I love being home at 3:15. I love it for more reasons than I can say. But I'll give you a small sample. Let's see, precisely why did I love it today?
Well, I loved running lines with Eugene Morris Jerome (aka Max) and yelling, with a lavish, no, a honking Brooklyn accent, "What!? A roller skate on the kitchen floor! Do you want me dead?" and hearing "it's a good thing you didn't audition for this and get cast as my mom, Mom, because that would be crazy, but then we would get to work on lines together a lot," and being able to respond "but I can STILL run lines with you a lot!"
Then, forty minutes later, I loved getting to kiss a soft, sweet cheek, flushed with the excitement of a Monday back in second grade and from the exertion of running from the bus stop.
I loved being able to bake them all cookies and make them each so happy when I delivered three cookies to each boy while he watched TV or worked on homework.
And I loved knowing exactly where the construction paper was when someone needed it for his homework.
Why, you may ask, am I going on about this mundane stuff?
Well, you see, this weekend, I wrote a letter of inquiry, pretty much announcing, if only to a couple of people, for the first time in TWENTY YEARS, that I want a real job, with real accountability, and a real paycheck. I have no idea at this moment whether this letter may actually lead to a job offer, but because in my heart I feel qualified and prepared to do this job well, I have to face the fact that my life may soon be about to change. So, I am savoring this all the more, this being home before four. It's been a good run. I am so grateful, more than I can express, for the opportunity I have had these past fourteen years, to parent on MY TERMS.
Specifically, that has meant structuring not just my career, but my WHOLE LIFE around being available to my children. Some may see that as selfless, but let me tell you, the rewards are also very great. Sure, parenting requires sacrifice - physical (stretched boobs and tummy, grey hair, please don't get me started) financial, emotional (DO NOT get me started!) but it is also indescribably gratifying, when I consider these people who have been in my charge. They're all right. I like them. A lot. And I know that is at least in part due to the fact that I have poured myself heart and soul into them, not on my schedule, but on theirs. If I had gone back to NYC, like I wanted to, like I tried to, this never would have happened. It's one of the biggest hidden blessings of my being "trapped" in Ohio, for which I am eternally grateful.
So, now, I'm waiting for a response to my letter. I was informed this morning that it has been passed into the hands of the Powers That Be. I hope that those in the position to hire me are ready and willing to think outside the box when they read about my background. But that is a topic for an entirely different blogpost. In the meantime, I've got to go start dinner.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
today, not so hot, but not so cool either
"Moooooooooommmm!!!!!!"
"yes?"
"Mooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What? Wait a sec...."
"Moooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"I'm here, I'm here, what is it?" I ask as I arrive at the bathroom door.
"I accidentally pooped in the bathtub!"
"That's it!" I turn on my heel and cross back across the house. I'm having a time out. Not with wine or valium, just by myself, in my own quiet, clean bathroom, with my yoga magazine. Just for a moment. Because the day is not over. Close, but no, I am not done yet.
This morning did not bode well. My first words were "why on earth do those people insist upon waking us each morning by talking so loudly right into our ears?" I was joking, lamely, referring to the alarm clock, set on NPR. After one round of the snooze button, I slid myself off the foot of the bed, and stumbled into the kitchen, only to discover that rather than getting to take a precious minute to make coffee before waking the boys, I had to walk Suki, because Max was unable to drag himself out of bed early enough to do so.
"Up late?" I asked, already knowing he had been, since I'd heard him helping himself to ice cream at 11:53 last night.
"No, I was in bed by twelve"
"That's no ten oclock. I guess no more facebook for you."
"Ten o'clock was unrealistic, mom!" he called after me as I strode out the front door with Suki.
I doubled back to yell through the front door:
"You were the one who said you'd be going to bed at ten o'clock, Max, not I. You said you could manage facebook and homework and everything else and still get up and walk her in the morning. And apparently spending time on facebook is more important than keeping your promise to me of walking her on the mornings that you are here. So that is why I am upset."
And then Suki and I went and watched a beautiful sunrise, or at least I did, and I tried to feel grateful for the opportunity to see it. I really tried. It was very lovely to look at, but I had stuff I should have been doing, to stay on schedule, so that the boys could make it to the bus stop on time.
Which they did not. So there went 45 minutes of my day, until the time I dropped them and their lunches and backpacks off at school, turned around and reached home again. But not until I had found (1) yesterday's clothes squished under the toilet, which was full of unflushed urine, (2) wet bath towels on the bedroom floor, trying to send roots into the moist carpet beneath them (3) one child's shoe, necessary for school, but without a mate in sight and (4) a missing lunchbox and 5) old banana peels glued to the floor in the living room, and dried banana pulp smeared on the leather couches.
I suddenly realized that my fun idea of taking kickboxing today was ill timed and ill conceived. But I had promised to be at the J to return a cell phone left in my backyard by a small child on Friday night. Even though it is out of character for me, I texted the news of my change of plan. A momnent later, the phone rang, loudly, which was strange, because it was the land line ringing, and I was still sitting in my minivan in the driveway. What a stroke of luck! Someone had left the phone on the ground in the tall weeds growing at the side of the driveway. As I hit talk, the battery went dead, meaning I had found it just in time - what brilliant luck! I ran inside and grabbed the other receiver and heard the voice of the recipient of my recent text. Turns out all of us would-be kick boxers really need to go grocery shopping today. It's not just me. Which makes it not so bad.
I went inside and began doing laundry and dishes and bringing in the remains of the raccoon party that took place on the lanai after dark, including a feast of our leftover scraps from a Chipotle dinner which we had enjoyed al fresco and which evidently nobody had cleared after Paul and I dashed out the door to the High school open house. Looks like Raccoons are not very impressed by plain cheese quesadillas either.
At midday, after I'd returned from Costco, my husband called and prefaced his remarks by explaining that he was experiencing, through no fault of mine, a great and overwhelming sadness coloring everything today, which I should keep in mind when I hear what he has to say. So that was a lovely chat, albeit a bit better than the one we had as he was trying to back out of the garage and go to work this morning.
I did four loads of laundry, two loads of dishes and sorted and tossed out some layers of the great piles of paper that dominate our household's interior landscape. No, they really do. I posted a facebook status about housework and grocery shopping getting in the way of living and as I worked, snippets of solidarity trickled onto my virtual wall, reminding me again that I was not alone.
By 12:38, I was ready to add violin practice into my juggling act, which is always a nice addition. Today this was a true bright spot of my day, but I didn't get far, because when I would stop playing to write new fingerings and bowings into my part I felt my eyelids drooping, my head wanting to nod forward sharply. It was almost 2:30, and I was going to have to go to school to pick up the kids because i had promised them round trip door to door service today, in celebration of I know not what - Mommy's martyrdom day? Yes, I suppose so.
I loaded up my van for the after school errands, and set my iphone to wake me at 3 pm just in time to pop up, slip on sandals, splash cold water on my face and hop back into my chariot, ready to pay the water bill en famille, return S.D.'s white ceramic serving platter which, I had determined, after it had now spenting months floating around my kitchen, was really going back to her today.
I curled up on the french loveseat in my front hallway, a strange choice to be sure as it is much less wide than I am long - so, clearly not for comfort's sake, but possibly because it was close to the front door. More likely it was just the first soft thing I saw after deciding to lie down. A few minutes into being horizontal, I was suddenly in a dream state. I know this because in my dream i was lying on a mat on the grass and I wanted to move my mat nearer to something or somebody, so I tried to squunch it forward a bit, which woke me with me with a start. I almost fell onto the ground, but did not. I rearranged myself and settled back to try to rest deeply, when my iphone sounded loudly in my ear. Not, as I first suspected, to alert me to its being 3 o'clock. I saw instead that it was a call from a dear friend with whom I had played phone tag all day. I sighed and put the still ringing phone onto the floor, seeing that I had 15 minutes left for a third attempt to rest.
Instead, I got up, took care of a few more things, and went to get the kids. Outside school, I saw several of my Mommy friends, who, when I stopped to chat with them, remarked that I was seeming like a bit of a smart aleck today. Which is a nice way of asking me why I am so bitchy, or at least calling it to my attention. Oh geez.
While we chatted, Isaac fell and began screaming bloody murder. Apparently in an impromptu game of touch football he had fallen hard, landing his butt on a small sharp stump, but who leaves such things on the front lawn next to an elementary school. It's almost like putting barbed wire on a playset. Because when 5, 6, and 7 year old boys come out into the sunlight after 8 hours in lock up, they want to tumble and roll and tackle each other onto the closest patch of grass. Which is perhaps why their house has been on the market for almost a year. Hmmm.
Well, Isaac screamed more and more loudly, even after I kissed him and offered to administer a big dose of ice cream immediately upon our return home. Which to do so required skipping payment of the water bill or return of the platter. We went right home and did homework with ice cream on the side, which was not a bad an interlude, when you consider that it's all relative. And that the water bill is not due until the 30th. I just really want to pay it while there is enough money in our account, and before it gets lost. I also want to stop looking at it and being reminded of the morning recently when I awoke to see, through the bedorom window, a gushing hose, flooding a goodly part of the back yard and adding about $100 to our usual bill.
Good things happened today. A positive phone chat about Max with my ex-husband. A flutist agreeing to play duets with me for the local music club. A donation of more music very graciously received by another local women's charity. My "little" boys both loving the camouflage cargo pants I found for them at Costco, which means that at this moment, they each have multiple pairs of pants WITHOUT ANY HOLES IN THE KNEES. The beautiful sunrise is still ingrained in my mind's eye, as are the good natured and radiantly beautiful smiles of my friends outside the elementary school.
I need to soak in the positive energy from all of that, bask in gratitude for it, but I am exhausted. After the poop-in-the-shower announcement, I decided not to accompany the kids as they canvas the neighborhood with coupons to sell to raise money for their school. I told them that in my current state (bitchy, unshowered) I would only be a liability, not an asset, to them as a sales force. So instead, I am sitting here venting, after consuming a dark chocolate covered almond milk popsicle, which was delicious.
Max is out on a driving lesson, and Paul is giving a talk in Kettering, but the sales boys should be back any minute. And do you know what? I'm really looking forward to storytime. I know it will be sweeter than chocolate.
"yes?"
"Mooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!!!!"
"What? Wait a sec...."
"Moooooooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmmmmmm!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!"
"I'm here, I'm here, what is it?" I ask as I arrive at the bathroom door.
"I accidentally pooped in the bathtub!"
"That's it!" I turn on my heel and cross back across the house. I'm having a time out. Not with wine or valium, just by myself, in my own quiet, clean bathroom, with my yoga magazine. Just for a moment. Because the day is not over. Close, but no, I am not done yet.
This morning did not bode well. My first words were "why on earth do those people insist upon waking us each morning by talking so loudly right into our ears?" I was joking, lamely, referring to the alarm clock, set on NPR. After one round of the snooze button, I slid myself off the foot of the bed, and stumbled into the kitchen, only to discover that rather than getting to take a precious minute to make coffee before waking the boys, I had to walk Suki, because Max was unable to drag himself out of bed early enough to do so.
"Up late?" I asked, already knowing he had been, since I'd heard him helping himself to ice cream at 11:53 last night.
"No, I was in bed by twelve"
"That's no ten oclock. I guess no more facebook for you."
"Ten o'clock was unrealistic, mom!" he called after me as I strode out the front door with Suki.
I doubled back to yell through the front door:
"You were the one who said you'd be going to bed at ten o'clock, Max, not I. You said you could manage facebook and homework and everything else and still get up and walk her in the morning. And apparently spending time on facebook is more important than keeping your promise to me of walking her on the mornings that you are here. So that is why I am upset."
And then Suki and I went and watched a beautiful sunrise, or at least I did, and I tried to feel grateful for the opportunity to see it. I really tried. It was very lovely to look at, but I had stuff I should have been doing, to stay on schedule, so that the boys could make it to the bus stop on time.
Which they did not. So there went 45 minutes of my day, until the time I dropped them and their lunches and backpacks off at school, turned around and reached home again. But not until I had found (1) yesterday's clothes squished under the toilet, which was full of unflushed urine, (2) wet bath towels on the bedroom floor, trying to send roots into the moist carpet beneath them (3) one child's shoe, necessary for school, but without a mate in sight and (4) a missing lunchbox and 5) old banana peels glued to the floor in the living room, and dried banana pulp smeared on the leather couches.
I suddenly realized that my fun idea of taking kickboxing today was ill timed and ill conceived. But I had promised to be at the J to return a cell phone left in my backyard by a small child on Friday night. Even though it is out of character for me, I texted the news of my change of plan. A momnent later, the phone rang, loudly, which was strange, because it was the land line ringing, and I was still sitting in my minivan in the driveway. What a stroke of luck! Someone had left the phone on the ground in the tall weeds growing at the side of the driveway. As I hit talk, the battery went dead, meaning I had found it just in time - what brilliant luck! I ran inside and grabbed the other receiver and heard the voice of the recipient of my recent text. Turns out all of us would-be kick boxers really need to go grocery shopping today. It's not just me. Which makes it not so bad.
I went inside and began doing laundry and dishes and bringing in the remains of the raccoon party that took place on the lanai after dark, including a feast of our leftover scraps from a Chipotle dinner which we had enjoyed al fresco and which evidently nobody had cleared after Paul and I dashed out the door to the High school open house. Looks like Raccoons are not very impressed by plain cheese quesadillas either.
At midday, after I'd returned from Costco, my husband called and prefaced his remarks by explaining that he was experiencing, through no fault of mine, a great and overwhelming sadness coloring everything today, which I should keep in mind when I hear what he has to say. So that was a lovely chat, albeit a bit better than the one we had as he was trying to back out of the garage and go to work this morning.
I did four loads of laundry, two loads of dishes and sorted and tossed out some layers of the great piles of paper that dominate our household's interior landscape. No, they really do. I posted a facebook status about housework and grocery shopping getting in the way of living and as I worked, snippets of solidarity trickled onto my virtual wall, reminding me again that I was not alone.
By 12:38, I was ready to add violin practice into my juggling act, which is always a nice addition. Today this was a true bright spot of my day, but I didn't get far, because when I would stop playing to write new fingerings and bowings into my part I felt my eyelids drooping, my head wanting to nod forward sharply. It was almost 2:30, and I was going to have to go to school to pick up the kids because i had promised them round trip door to door service today, in celebration of I know not what - Mommy's martyrdom day? Yes, I suppose so.
I loaded up my van for the after school errands, and set my iphone to wake me at 3 pm just in time to pop up, slip on sandals, splash cold water on my face and hop back into my chariot, ready to pay the water bill en famille, return S.D.'s white ceramic serving platter which, I had determined, after it had now spenting months floating around my kitchen, was really going back to her today.
I curled up on the french loveseat in my front hallway, a strange choice to be sure as it is much less wide than I am long - so, clearly not for comfort's sake, but possibly because it was close to the front door. More likely it was just the first soft thing I saw after deciding to lie down. A few minutes into being horizontal, I was suddenly in a dream state. I know this because in my dream i was lying on a mat on the grass and I wanted to move my mat nearer to something or somebody, so I tried to squunch it forward a bit, which woke me with me with a start. I almost fell onto the ground, but did not. I rearranged myself and settled back to try to rest deeply, when my iphone sounded loudly in my ear. Not, as I first suspected, to alert me to its being 3 o'clock. I saw instead that it was a call from a dear friend with whom I had played phone tag all day. I sighed and put the still ringing phone onto the floor, seeing that I had 15 minutes left for a third attempt to rest.
Instead, I got up, took care of a few more things, and went to get the kids. Outside school, I saw several of my Mommy friends, who, when I stopped to chat with them, remarked that I was seeming like a bit of a smart aleck today. Which is a nice way of asking me why I am so bitchy, or at least calling it to my attention. Oh geez.
While we chatted, Isaac fell and began screaming bloody murder. Apparently in an impromptu game of touch football he had fallen hard, landing his butt on a small sharp stump, but who leaves such things on the front lawn next to an elementary school. It's almost like putting barbed wire on a playset. Because when 5, 6, and 7 year old boys come out into the sunlight after 8 hours in lock up, they want to tumble and roll and tackle each other onto the closest patch of grass. Which is perhaps why their house has been on the market for almost a year. Hmmm.
Well, Isaac screamed more and more loudly, even after I kissed him and offered to administer a big dose of ice cream immediately upon our return home. Which to do so required skipping payment of the water bill or return of the platter. We went right home and did homework with ice cream on the side, which was not a bad an interlude, when you consider that it's all relative. And that the water bill is not due until the 30th. I just really want to pay it while there is enough money in our account, and before it gets lost. I also want to stop looking at it and being reminded of the morning recently when I awoke to see, through the bedorom window, a gushing hose, flooding a goodly part of the back yard and adding about $100 to our usual bill.
Good things happened today. A positive phone chat about Max with my ex-husband. A flutist agreeing to play duets with me for the local music club. A donation of more music very graciously received by another local women's charity. My "little" boys both loving the camouflage cargo pants I found for them at Costco, which means that at this moment, they each have multiple pairs of pants WITHOUT ANY HOLES IN THE KNEES. The beautiful sunrise is still ingrained in my mind's eye, as are the good natured and radiantly beautiful smiles of my friends outside the elementary school.
I need to soak in the positive energy from all of that, bask in gratitude for it, but I am exhausted. After the poop-in-the-shower announcement, I decided not to accompany the kids as they canvas the neighborhood with coupons to sell to raise money for their school. I told them that in my current state (bitchy, unshowered) I would only be a liability, not an asset, to them as a sales force. So instead, I am sitting here venting, after consuming a dark chocolate covered almond milk popsicle, which was delicious.
Max is out on a driving lesson, and Paul is giving a talk in Kettering, but the sales boys should be back any minute. And do you know what? I'm really looking forward to storytime. I know it will be sweeter than chocolate.
Sunday, September 5, 2010
why I bawled at Billy Eliot
I was expecting a show about a boy discovering the joys of dance, against all odds. But I guess I didn't stop to consider what "all odds" might entail.
Even though Billy grew up in a hard scrabble mining town in Northern England, and I grew up in a cushy suburb of New York City, his story was powerfully familiar to me. I'm notorious for tearing up at movies, but by the final curtain of this show, I had dissolved into a trembling, exhausted, soggy heap.
When Billy's tough, gruff, working class father takes him to audition at London's Royal School of Ballet, having crossed the picket line to earn the money for the bus tickets, I wept. My father didn't want me to be a musician any more than Billy's father originally wanted his son to be a dancer. By all rights, Billy should have been a miner, like his dad, and as the eldest child, lacking a brother of any age, I was expected to step up and become a surgeon, like mine.
Billy was passionate about the dance, but the biggest difference I could see between him and me was that when he caved to family pressure, his teacher took a big risk and advocated for him. Like Billy, I was afraid to stand up to parental expectations on my own; as a child, I wasn't strong enough in my convictions and I doubted the sufficiency of my gifts. So, I cried when Billy's teacher, "Miss", walked through the snow, bravely knocked on the doorway of his house and yelled at his dad about Billy's remarkable combination of talent and passion and what a tragic waste it would be not to let him dance.
Billy's mother died of cancer when he was small, so we do not know whether she would have supported his career aspirations, but by the letter he keeps from her and reads on stage, summoning her presence in his memory, it is implied that she would have offered him unconditional love and supported his following his dream. Rather than taken by cancer, my mother's will was subsumed into her marriage to my father, and she averred, against all evidence to the contrary, that she was better off having sacrificed her own career in dance to become a doctor's wife and a mother.
Because of his teacher's intervention, Billy is offered and able to accept the scholarship from the Royal Academy, and the audience is treated to a glimpse into the future where we see Billy as a powerful and majestic adult ballet dancer.
I saw this show with two sons who study dance. Max is almost sixteen and takes dance instruction half heartedly, if not reluctantly, as a means to an end. He wants to be in the theatre and is currently starring in his second professional production. Isaac, on the other hand, dances every time there is music, sometimes when he is the only one who hears it. But while Isaac, at age seven, seems destined to become an entreprenuer, the puzzle of Max's future brings up the same memories and emotions for me as those triggered by seeing Billy Eliot, on an almost daily basis.
When I was Max's exact age, I was a senior in high school, and my dream of pursuing a professional music career had already effectively been squashed. The very month of my sixteenth birthday, forbidden to pursue music perfomance beyond high school, I turned down a unsolicited music scholarship, which came attached to an invitation to play in the Akron Symphony. That same month, I applied to Harvard early decision, and my fate was sealed. I was so fortunate, arriving in Cambridge, to have Roman Totenberg as my violin teacher, but I was so confused by what I was doing in Cambridge that I shirked practicing responsibilities in order to do the work required to get top grades, for no other reason than I believed was "supposed to" put academics first. What was I trying to accomplish? I'd already attained the goal of ridiculously high grades and scores, but I was now desperately seeking a new goal (to replace my musical one) by trying my very hardest to overcome each and every new academic challenge.
The answer is that at sixteen, I was not strong enough on my own to buck the system I had been born into, and I also lacked a mentor willing to go to bat for me, to stand up to parental authority and argue that I should be - not just allowed - but actively supported in pursuit of my dream. I was trying in vain to launch myself in another direction. But nothing ever drew me, ever called to me, ever pulled at my heart strings like music did and still does.
This is just part of the baggage I carry with me as I try to be the most loving and helful parent I can be. As I am confronted by a teenager who dreams of pursuing a career in the arts, but also piles on more AP courses than anyone else in his class because he believes he's "supposed to" get into a top school, I wonder how much my neuroses are affecting him, and whether I am (in Kahlil Gibran terms) being a proper bow to his arrow. For we lack another thing that Billy Eliot had. Max and I both have free will, so, rather than rely on an author to determine our story's end, we will continue to struggle very humanly to communicate with each other, and together, try to determine what is the best use of our time and resources, and the best decision to be made each step of the way, and I will try both to support him and to get out of his way, and to have faith every day that he can and will find the way to his destiny.
Even though Billy grew up in a hard scrabble mining town in Northern England, and I grew up in a cushy suburb of New York City, his story was powerfully familiar to me. I'm notorious for tearing up at movies, but by the final curtain of this show, I had dissolved into a trembling, exhausted, soggy heap.
When Billy's tough, gruff, working class father takes him to audition at London's Royal School of Ballet, having crossed the picket line to earn the money for the bus tickets, I wept. My father didn't want me to be a musician any more than Billy's father originally wanted his son to be a dancer. By all rights, Billy should have been a miner, like his dad, and as the eldest child, lacking a brother of any age, I was expected to step up and become a surgeon, like mine.
Billy was passionate about the dance, but the biggest difference I could see between him and me was that when he caved to family pressure, his teacher took a big risk and advocated for him. Like Billy, I was afraid to stand up to parental expectations on my own; as a child, I wasn't strong enough in my convictions and I doubted the sufficiency of my gifts. So, I cried when Billy's teacher, "Miss", walked through the snow, bravely knocked on the doorway of his house and yelled at his dad about Billy's remarkable combination of talent and passion and what a tragic waste it would be not to let him dance.
Billy's mother died of cancer when he was small, so we do not know whether she would have supported his career aspirations, but by the letter he keeps from her and reads on stage, summoning her presence in his memory, it is implied that she would have offered him unconditional love and supported his following his dream. Rather than taken by cancer, my mother's will was subsumed into her marriage to my father, and she averred, against all evidence to the contrary, that she was better off having sacrificed her own career in dance to become a doctor's wife and a mother.
Because of his teacher's intervention, Billy is offered and able to accept the scholarship from the Royal Academy, and the audience is treated to a glimpse into the future where we see Billy as a powerful and majestic adult ballet dancer.
I saw this show with two sons who study dance. Max is almost sixteen and takes dance instruction half heartedly, if not reluctantly, as a means to an end. He wants to be in the theatre and is currently starring in his second professional production. Isaac, on the other hand, dances every time there is music, sometimes when he is the only one who hears it. But while Isaac, at age seven, seems destined to become an entreprenuer, the puzzle of Max's future brings up the same memories and emotions for me as those triggered by seeing Billy Eliot, on an almost daily basis.
When I was Max's exact age, I was a senior in high school, and my dream of pursuing a professional music career had already effectively been squashed. The very month of my sixteenth birthday, forbidden to pursue music perfomance beyond high school, I turned down a unsolicited music scholarship, which came attached to an invitation to play in the Akron Symphony. That same month, I applied to Harvard early decision, and my fate was sealed. I was so fortunate, arriving in Cambridge, to have Roman Totenberg as my violin teacher, but I was so confused by what I was doing in Cambridge that I shirked practicing responsibilities in order to do the work required to get top grades, for no other reason than I believed was "supposed to" put academics first. What was I trying to accomplish? I'd already attained the goal of ridiculously high grades and scores, but I was now desperately seeking a new goal (to replace my musical one) by trying my very hardest to overcome each and every new academic challenge.
The answer is that at sixteen, I was not strong enough on my own to buck the system I had been born into, and I also lacked a mentor willing to go to bat for me, to stand up to parental authority and argue that I should be - not just allowed - but actively supported in pursuit of my dream. I was trying in vain to launch myself in another direction. But nothing ever drew me, ever called to me, ever pulled at my heart strings like music did and still does.
This is just part of the baggage I carry with me as I try to be the most loving and helful parent I can be. As I am confronted by a teenager who dreams of pursuing a career in the arts, but also piles on more AP courses than anyone else in his class because he believes he's "supposed to" get into a top school, I wonder how much my neuroses are affecting him, and whether I am (in Kahlil Gibran terms) being a proper bow to his arrow. For we lack another thing that Billy Eliot had. Max and I both have free will, so, rather than rely on an author to determine our story's end, we will continue to struggle very humanly to communicate with each other, and together, try to determine what is the best use of our time and resources, and the best decision to be made each step of the way, and I will try both to support him and to get out of his way, and to have faith every day that he can and will find the way to his destiny.
Friday, September 3, 2010
tracking the trimming
I tend to forget that this blog started out as a place to keep track of my efforts to simplify my life down to those things I am passionate about. In establishing it, I stated my desire and intention to behave more like a two handed woman, less like I was trying to impersonate a many armed Hindu goddess. How am I doing so far?
Someone at temple just said to me "so, you have a lot going on."
Yes, this has always been true; I won't try to argue. As my Mama, Esther Brochstein, of blessed memory, used to say "Never mind them; that's just how you are."
However...
I have been saying no.
As the holidays approach, (i.e. the Jewish high holidays)I want the record to reflect that I am trimming from the category marked "non-essential", as in not-passionate-enough-to-keep-doing-it-if-I-have-a-choice, and I have been trimming and continue to trim:
I resigned from both the faculty and the board of Kulanu, even as I continue to be passionate about its continued success, and in my eldest son's participation in it. Paul has taken my spot on the board, so I keep my finger on the pulse without going to meetings. Clever? Well, somewhat, but I do miss seeing my friends from there.
I stopped going into the elementary school classroom as often with art projects and lessons to share. I did only those that were meaningful to me. Tiny pangs of guilt. Smaller all the time.
On a related note, I will no longer being offering Art for Boys at my home (or anywhere, for that matter). Art centered playdates for my sons and their friends? Sure! But I am no longer Miss Nancy, their art teacher. And as of today, I have finally cleaned up the wreckage of the Lord of the Flies day back in November '09 and reclaimed the space, just in time to host Rosh Hashanah lunch. It is no longer a teaching studio. I am hanging up my beret.
I am not auditioning for the Kentucky Symphony, at least, not this year. I already have an orchestra that I love (seven hills sinfonietta) and I can make more money, and have a better time, getting gigs for Brava Music, my new chamber ensemble.
I am not teaching fifth grade Hebrew, even though the religious school director is my dearest friend and soul sister. I need those time slots for music. And music time slots I am protecting, guarding, and preserving from encroachment.
I am not buying myself another pair of shoes or any garment for at least six months, beginning last month, the moment after I bought two golf shirts for $5 each at Meadow Links pro shop. Because really, who can resist a sale like that, 2 for $10!? This particular trimming will save time AND money, but quite possibly build up a great longing to visit Nordstrom Rack, Snooty Fox, Off Fifth, or all three. (And I to think I used to be addicted to the 4 B's: Bergdorf, Barney's, Bendel's and Bloomingdale's) I'm going to go ahead right now and carve out a possible exception to this for the week of my birthday because even though, for the first time, Mama is not around to send me a check in my birthday card, that is a very difficult habit to break.
O.K., so, what am I up to?
Most immediately, I am playing liturgical music, with a band, with a flutist, and by myself (as a soloist) and I am planning, shopping for, preparing and serving two holiday meals.
I am advocating for my children at school. Always.
I am meddling very lovingly in the lives of several of my friends. Taking time simply to visit with others.
I am taking ballet, pilates and anusara yoga, and I may try kickboxing very soon.
I am learning the first violin part of the Dvorak 8th symphony, anticipating playing a world premiere by Philip Koplow, and re-learning a little bit of La Boheme, after twenty years.
I'm thinking of taking some adult Jewish education, together with Paul.
I am preparing to do our 2009 taxes.
I am out networking and marketing Brava, and serving as its booking agent for gigs.
I am looking forward to visiting Brown, BU, Columbia, Penn, and NYU with Max. (He's going to Chicago with his father.)
I am looking for recording studios, both for Brava and for Max, and for a web designer who is willing to barter with classical musicians in exchange for creating a site that has music embedded within it.
And, as 5770 comes to a close, I am also walking the dog, feeding the dog, helping the kids get ready for school, supervising cat care, helping with homework, serving breakfast, packing lunches, baking cookies, croissants, making smoothies and sorbets, cooking pasta and on Sundays, challah french toast, shopping for groceries (Trader Joe's, Kroger, Whole Food, Costco), visiting the farmer's market, placing a monthly Melaleuca order, taking kids to dentists and doctors, driving pets to the vet, gently carrying spiders out of doors, removing cobwebs from the places where the walls meet the ceiling, replacing lightbulbs, scheduling haircuts for four people, checking facebook, phoning friends, doing dishes, doing laundry, putting away dishes, putting away laundry, sweeping the floor, picking the kids' towels up off the floor, picking underwear and socks and pajamas up off the floor, picking up toys and books, ping pong balls and free weights, moving piles of paper around, constantly trying to throw out as many of those papers as possible, watering flowers, weeding the garden, replacing dead plants, picking the kids up from school, driving to voice lessons, acting lessons, dance lessons, paying the bills, and also the piano teacher, voice teacher, lawn care guy, neighborhood paper delivery guy, going to the JCC and going to temple.
Like any normal, two-handed woman.
Shanah tovah!
Someone at temple just said to me "so, you have a lot going on."
Yes, this has always been true; I won't try to argue. As my Mama, Esther Brochstein, of blessed memory, used to say "Never mind them; that's just how you are."
However...
I have been saying no.
As the holidays approach, (i.e. the Jewish high holidays)I want the record to reflect that I am trimming from the category marked "non-essential", as in not-passionate-enough-to-keep-doing-it-if-I-have-a-choice, and I have been trimming and continue to trim:
I resigned from both the faculty and the board of Kulanu, even as I continue to be passionate about its continued success, and in my eldest son's participation in it. Paul has taken my spot on the board, so I keep my finger on the pulse without going to meetings. Clever? Well, somewhat, but I do miss seeing my friends from there.
I stopped going into the elementary school classroom as often with art projects and lessons to share. I did only those that were meaningful to me. Tiny pangs of guilt. Smaller all the time.
On a related note, I will no longer being offering Art for Boys at my home (or anywhere, for that matter). Art centered playdates for my sons and their friends? Sure! But I am no longer Miss Nancy, their art teacher. And as of today, I have finally cleaned up the wreckage of the Lord of the Flies day back in November '09 and reclaimed the space, just in time to host Rosh Hashanah lunch. It is no longer a teaching studio. I am hanging up my beret.
I am not auditioning for the Kentucky Symphony, at least, not this year. I already have an orchestra that I love (seven hills sinfonietta) and I can make more money, and have a better time, getting gigs for Brava Music, my new chamber ensemble.
I am not teaching fifth grade Hebrew, even though the religious school director is my dearest friend and soul sister. I need those time slots for music. And music time slots I am protecting, guarding, and preserving from encroachment.
I am not buying myself another pair of shoes or any garment for at least six months, beginning last month, the moment after I bought two golf shirts for $5 each at Meadow Links pro shop. Because really, who can resist a sale like that, 2 for $10!? This particular trimming will save time AND money, but quite possibly build up a great longing to visit Nordstrom Rack, Snooty Fox, Off Fifth, or all three. (And I to think I used to be addicted to the 4 B's: Bergdorf, Barney's, Bendel's and Bloomingdale's) I'm going to go ahead right now and carve out a possible exception to this for the week of my birthday because even though, for the first time, Mama is not around to send me a check in my birthday card, that is a very difficult habit to break.
O.K., so, what am I up to?
Most immediately, I am playing liturgical music, with a band, with a flutist, and by myself (as a soloist) and I am planning, shopping for, preparing and serving two holiday meals.
I am advocating for my children at school. Always.
I am meddling very lovingly in the lives of several of my friends. Taking time simply to visit with others.
I am taking ballet, pilates and anusara yoga, and I may try kickboxing very soon.
I am learning the first violin part of the Dvorak 8th symphony, anticipating playing a world premiere by Philip Koplow, and re-learning a little bit of La Boheme, after twenty years.
I'm thinking of taking some adult Jewish education, together with Paul.
I am preparing to do our 2009 taxes.
I am out networking and marketing Brava, and serving as its booking agent for gigs.
I am looking forward to visiting Brown, BU, Columbia, Penn, and NYU with Max. (He's going to Chicago with his father.)
I am looking for recording studios, both for Brava and for Max, and for a web designer who is willing to barter with classical musicians in exchange for creating a site that has music embedded within it.
And, as 5770 comes to a close, I am also walking the dog, feeding the dog, helping the kids get ready for school, supervising cat care, helping with homework, serving breakfast, packing lunches, baking cookies, croissants, making smoothies and sorbets, cooking pasta and on Sundays, challah french toast, shopping for groceries (Trader Joe's, Kroger, Whole Food, Costco), visiting the farmer's market, placing a monthly Melaleuca order, taking kids to dentists and doctors, driving pets to the vet, gently carrying spiders out of doors, removing cobwebs from the places where the walls meet the ceiling, replacing lightbulbs, scheduling haircuts for four people, checking facebook, phoning friends, doing dishes, doing laundry, putting away dishes, putting away laundry, sweeping the floor, picking the kids' towels up off the floor, picking underwear and socks and pajamas up off the floor, picking up toys and books, ping pong balls and free weights, moving piles of paper around, constantly trying to throw out as many of those papers as possible, watering flowers, weeding the garden, replacing dead plants, picking the kids up from school, driving to voice lessons, acting lessons, dance lessons, paying the bills, and also the piano teacher, voice teacher, lawn care guy, neighborhood paper delivery guy, going to the JCC and going to temple.
Like any normal, two-handed woman.
Shanah tovah!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
six degrees of perception
I recently googled myself (do you do this, too?) and was surprised, and deeply delighted, to see that a complete stranger had referenced my blog in his work with adolescent girls. While evidently quite unaware that I also do work to try to empower girls, Slashtipher Coleman cited this blog in his own, as an example of the power of positivity, and recommended to the girls in his program that they emulate my practice of articulating gratitude. It blew me away to realize that I had been recognized, or perceived, in this particular and very positive way, by someone I have never met.
Except by those closest to us, we never REALLY know how we are perceived, but we are especially in the dark as to how we impress those whom we have never met. I suppose that famous people deal with this all the time, thanks to paparazzi, tabloids and Entertainment television, but mercifully, I do not attract that type or degree of attention. The truth is that since completing my OWN adolescence, as I have become more and more comfortable in my own skin, I have devoted less and less time to wondering what others think of me. This is not to say that I don't care. I care greatly and deeply about a great number of people. And if I didn't care how I was perceived, I suppose I would never google myself. Right? But I don't WORRY about it, or devote much energy or attention to it.
My close friends, my children and my husband have all been great teachers for me on the subject of how I am perceived, although they each a different portrait back to me. But what I cannot realize, and never have, is how strangers and new acquaintances tend to experience me, and I know this is both good and bad. I tend to be very genuine and open, and while people remark on this all the time, it is not the result of a conscious decision. I am that way naturally, because I don't have either the energy or interest in trying to be any other way.
But on the flip side, I tend not to consider whether people who don't know me well realize that I have just been sarcastic. Sarcasm is a lifelong habit that I am unlikely to break and of which I am also, generally unaware. In fact, when one of my kids recently asked if I was being sarcastic in what I had just said, I siad, or rather, yelled "No! I'm NOT sarcastic! Why do you always assume that I am being sarcastic? I am NOT being sarcastic!" Later, a friend pointed out to me that actually, I am sarcastic a great deal of the time. I guess it has just become so automatic to me...like being open, helpful, concerned, and all the other things that are by this point, very deeply ingrained.
I make friends easily, and I think it's because I am genuinely interested in people and also because I tend not to judge anyone (although I am inclined to lecture now and then). Sometimes, lately, I might feel a person has become a new friend, that she knows me, really gets me, and then I am really surprised when I realize she thought I was serious when I was actually joking around, or vice versa. At times like that, when I have been misperceived, I may take some time to let a new friend better understand who I really am, that is, how I understand myself to be, how I tick, how I operate, what motivates me, interests me, my philosophy of friendship. I also have enough experience now, in middle age, to understand how my friends tend to react to me and how they tend to hurt, help or disappoint me. Essentially, I can and will provide my own warning label at the start of a close friendship.
For example, I have lately spelled out some of the following terms to new friends: I will not humor you, I will not lie to you. I will tell you when I think you are delusional, I may point out your inconsistencies, I will comment when I see you doing what you told me you didn't want ever to do again. I will hold you accountable. I will help you whenever and however I possibly can. I will expect you to treat me as well as I do you, to tell me if you feel I've hurt or slighted you, if I sounded angry or if I was short with you, to be as honest with me as I am with you. Because life is too short, too busy, and too complicated to waste much time and energy on people with whom you can't have that kind of relationship.
As for this blog, well, I rarely think of what will happen with my words once I type them into the grey and blue box on my laptop screen. I don't spend much time editing. I often write to capture moments, the way many of you may do with a camera, paintbrush or scrapbook. Other times, I find that writing helps me sort out my thoughts. Afterwards, I might get an email from one or several of you, letting me know how my words impacted you. To learn that my connection with you has been deepened as a result of what I choose to share here is, for me, a beautiful bonus. But generally speaking, I am pretty self absorbed when I write, and rather unaware of my audience.
Today's post has been an exception. I wonder how it will be perceived. Will you be the person who tells me?
Except by those closest to us, we never REALLY know how we are perceived, but we are especially in the dark as to how we impress those whom we have never met. I suppose that famous people deal with this all the time, thanks to paparazzi, tabloids and Entertainment television, but mercifully, I do not attract that type or degree of attention. The truth is that since completing my OWN adolescence, as I have become more and more comfortable in my own skin, I have devoted less and less time to wondering what others think of me. This is not to say that I don't care. I care greatly and deeply about a great number of people. And if I didn't care how I was perceived, I suppose I would never google myself. Right? But I don't WORRY about it, or devote much energy or attention to it.
My close friends, my children and my husband have all been great teachers for me on the subject of how I am perceived, although they each a different portrait back to me. But what I cannot realize, and never have, is how strangers and new acquaintances tend to experience me, and I know this is both good and bad. I tend to be very genuine and open, and while people remark on this all the time, it is not the result of a conscious decision. I am that way naturally, because I don't have either the energy or interest in trying to be any other way.
But on the flip side, I tend not to consider whether people who don't know me well realize that I have just been sarcastic. Sarcasm is a lifelong habit that I am unlikely to break and of which I am also, generally unaware. In fact, when one of my kids recently asked if I was being sarcastic in what I had just said, I siad, or rather, yelled "No! I'm NOT sarcastic! Why do you always assume that I am being sarcastic? I am NOT being sarcastic!" Later, a friend pointed out to me that actually, I am sarcastic a great deal of the time. I guess it has just become so automatic to me...like being open, helpful, concerned, and all the other things that are by this point, very deeply ingrained.
I make friends easily, and I think it's because I am genuinely interested in people and also because I tend not to judge anyone (although I am inclined to lecture now and then). Sometimes, lately, I might feel a person has become a new friend, that she knows me, really gets me, and then I am really surprised when I realize she thought I was serious when I was actually joking around, or vice versa. At times like that, when I have been misperceived, I may take some time to let a new friend better understand who I really am, that is, how I understand myself to be, how I tick, how I operate, what motivates me, interests me, my philosophy of friendship. I also have enough experience now, in middle age, to understand how my friends tend to react to me and how they tend to hurt, help or disappoint me. Essentially, I can and will provide my own warning label at the start of a close friendship.
For example, I have lately spelled out some of the following terms to new friends: I will not humor you, I will not lie to you. I will tell you when I think you are delusional, I may point out your inconsistencies, I will comment when I see you doing what you told me you didn't want ever to do again. I will hold you accountable. I will help you whenever and however I possibly can. I will expect you to treat me as well as I do you, to tell me if you feel I've hurt or slighted you, if I sounded angry or if I was short with you, to be as honest with me as I am with you. Because life is too short, too busy, and too complicated to waste much time and energy on people with whom you can't have that kind of relationship.
As for this blog, well, I rarely think of what will happen with my words once I type them into the grey and blue box on my laptop screen. I don't spend much time editing. I often write to capture moments, the way many of you may do with a camera, paintbrush or scrapbook. Other times, I find that writing helps me sort out my thoughts. Afterwards, I might get an email from one or several of you, letting me know how my words impacted you. To learn that my connection with you has been deepened as a result of what I choose to share here is, for me, a beautiful bonus. But generally speaking, I am pretty self absorbed when I write, and rather unaware of my audience.
Today's post has been an exception. I wonder how it will be perceived. Will you be the person who tells me?
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