Christmas Greetings from Our Home to Yours

The girls and I are standing out on the low tide of Seal Beach….the sky is blue and there are low rolling waves washing upon the shore. We are playing on the sand, laughing and dancing. At one point I feel like time has stood still. I notice the ripples on the sand and the warm water touching our feet. When I get home I think about the day and realize that it is a metaphor for where we are in our lives. I can’t help, but think that the three of us have come so far. That our tide has gone out and left us in this state of joy and peace. And even though the heavy tides have gone the ripples have left their mark, as a reflection to where we have been. Knowing this makes me want to jump up and down and celebrate. I want to cry.

It’s been a fast paced year and time keeps slipping away. I want to stop the tide from turning, but I know that I can’t and so I deal with the few months I have left of my high school girl. Ellen is going to be graduating in June and heading off to college. For years she has been teasing me about leaving me, just to see me get teary eyed. She would say it, and watch my face change as water welled up in my eyes. In fact I have coined this year, “The Year of Tears”. I told her that it’s my God given right, as her mother, to cry about her departure and every little moment that leads up to that. In August she took her senior portraits and as soon as she slipped on the cap and gown, I needed to reach for the Kleenex. She looked at me and said, “Oh mama, it’s just a picture!” I know it is, but that picture represents so much. I just don’t know if I have prepared my heart for this. She plans to go to San Francisco State or San Luis Obispo depending on where she gets accepted. When we sent in her final college applications to San Francisco State she came in my room and said, “Maybe I don’t want to go so far away. Maybe I’ll stay a little closer.” I had to smile and replied, ‘You are going to miss me!” Ellen is a wonderful daughter and she has so many great tools to bring to her new world. I know she is going to manage her life with humor and confidence just like she does every day. Besides, she now has a new kitten that she will be dying to come home to visit. I’m no dummy.

And so the tide turns and Jennifer will be stepping up to high school next year, but first, Middle School has one more year of my sweet Jennifer. If you live near us you might see her riding her bike, skateboarding, or hanging out at FNL (Friday Night Lights). She is the quintessential California middle schooler with her blonde hair and sweet smile. She is playing tennis and I think she may have found her “thing”- she’s been searching for years J. Jennifer loves to do accents. She does a “spot on” English bit and a Vietnamese nail salon that is hysterical. Jennifer doesn’t know a stranger, and this is something I worry about, but love at the same time. And as far as her relationship with her sister? Well, the two of them are Mars and Venus. Ellen had text me one day telling me that her sister wasn’t being very appreciative of her for driving her to school. I called Jen and asked what was going on. She told me that Ellen got angry at her for using a water bottle instead of a reusable water jug (my environmentalist…hence San Fran State). Then she told me Ellen made her ride in the back seat to school and was mad because Jen didn’t say “Thank you.” I told Ellen that it’s hard to hug and appreciate a porcupine and she laughed, but still arguing the point of the water bottle and the earth. Of course, Jen takes it all in stride…because after her sister leaves for school (on the days she doesn’t drive her), Jennifer strides into her sister’s room and borrows her pants! Oh, the trials of sisterhood.

The sun rises for me around these moments with my family. It’s normal, it’s hard, but we are at a low tide, the water is warm and we have come a long way. God is gracious and has blessed my girls and me beyond measure. I pray that you all seek His many blessings this season and find that the tide always turns, but God is with you. Many, many blessings and Merry Christmas.

Poetry and Softness

I used to write poetry when I was a little girl. I used to write in a flower covered journal all my quirky poems: some I made up and some I copied down - just to remember. I remember I loved Helen Steiner Rice poems, but I honestly don’t know who she is now.

Last week our cat of eleven years died. After the tears, and the massive guilt, I thought about these old poems. When I was young I saw a poster about a man’s best friend being his dog. As a ten year old little girl, it made me query about a “woman’s” best friend. I was an early “Equal Rights” advocate, before the term “feminism” was even around. I sat on my bed with my childhood cat Puddin scrawled on my paper, grabbing my pen as I jotted these words:

“A Cat is a woman’s best friend!”

I must have felt some sort of satisfaction at this statement. I must have believed by writing these words I was righting some sort of umbrage the original poster implied. Who knows, what goes through a little girls mind. I do remember feeling a sense of loyalty toward Puddin with words contradicting men and dogs and this somehow elevated Puddin’s existence.

So what does this really have to do with my daughters’ childhood cat dying this last week? I’m not entirely sure, other than the incident brought to mind the love and homage we have for our dear four legged siblings. My daughters were broken, as we ruminated over “Ollie Cats” life. The image of my oldest daughter holding her love will be difficult to blot out. Rushing to the vet, interrupting the receptionist, pleading with her to hurry because Ollie was in trouble; it’s hard to get it out of my mind. It all seems like a fast forwarded movie- watching the flash of blurred colors on the screen, only to stop at the part that you were hoping to miss- Ollie was gone.

It’s been a week now, and we are coping. I know that time will move on and we will heal, but my daughters get quiet when they see the other animals in the house walk by. I made the mistake of calling our other cat “Ollie” tonight at dinner, and the whole table was silent. Until the dog ran after her and we all laughed…waiting for the moment to breathe.

To some, this may seem melodramatic. There are so many “Cat Haters” in the world- I almost feel that we have to grieve in silence.
So, I guess as I think about Ollie, and Puddin and all the other softness that has touched my life, it makes sense that poetry would trigger my mind. Poetry like pets is a door to our childhood selves. Rudyard Kipling wrote, Power of the Dog, he tells of the love one has of their dog:

When the spirit that answered your every mood

Is gone--wherever it goes--for good,

You will discover how much you care,

And will give your heart for the dog to tear.

If I had discovered this little gem of a poem when I was little, I may have felt compelled to leave a kitten on Mr. Kipling’s doorstep.

Vegetables and Tofu

My daughter was in fifth grade when she was asked to be in the school Spelling Bee. Her teacher thought she was a pretty good speller and had a great chance of moving up to the next level of competition. When she told me of her good fortune, I automatically had visions of my four-eyed daughter, clad in a white button down, front and center spelling words like: soporific or abranchiate.

Of course, this never happened. My vision was shut down the day I came home with a book of words (just to practice) and at my exuberance she informed me that she had no intentions of winning the Spelling Bee. I couldn’t believe her lack of fervor. Incredulous, I inquired. She told me that she was not willing to be known as the “girl who won the Spelling Bee” for the rest of her life.

If anyone knows my daughter, then they understand that this was a definitive answer. I set the book on the counter and watched all the letters, from a-z, scurry down the road into someone else’s home. We recovered, however and on the afternoon of the Spelling Bee, I wished her luck and sent her off to school. I wanted to go, but she again assured me that it was going to be short and not to bother.

She finished in record time and was out on the third or fourth round. The word she misspelled was none other than vegetarian. Her teacher made fun of her, as did her family. She said that she didn’t throw the competition, but she also wasn’t disappointed when it was time to sit down.

As irony would have it, four years later, she declares homage to animals and becomes a vegetarian. It’s funny how life brings stories to our doorsteps to either be welcomed or rejected, and if rejected, they keep knocking in other ways. Vegetarianism is her persistent knocker- I guess it is mine, as well.

She vowed her diet to vegetables just about when other teens vow their lives to partying, drinking, and/ or drugs. I was frustrated, at first, being a meat loving, steak and roast cooking guru. I fought with her over the dangers of “lack of protein” yada, yada, yada…but just like the Spelling Bee, there is no movement when pushing a brick wall. What I concluded was that this was her doorway into a world that I wasn’t a part of. I became comfortable with my daughters new identity and even relished in teasing her about it. When people would ask I’d say, “While other teens find their solace in a beer, my daughter identifies with broccoli.” She’d roll her eyes and spout off some statistic of slaughter houses or the woes of little lambs. It’s become our banter. I’ve even gave her the moniker of “Vegetesbian.” I don’t know why, other than it makes her respond passionately, with rote knowledge from PETA.

One day while we were heading to the market, I cried “Uncle!” She looked at me and I said it again. Perplexed she smiled and asked why I was saying that. I told her that she’s been trying to win since she was two and I am finally surrendering. “This tofu and vegetable thing is kicking my butt!" I smiled and said again, "Uncle! I wave the white cotton flag!" She laughed, sat tall and proud, as we continued down the road in my hybrid Prius, to get an alfalfa, tomato sandwich.

Year of Tears

Okay, so it is September and my oldest daughter and I went to get her senior pictures taken a few weeks ago. She insisted that I needn't escort her.....ahummm....and I insisted that I needed to. She rolled her eyes a couple of hundred times, adamant that she wasn't a baby anymore. Since I had the cash and the keys to the car, I won out. Don't you love "feeble" power?

We arrive and we see a girl that knows my daughter. They both covertly wave, and I ask, "Who is that?" She quickly mumbles,"No one," while picking up pace to try and ditch me before we enter the studio.

Catching up I say, "Well, that 'No One' just said hello to you." Again she rolls her eyes and assures me that I don't know her. I don't tell her this, but I'm pretty aware of "who" I know and don't know, but this information is nebulous, and would only be met with further eye weaponry. The next half hour continues on this path- me embarrassing her by my mere presence and her pretending as if she'd rather me not be there. I tease her and tell her I want her to hold her newspaper articles (she's the editor and chief of her school newspaper, after all) in the "Personal Touch" senior photos. We both laugh, knowing that this is an absurd request as we giggle at the pictures advertised on the wall of swimmers firmly holding medals, or teens clad in Indian headdresses.

We enter the studio and are greeted by a man with a heavy accent whose only access to creativity is a plastic rose on the edge of a white, foam, Greek column. When he places the rose delicately next to my daughters dark nail polished fingers, she and I glance at each other and laugh, and we can't stop- which makes for some rather stunning pictures-despite the rose.

Finally, my daughter puts on the cap and gown for the final photos. As she moves the tassel over, I am awed at her poise and presence. She looks at me and I see that she is beautiful. I am sniffling, and trying to stop the tears, but she notices and is surprisingly tender. She smiles with an, "Oh Mama...it's just a picture." She leans on the Greek column as the photographer snaps a few more pictures. I am caught in this still life, for just a moment. Through tears we both smile knowingly, about who the baby really is.

I explain to her later over a nice lunch of tofu and vegetables (she's a vegetarian!!!), that it's going to be the "Year of Tears" and there is nothing she can do to stop it. I can't help it; I feel I've earned this "Right of Passage." Later we shop and as I try to lose myself in the store, she finds me and asks for my help. She hugs me and holds my hand and I again feel a deep sense of warmth.

What I come away with is the realization that despite all the troubles that come with having a 17 year old-I love my eye rolling, try-to-ditch-me, vegetarian-kick-my-meat eating-chops teen. Even if she talks to "nobody" and waves at "no one!" In the end, at the commemoration of this senior year, she's my medal of honor and I'll hold her proud.... as our camera keeps flashing.

Traveling through Teenagehood

Robert Frost speaks of a 'road less traveled'. I often think of parenting this way. It's a journey that parents venture into without previous knowledge or experience. I remember when my second daughter was born I told the doctor that she wasn't eating as well as my first daughter had. He had been around to understand my question, even better than I did, at the time. He said, "throw the book away on the first...you get to start all over."

I remembered this advice throughout the years and began to accept that each experience with my daughters was as unique as they are. Sometimes, I wonder if they truly are biological sisters. Even though they share the same genes, their "jeans" are much different.

It reminds me of my youngest's question about genes. She was in second grade and asked if she was a twin. I said that she wasn't. She said that she had heard that everyone has a twin somewhere. I explained that there is a theory that everyone has someone that looks like them in the world, but that didn't make them twins. She thought about this quietly as we were driving to the library, to check out a book for a school project. I continued that in order to be twins you have to have the same genes, which means that her "twin" would have to be in our family.

As we walked from the car I noticed that she was thinking, and doubting what I was telling her. I asked her if she understood. She argued that "Girls at my school are twins, but they don't have the same jeans?" I asked her if she understood what genes are, and she nodded assuredly and said, "Yea," as she rubbed her thigh, "my pants."

So genes or "jeans" can be very different in a family. In my experience, like the good old doctor said, 'Throw the book away and start over!'

As I think about Robert Frost and his poem about traveling and taking the road less traveled I wonder about teenagers and their parents. So many of us travel down a road unaware and we go the path of many who went before us: We yell at our teens, we seem perplexed at their behavior, we are shocked at the disrespect. It seems we don't stop to consider the path or journey we travel and question if there are other trails to take.

My question today and throughout my blog is about the journeys you have taken with your teenagers. Have you done something that has made your travels less tiresome and rugged? Or maybe you've found yourself in heavy traffic...blindly doing what you think is common and "normal".

I have had my own battles and successes with child rearing. My oldest is 17 and so far we've maneuvered and navigated fairly well with some minor bumps and bruises. My other daughter is right behind, entering these tumultuous years. Unfortunately, what I may have gained from my first won't help this go around.

_Nina