when i could dig to china

I don't remember who it was that told me if I dug a hole deep enough, I could get to China. But I do remember trying. My neighbor Matt and I, with our 4-inch metal shovels in my mom's would-be flower bed, once dug for an entire day--stopping only to eat, use the bathroom, and explain to passers-by that we, yes WE, were on our way to C-h-i-n-a China. They'd nod and smile, "Wooooww, you are?!" I think we knew they didn't really think we could do it, yet somehow, we knew we could. Once the hole was about ankle deep I peered inside intently, determined that if I looked hard enough I would spot Chinese children running around with chopsticks and little pointy hats to shade them from the hot eastern sun. "I see them! We're there; we're almost there, Matt!" We jumped up and down chanting, "We're going to China! We're gong to China!."

I remember this so well. And I also remember (please don't tell Matt this) that I didn't really see Chinese children. Being around 7 years old at the time, I was young, but I wasn't stupid. But I had faith. I believed, truly believed, that if we worked hard enough, dug long enough, eventually we would reach our goal. And you know what one of the funniest things is now that I think back? My mom didn't even try to stop me from digging up her yard. My guess is that I said, "Hey Mom, we're gonna dig to China, okay?" And she said, "That's nice, honey." She's never been one to stand in the way of my dreams. Especially not when she's on the phone.

Eventually, I got to China. It took 25 years and 24 hours in airports in airplanes, but I got there. Eventually I realized the shovel wasn't going to hack it.

So I got to thinking today: When did I stop believing that I could dig to China? Maybe it was learning in school that the earth has a molten lava core that would incinerate me before I even got close to it? That there would be layers of impenetrable rock that I'd have to somehow dig through before I could get close to being incinerated? That digging to China is possible only in theory and that no one has ever, nor will ever actually achieve such a feat? Yes, I guess school taught me that, and so that's probably when the dream died. But Matt and I could have dug until our hands fell off and I don't believe that we ever would have stopped believing. It took someone to tell us we couldn't. Then we stopped. We stopped digging. We stopped believing. (Then my mom got off the phone and screamed, "What happened to my yard!?")

We don't question our abilities, the possibilities of our own endurance and courage, all on our own. We're taught to do that. The "You can'ts" and "It's impossibles" from well-meaning adults and from our own failed attempts toward small successes penetrate our schemas, become embedded in the fabric of who we are and who we (might) become.

I, for one, need to get that dig-to-china spirit back.

phew, that was a close one

Yesterday was Memorial Day. It was a perfect day in every sense. Not a cloud in the sky, warm--but not too warm, on the river with my family who seldom co-exists in harmony but yesterday got along well, laughing over food, drinks, and boat rides. To make it more perfect, it was an entire day spent with Jeff and Grace without any responsibilities or hassels. Grace took her first boat ride which she would have emjoyed more had she not been so tired; she actually fell asleep toward the end. Uncle Italo went really fast, bouncing us around a bit on others' wakes (he insisted he didn't do it on purpose, but I know him too well to believe that!). She played with Natalie and Genna in the grass, ate way too many Gerber Graduate Puffs, and loved watching the flags on the marina flap in the light breeze.

I wrote when I began blogging that being pregnant was an opportunity for me to look forward and reflect back on my life at the same time. Yesterday presented me with another interesting opportunity to do that. In fact, I would even say that this perfect day was really contextualized in my past--a past that, had I not lived it in the precise way that I did, I could not be as content and as blessed as I feel that I am now with the life I have today. (Okay, just a warning. I'm about to venture back into my pre-Jeff life).

You see, our picnic was at Sandy Beach Yacht Club where Italo is a member. For several years before I met Jeff, I dated M., whose family also belongs there. While dating M. I spent many summer days at that club. So I was not completely surprised when we arrived yesterday to see M. and his family also enjoying the beautiful spring day on the river. Everyone was pleasant (with the exception of M. and his sister J. who have a penchant for being UNpleasant), "hellos" and "how are yous" were exchanged, with many remarks on how beautiful our little Gracie is. This run-in, thankfully, did little to hamper our day or dampen my spirits. Instead, it made me realize what my life could have been in the context of what it is now. The issues that led to the ending of my relationship with M.(which I won't recount here) were very much present yesterday, and I could see that even from far across the large patio and empty tables that separated us. I couldn't help think--if even for a fleeting moment--about what my life could have been had I not ended that relationship when I did. Would I have been sitting at that table, with those people on this very day? I felt as though I'd narrowly escaped a wreck. Like when you're driving and accidently cut someone off on the thruway. They get mad and give you the finger, but all you can do is thank God that He protected you from a life-altering collision.

As I watched Jeff holding Grace as she whined in the warm sun I couldn't help but to thank God. I thanked God for M.'s "issues" that had a hand in moving me to Warsaw, for the complexities of that relatioship that allowed me to see the good, the kind, and the wonderful in Jeff, and for every life experience--bad and good--that put me right where I am now.

There are many lessons to be learned in this crazy life. Some lessons are learned years and years after a life-changing event--we can only see pain at the time, but when we look back we see that it was all a giant blessing in disguise. Our biggest hearbreaks can turn out to be life's greatest blessings. In my early 20s, the most hurt I had ever been was in the let-down of learning who M. really was. Pushing 30 now, I can see that there has been no blessing in my life greater than my husband and my daughter. And without the heartbreaks that got me here, I could never have achieved so much happiness.

my first gracie heartbreak

One of Gracie's favorite books is about a little bunny who is playing hide and seek with his mommy but has trouble finding an appropriate hiding place. It's kind of a stupid book because the bunny never really finds a hiding place, but his mommy says at the end, "Little bunny, aren't you smart? Finding you is my favorite part!" Anyway. I always interject the phrase, "But thank you anyway" when bunny tells one of his friends why he is unable to hide with them. I do this because I really want Grace to learn to be polite and have manners. It's something that is so easy to forget as we rush through the daily craziness of life. I never really gave much thought, however, to the fact that other people may not always show her politeness in kind.

The other day at the library there was a cute little girl, around 2 or 3 years old, playing quietly with a stuffed frog. Gracie eyed up that frog and made her approach. But as she crawled closer and closer to the frog, the little girl pulled the frog further and further away from Grace. I think Grace thought it was a game. She'd sit for a moment just looking at the girl, a little confused, and then make her move again, only to have the frog pulled away. I sat watching from the other side of the colorful rug. And my heart broke. I don't think Grace knew that the girl didn't want her anywhere near her frog, but I knew. And seeing that Grace didn't get mad, that she persisted and, maybe, wondered why she couldn't get that frog made me want to yell across the rug at the little girl's mommy, "Hey! Make youre kid share, would you!?"

Ultimately, Grace ended up with the frog, but that really isn't the point of my story. Nor is my point to say the little girl was naughty. She wasn't. She was just being 2 or 3 years old, probably accustomed to having to fight for her stuff since she had a big brother only slightly older than herself. My point is that I never realized how much it would hurt to see my baby having to fend for herself in a world that is not always kind. I've written in this blog several times about how my greatest wishes for Gracie are that she treats people with kindness, that she's thoughtful and caring when it comes to the feelings and needs of others. But what about how she deals with the cruelty that will inevitably befall her in life?

I realize cruelty is a strong word when talking about kids not sharing their toys, but isn't this how it all starts? The gateway drug into bullyiing and gossip--true evils that any school aged kid will be subject to at one time or another. It's funny. I would never wish to go back to the times in my life when I felt victimized by a bully, mean words, kids unwilling to share--and God knows there were many. But I'd live those moments over every day if it meant that Gracie would never have to.

miss personality

Well, today was Grace's first school-like experience. We went to the library for Books and Babies, where babies sat on their moms' laps and sang songs, played clapping games, and listened to the librarian read a fun book. That is, most of the babies sat on their moms' laps...but not Gracie. Instead, Grace crawled around on the colorful rug, examining the bright letters and shapes in it, approaching other babies and waving at them, and then getting into her downward dog yoga pose to check out the view of the other moms from between her legs. I was at a bit of a loss. Do I go after her, rein her in? Or do I let Gracie be Gracie? I chose the latter. My baby is definitely an explorer! I'm so glad that she loves to engage with the world--to touch it, taste it, and knock it right over--rather than to sit as an obedient bystander.

actions speak louder than words

Sometimes I wish Gracie could talk to me--to tell me when she's hungry, tired, in pain, or otherwise afflicted. Sometimes I wish she could tell me when I've done a good job--when I gave her a cheerio at the precise moment she needed a snack, put her in her crib just when she was feeling ready to snooze, quelled a fear, or made a funny. However, any frustration I feel by the lack of communication is assuaged when I walk into the house after a long day at work, Daddy puts her down on the floor, and she crawls toward me at break-neck pace. When she reaches me--while I'm still at the door kicking off my shoes and hanging my coat--she inevitably begins to climb up my legs, squealing, with a grin on her face. I pick her up, and she lets me kiss her cheeks as many times as I want. In that moment, I don't need Grace to talk to me. There's nothing left to say.

Contemplating the ethics of underlining in borrowed books

A freshman highlights the points he understands,
The mundane, the insignificant.
Exclaimation points riddle the margins
and I attempt to figure out what he was so excited about.
His lines terminate halfway through chapter two...
of a ten chapter book.

This is the person who scribbled
amy whinehouse in the front cover...
of a book tending to a Freirian critique of the construction of whiteness.

A graduate student's excitement is easy to spot
in the messy stars,
lines shaky, meandering,
etched from the passenger seat
of a speeding Ford Focus
on the way to Philadelphia...
for a Phish concert.

An assistant professor quickly scribbles
gray carbon astericks in the corners of important pages
that detail dense theory
giving her new perspectives on her own research.
She'll come back to these pages tomorrow. It's midnight...
and she's still in her office high atop the ivory tower.

In search of my own place beside her,
I carefully underline
lightly enough not to disturb others as they skim these words
after June 1st when my lease is up.
I envision space for these words in my own dissertation
and how they will dance with the others,
the squatters in my literature review who've claimed it their home.
My baby cries in the background,
the sound of basketball blaring on the TV downstairs.

My lines mingle with yours and theirs,
this story becomes our story.
We've all been there,
all headed somewhere new,
alone and together.

sweet rewards

I went on a long run today, a necessary evil if I am to achieve my goal of completing a half-marathon in May. Part of what kept me going the entire 50 minutes were my thoughts of how I’d reward myself when I returned home. Thoughts of a warm shower and a hug from Gracie kept me moving through the cold March mist over the hills of Middle Road. And I got thinking about the ways that we reward ourselves for our accomplishments…

As many of you who are reading this know, in 2001 Michael and I spent three weeks traveling around Italy. One day in the midst of our adventures we found ourselves in a supermarket where a 1983 bottle of Dom Perignon at a reasonable price found my brother. Anyone who knows Michael knows that he can’t resist an impulse if his life depended on it, especially not on a great deal on a great bottle of champagne that would be a great souvenir from a great trip to Italy. He bought the champagne and we spent much of the rest of our day deciding on what would be the perfect occasion for him to crack that bottle. He was hoping for the perfect milestone. I was just hoping I’d be there to drink some too! Okay, that was selfish of me.

Shortly after our trip Michael got engaged, then married. He moved to Massachusetts and became Dean of Students at a prestigious boys high school. Then he got a job as an assistant principal in a public school, and then became a principal at another public high school. He met his true love, Dani (after a divorce), got engaged and got married. Then he continued to move up the ladder in his career. He became essentially an assistant superintendent in another school district. Finally, last week, he became a superintendent of schools, a feat that I know he’s dreamed of since starting out on the school administration path. Eight years and just as many milestones (probably even more than that), and every time he reached a new goal I heard my brother say, “Maybe I’ll open that bottle of Dom now.” But he never has. Instead, he decides that he will open it the next time he moves up another rung on the ladder. And he keeps moving up. But that bottle just continues to sit there.

Part of me fears that when Michael finally does open that bottle the champagne inside is going to taste like shit because he waited too damn long to open it! Part of me feels like he should have opened it and drank it right away because with all that he’s achieved, the happy events he’s encountered, and the money he’s made since the purchase of that bottle, he could have bought a new one every time! Part of me thinks he shouldn’t hold onto it for too long because, you know what they say, “You can’t take it with you.”

But then again, maybe he shouldn’t open it. In as much as the thought of a hot shower keeps me running in the cold, that stupid bottle of fizzy fermented grape juice has become a symbol for all that Michael aspires to achieve and all that he already has. It stands for the idea that there’s more to come no matter how far he’s come and keeps him moving forward, moving ahead, and moving up.

I don’t know if I’ll be there if and when he ever cracks that bottle…I’m just glad I was there when it all started in that supermarket in Rome.