leave the stage, I wept. So tall, so warm, so fine. Three (minus one responsible kid at home to take an exam the next day) plus one grandmother. I cried like I was watching an ending.

Then I flinched with new understanding: five black people. Living in the White House. As a white woman, I didn’t (and don’t) know what this visual meant to many people in circumstances other than mine. As Eugene Robinson said tonight, “It rearranges the furniture inside our heads.”

This dramedy, their narrative in our news and on our minds, had mattered even more than I knew. I am unprepared to write on race with any nuance, except to say that I love the Obamas and they have been such good, human examples. The profound importance of their presence as a black family in the White House was not complete to me until the image of them walking offstage. The image — and their legacy — will endure. And we will miss them so.

Family Portraits

I hate seeing photos of myself. For all the dumb vain and self-loathing reasons you would guess. This is why we have never had family photos taken, unless at the behest of some larger family group. And that is just sad.

So when a friend who takes artful, emotional, not your run-of-the-mill "family holding hands in a field of wheat" photos offered up a spot on a weekend shoot, posterity prevailed over vanity.

These are some of the pictures she made. Despite the aspects of my own physical appearance that dissatisfy me, they take my breath away.

There Will Be No Letter Grades

When you are slogging through adult life, when in a single day, you have cleaned the poop of your mom and the poop of the dog, when you wake up and get the kids out the door and want to go back to bed for the rest of the morning and somehow don't...there is no one to give you credit. There is no applause, no gold star, rarely even a thank you. Because you are doing nothing more heroic than being an adult woman of relative means and good circumstance, with a great life and kids and partner, who happens to be facing the same generational pulls as any other upper middle class white lady.

And yet, it is a lovely thing to be acknowledged by your sweet friend. To be seen.