December 2019
The years 1981- 1994, my mom tucked me into bed each night. On my queen bed, she would tell me stories, mostly fairytales, and read books. My folks split household jobs down the middle. They each had full-time careers and were dedicated at both home and work; putting me to bed was my mom’s job. We both loved storybooks with small critters involved, woodland ones were best. My favorite of our top picks was, “Bread and Jam for Frances,” starring a stubborn, yet adorable, badger.
It is a miracle that I have my childhood copy of the book. My mom sold everything in an annual garage sale, even things we were occasionally still using. She was not sentimental in nature. In my possession today are 4 little outfits from my babyhood, only because our neighbor swapped them from Mom’s garage sale and hid them in her attic for 25 years. Thank you, “grandma next door.”
When reading Bread and Jam for Frances to one of my kids last month, I took special note of the friend to Frances, Albert. I suddenly remembered paying attention to that particular part as a child, too. The story describes how Albert methodically sets up his lunch on a piece of wax paper at his desk, then it reads:
He took a bite of sandwich, a bite of pickle, a bite of hard-boiled egg, and a drink of milk. Then he sprinkled more salt on the egg and went around again.
Albert made the sandwich, the pickle, the egg, and the milk come out even.
He ate his bunch of grapes and his tangerine. Then he cleared away the crumpled up waxed paper, the eggshell, and the tangerine peel.
He set the cup custard in the middle of the napkin on his desk.
He took up his spoon and ate up all the custard.
Then Albert folded up his napkins and put them away.
He put away his cardboard salt shaker and his spoon.
He screwed the cup on top of his Thermos bottle.
He shut his lunch box,
put it back inside his desk, and sighed.
“I like to have a good lunch,” said Albert.
Yes, ALBERT!!!!! Yes!!! You are a dream boy! And I am unsure of religious practices of badgers, but I think you may be my soul sibling.
To my dismay, as both a child and adult, I am Frances. She is stubborn, speaks plainly with strong convictions, and has big feelings about her meal choices.
While growing up, my mom would recount the story of taking me to a fancy restaurant around age 7, just she and I, where I ordered the full size rainbow trout with rice pilaf. The waiter was perplexed, but eventually served me up the shiny skinned fish. I ate every single bite.
I am Frances, but have always pined to feel the satisfaction Albert must feel. Just last week I looked at my carry-out order and rationally assessed, “I would like my life to be this Jet’s 8 corner pizza.” Nicely divided, full bodied, nearly perfect. And I’ll take a cup custard for dessert, please.
From the previously posted mention of “the ladies,” it’s important to note that two out of the six in our group are sisters from a large family. We are all close, but no bond compares to that pair. Their beautifully messy family has acted as my second family for years and I am grateful now more than ever. Their love and care and drama has been shared for a long while- in quite different ways than the tidy family of 4 I grew up in. My mom had a schedule. She worked all week and she cleaned on Saturday mornings. She paid bills on Sunday mornings. This was law. Seasonally, things shifted with consistency through the years and I never recall an event happening on the scramble. My mom planned my baby shower for 6 months. It was duck themed.
In contrast, my pseudo mother once illegally signed me out of 7th grade, along with her daughter, because one of the older kids was getting married the following day and major help was needed. That afternoon and evening were spent vacuuming their home and making batches of taco dip. Meanwhile, my friend was in the front yard on her knees frantically planting flowers. The wedding reception was to take place at their house within 24 hours. I was gleefully horrified, unknowingly being prepped for many such family events in the future.
Following suit 25 years later, I was told by that mom, on Tuesday, of an event the sisters would be singing in on Thursday evening. I prefer all events penciled in my calendar weeks in advance. But I am grateful each time she thinks to include me. It is a balance of feeling like a desperate orphan, wanting to belong, and also knowing at times, that I am intruding. There is already a lot of them, without adding stragglers, like me. Alas, I scrambled a bit to attend the Thursday evening Catholic Women Candlelight Tea. A bit uneasy, I haven’t been to church in a long time and Catholic church buildings hold meaning to me that is long ago rooted. I am not Catholic.
I was seated at a table near the front with some women I knew, though not well. Each table, around 25 of them, contained an advent wreath. In my home, since having children, we have had an advent wreath. I had it personally made by my brother’s ex girlfriend’s husband. He works with wood. In my brain, I keep a rolodex of people such as this man I had never met, but needed to utilize.
My mother was in charge of my grandparents’, her in-laws, books and bills since she was 20 years old. These were smart people who ran a business, but they could not, or chose not to, balance their check book. ever. My mom did that monumental task for 60 years. Until the month my mom died, she was still handling all financial aspects of their estate; the rest of us basically stood around like large dummies.
One of the greatest challenges of helping my grandparents was their rolodex. They were obsessed with it; little scribbled cards out of order, sitting like an important ferris wheel parked next to their phone. My grandpa frequently asked my mother, there to do bills, to place calls for him by locating the number in the rolodex. Grandpa kept numbers for almost anyone he had ever met and utilized them to answer any question that came on a whim. I’m guessing he placed around 15 different calls per day to anyone from the Vet tech to the teenage boy who lived 5 houses down and only came over once, 3 years back, to help move a concrete deer in the front lawn. My grandmother averaged around 35 daily phone conversations, but to the same 4 people.
An example I witnessed between my grandpa and mom :
“Doll, look up the number for the short plumber and give him a call for me, will ya?
“Sure.”
She looked under “J” for Jones, last name of plumber, no card. Then looks under “B” for Bob, first name of plumber. nothing.
“Grandpa, his card isn’t in here.”
“Hunny, you gotta look under the G, for gopher.”
“Why?”
“Because that lil feller looks like a gopher.”
She rolled to “G.” Card located.
You cannot make a check out to “gopher” and expect the bank to cash it. Containing math magic and Special Op level nerves, my mom made her hillbilly in-laws’ large binder of check stubs come out even. Every month, on schedule.
Desiring the Holidays to pass by more easily, I didn’t get all of our Christmas decorations out this year. I did, however, get out the hand crafted by my brother’s ex girlfriend’s husband wooden advent wreath and it seems the candles mock me.
‘ light that JOY candle, oh yes, let the PEACE glow!’
I’d snap that tapered wax in half if it wouldn’t scare the kids.
Anyway, after the sisters sang their first song at the Tea, it was announced to light the first candle of the wreath. The table hostess handed me matches and asked me to light the first candle.
I said, “which one?”
She replied, “any of the purple ones.”
I said, “Isn’t it supposed to be the one directly across from the pink one?”
She said, “it can be any of the purple.”
I lit the candle across from the pink one.
There is an order, lady! I know about the advent wreath!
Quickly, I blew out my match, sat down, and envisioned myself picking up the lit candle and lighting the entire wreath on fire. On the plate in front of me was a royal purple tulle bag and I could see a tiny book of the gospels inside, a gift from the hostess. I closed my eyes and tossed it on my imaginary bonfire.
The pure disrespect of that vision would have sent me straight into prayer a year ago. What kind of heathen takes an evening for women to meditate on the true meaning of Christmas and mentally firebombs it?
As always, my friends sounded beautiful. At the end of the evening they belted, “Oh, Holy Night” and my insides bucked. Get me out of here, it is past my bedtime.
As I drove the short distance home, one of the sisters, “S,” called her mom, who was riding with me, to tell her that the other sister, “L,” was basically crazy. This, we already knew. Earlier, at the end of the Candlelight event, a lady announced that the group was collecting signatures for anyone interested in opposing late birth abortion, aka “dismemberment.” As they left the event, “L” told “S” that she couldn’t believe the church was attempting to, “ban statues of Jesus that show his penis.”
Ummm, what?
S inquired what in the hell she was talking about. L explained that she heard the lady asking about getting the signatures to ban showing “His member.” An insane conversation followed that S then reported to us on speaker phone. S told her mother that she had asked L when she has possibly ever seen a statue in the church that showed Jesus with his penis out.
“well, I can’t recall, but people know what is under that little draped cloth.”
Good Grief.
For the next 12 hours, with a hint of joy, I thought to myself, “What planet is she on?”
I should have known, the same planet as my eldest child. My friend and my daughter are both smart, incredibly empathetic, driven, and absolute intense loons.
My youngest child, rather, likes her life to run in Standard Operating Procedure. She is not excitable, but cuddly and friendly. Filled with an inner confidence since birth, it’s often realized among us that she is the most sensible. Like a cuter version of an Oompa Loompa, even similar in body shape, she makes sweeping statements that are both judgmental and yet completely true.
My friend L is godmother to my youngest child. My daughter prays for L to “get good sleep, not be frazzled.” In return, L prays for my baby girl, but also frantically tells me things like, “you MUST get her all the things on her Christmas list. You have to!” No, no I don’t. But it is a nice gesture that she’d like her goddaughter to be completely satisfied of every desire, especially during this terrible year.
One is spunky, hilarious, and always on the verge of a new ulcer. The other is calm, wise beyond her years, but also fairly lethargic. As a pair, they come out pretty even.
Friday night, while driving in the car, I took a phone call from my dad and discussed his recent flu shot. My girls overheard. I was not upset during the call but did say things like, “You should keep your distance for a few days. Yes, you may feel sore.” As soon as I hung up, my eldest, panic stricken, said,” Is Pata throwing up? Do we need to bring him ginger ale? Will he be OK???”
On another night it’s quite possible I would have been severely annoyed at her dramatic interpretation of everything. Or maybe I would have felt immediately sad because she has recently lost both her great grandmother and her grandmother in ways that were fast and tricky. But on this night, in what felt like deja vu in the driver’s seat, I said, “What planet are you on?? You and your Aunt L jump to the craziest outcomes in all scenarios!!” And my girls knew about what Aunt L had assumed the night before- that the Catholic church was taking a stance on Jesus’ lil member. His dismember. -And the three of us belly laughed. And there was a bit of pure joy.
Thank you, strategically covered Adult/baby Jesus.
Also, thank you that a very sweet lady named Jill is Godmother to my eldest. As a pair, they don’t really come out even. Neither can stay truly focused on a task, they both read big into things, and their bodies somehow bump into the furniture that occupies their own homes. But they also have souls of gold with servant hearts. My eldest needs loads of prayers and Jill wakes up praying at 4am. So that part comes out even.
Back on that Thursday, while getting dressed for the day, my youngest looked at me and spoke for the first time that morning:
“What do you think my personality is like?”
I replied, “What do you mean?”
She responded, “You could say something like, ‘your personality is like a watermelon seed.’”
Umm, ok.
Tired, I told her I would think about it.
Later, my eldest secretly reported back to me, “Just so you know I asked her about comparing personalities to food. Yours did not come out positively.”
Great.
It was revealed that my youngest felt my likeness was a cucumber, “with tiny seeds of love that are deep inside and hard to grab.”
oompa, loompa, doopity, doo…..
I wonder if Albert’s home life is just an absolute shit show. Looks like his mom packed him a nice lunch, but maybe she starts drinking hard liquor as soon as he crosses the front door to walk to school. Maybe she crumpled all the candles in the advent wreath that year and yelled crazy things like, “I just want the F’n tree to look like a straight triangle!”
Probably not.
In an attempt to calm myself, I’ve been on a real jigsaw puzzle kick these days. I only like puzzles that are 500-750 pieces. A puzzle law. Not surprising, I am particular about the pictures, as well. With each new opened box, one of our cats steals a few puzzle pieces and hides them in the spidery corners of our gross basement. It really grinds my gears to end up with a 497 piece puzzle.
Preferably, my insides should feel symmetrical. They don’t. I’ve got spiritual puzzle pieces in the litter box and apparently, my children need a fine sift to locate my love.
Yesterday, my husband quietly loaded me in his truck and took it upon himself to drive me to No Thai! for lunch. And then directly afterward, he drove to Washtenaw Dairy for ice cream without saying much.
People are trying.
My pieces are jagged chunks.
In two weeks, my brother and his wife will come home for Christmas. But it will never truly feel like home because my mom will not be there and that makes me want to scream for hours. My mom loved Christmas and she always made it just right and so what the hell is the point now?
Since his birth, my brother has been like the “second coming” to our family. From beginning to end, my mother was completely smitten with him. Somehow, for 40 years, he’s done and said the dumbest things and yet, ‘can do no wrong.’ He has lived in Arizona for 20 years now and each time he travels home we basically gather around him and internally clap. We might as well wave palms. It is stupid. I adore him.
If he and his wife had decided not to come home at Christmas this year, I promise you I wouldn’t get out of bed. I bet that feels like a lot of pressure, especially when it seems he has flown back and forth a hundred times this year. Here in Michigan, my dad and I were never alone in the worst weeks of our lives, even if a few times it was by phone. My brother was completely present. The 3 of us lived through a nightmare, together. In contrast, we are mostly trying to handle the PTSD of it alone. We don’t say it aloud, but our unit went from 4 to 3 and it feels painfully odd.
Alas, I will get up. And we will go to my parents house on Christmas Day and I will pretend and it will be HARD. But I can’t figure out what to do differently than what we always have. The Helping Place where the girls and I attend suggests to do something as a family to honor your lost one. We lost two people this year, and a huge part of our own selves. I’d rather not bring it up as we serve the ham, thanks.
My own tradition for many years, then later with my husband and children- I have gone to church service on Christmas Eve for over 25 years. I can’t decide if I will go this year. Part of me is Frances, digging my heels in for my own current convictions. Another part of me is worried about my pyro inclinations and that last bit of the service where we light open candles and sing Silent Night.
Our current church, of 8 years, has no statues of Jesus. You can’t find him on a cross anywhere in the building and this used to bother me on a theological level. They don’t even put up a nativity scene in December. Odd. But this year, if I go there on Christmas Eve for my children’s sake, I’ll be glad about not having to stare at his pale little scantily covered body.
2019 has been the worst year of my life. The fact that the new year is near and people are calling it the year of “clear vision,” 20-20, makes me want to kick a manger, or a person, or lots of cars. Time keeps moving and it gets further from my mom. And that makes me somehow have both too many puzzle pieces to fit together and large lost pieces, all at the same time.
I will likely show up for the Christmas Day gathering with my beautiful friends and their extended family. It’s tradition. I can confidently predict that there will be playful arguing, and cute babies, and my girls will play with lots of ‘cousins’, and the Daddy will sit next to me and say something like, “I hear you’re in a depression,” and pray over me. And hopefully my skin won’t crawl off my body. It is likely that while I am there, S and L will make me laugh. No crispy cornered pizza, but I’ll eat some of my other favorite foods. Maybe some taco dip. And maybe there will be a shard of joy, or hope, or love, or even peace.
(This was a long and rambling post. Thank you for occupying a card in my rolodex…Merry Christmas.)
P.S. our tree is crooked.
Not That Good Grief 