A few weeks ago we had an impromptu picnic. The days for picnicking are growing short here in northern New England, and one of my older daughters suggested we pack a lunch and head to the park. We pulled out the old wicker basket and filled it with our picnic standbys - good, crusty bread, a few cheeses, fruit and drinks. There was still a sandy blanket in the back of the van which had never been unpacked after the trip to the beach two weeks earlier, so we were all set. The evening was surprisingly warm; we'd had enough chilly nights so far that I had pulled all the fans out of the windows, though I had not carted them up to the attic yet since Indian Summer was still around the corner. A late crop of mosquitoes annoyed us and some suspicious-looking red ants swarmed one daughter's flip flops, but the picnic was still a success - much better than eating indoors while the light still lingered till 7 and the trees were just beginning to drop coy hints about the colors they would wear this fall.
Heading home from the "penguin" - Lily couldn't keep the word "picnic" in her mind - my smallest daughter began reciting a litany of all the things she was not going to do the next day. She still uses the Amharic structure for negatives, putting the "not" or "no" after the verb.
"In the morning I take Ivy's candy, no. I touch Ivy's things, no. I hide things from Mommy, no. I squeeze kittens, no." She was so earnest and adamant about her intentions. She repeated her vows several times, going to great lengths to explain when these things would take place, "Tonight brush teeth, go to bed, sleep, wake up, have breakfast, then." I was touched by her resolve, by her remembrance of all the sins she had committed today. I was also reminded of my own resolutions, of all the things I have promised myself and God, over and over, not to do again tomorrow, or ever.
I complain, no. I want what everyone else has, no. I judge other people, no. I worry, no. I get impatient with my children, no. I think I am usually right, no. I overeat, no. I forget the log in my own eye, no. I gossip, no. I feel too wise to have the faith of a child, no.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Saturday, September 17, 2011
What I remember most
Today is C's 21st birthday. She is on the other side of the world this birthday, like she was for the last, as well. Different country, but equally foreign and faraway. We tried to skype with her today, but she didn't pick up. I hope she is out with some new friends. I hope someone there knows it's her birthday. Her siblings decided to make some silly birthday videos for her and asked me to make one, as well. My first idea involved stuffing a pillow under my shirt, going for the pre-natal look. My eldest daughter laughed at me and said, "Oh Mom, that's what you always think of on any of your children's birthdays!"
Of course she's right. And why wouldn't I? Doesn't every mother? Don't we all wake on our children's birthdays remembering the morning they were born? Don't we all compare today's weather with the weather on that first day? Isn't every mother more conscious of the passing hours that day, remembering what was happening throughout the day? Doesn't every mother divide the day into the time before and after the child arrived? Maybe not; I don't think I've ever asked anyone else if they do.
But I do. I love celebrating my children's birthdays; I love decorating the cake and finding the gifts that will make them smile. But I always feel as if I am harboring a secret that day, conscious of the fact that I am the one who remembers the occasion we are commemorating, not them. Their actual birth days are immortalized in my memories, not theirs. On this day they are characters in my story as much as in their own. It's a funny thing.
So today I recalled the events of September 17, 1990. I remembered how I felt when I woke that morning in the hospital after the previous night's stalled labor. I remember my husband deciding it was OK to go in to the office, only to be called back a half hour later. I remember my closest friend, two months away from her own first delivery, sitting patiently with me after sleeping all night in a chair. I remember the doctor's tactless words, "by hook or by crook", before he left to do someone else's C-section, and the nurse's gentler manner. I remember my fears for this baby's condition and my determination to avoid any interventions. I remember how quickly she arrived and how quickly she was whisked away to be examined by the high risk pediatric specialist. I remember my relief when she was placed in my arms a short time later and how marvelous I felt after such a quick labor and delivery.
I remember, too, that one of the best parts of any sweet experience is recalling it later, taking the memories out and turning them over, looking at them again and trying to recapture the feelings that left me breathless at the moment. But I know, also, that memory is fragile in its malleability, that looking too closely or talking too often about an event can alter its shape. I call to mind Annie Dillard's caution to the memoirest - that if you really want to keep your memories, you should be wary of writing them down because they will become the words you have used to describe them.
So I only revive these memories occasionally, taking care to refresh them gently and somewhat cautiously. I handle them gingerly, trying not to look directly at them, to examine them too closely. I recount the story in its outline only, letting the details swirl about, coloring my recollection. But I don't try to pin everything down in black and white. I allow for some mistiness around the edges. I don't want to lose the wonder of that lovely, lovely day.
Of course she's right. And why wouldn't I? Doesn't every mother? Don't we all wake on our children's birthdays remembering the morning they were born? Don't we all compare today's weather with the weather on that first day? Isn't every mother more conscious of the passing hours that day, remembering what was happening throughout the day? Doesn't every mother divide the day into the time before and after the child arrived? Maybe not; I don't think I've ever asked anyone else if they do.
But I do. I love celebrating my children's birthdays; I love decorating the cake and finding the gifts that will make them smile. But I always feel as if I am harboring a secret that day, conscious of the fact that I am the one who remembers the occasion we are commemorating, not them. Their actual birth days are immortalized in my memories, not theirs. On this day they are characters in my story as much as in their own. It's a funny thing.
So today I recalled the events of September 17, 1990. I remembered how I felt when I woke that morning in the hospital after the previous night's stalled labor. I remember my husband deciding it was OK to go in to the office, only to be called back a half hour later. I remember my closest friend, two months away from her own first delivery, sitting patiently with me after sleeping all night in a chair. I remember the doctor's tactless words, "by hook or by crook", before he left to do someone else's C-section, and the nurse's gentler manner. I remember my fears for this baby's condition and my determination to avoid any interventions. I remember how quickly she arrived and how quickly she was whisked away to be examined by the high risk pediatric specialist. I remember my relief when she was placed in my arms a short time later and how marvelous I felt after such a quick labor and delivery.
I remember, too, that one of the best parts of any sweet experience is recalling it later, taking the memories out and turning them over, looking at them again and trying to recapture the feelings that left me breathless at the moment. But I know, also, that memory is fragile in its malleability, that looking too closely or talking too often about an event can alter its shape. I call to mind Annie Dillard's caution to the memoirest - that if you really want to keep your memories, you should be wary of writing them down because they will become the words you have used to describe them.
So I only revive these memories occasionally, taking care to refresh them gently and somewhat cautiously. I handle them gingerly, trying not to look directly at them, to examine them too closely. I recount the story in its outline only, letting the details swirl about, coloring my recollection. But I don't try to pin everything down in black and white. I allow for some mistiness around the edges. I don't want to lose the wonder of that lovely, lovely day.
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