Grace has a funny little tendency lately to try to establish her independence from me. I suppose it's just what being almost-two is all about. But if I ask Grace to do something, the answer is typically, "NO" (unless it involves eating something delicious like cake with chocolate frosting). If I push the issue and say, "YES," she'll respond "NO NO NO." But if I switch it up on her and I start to say, "NO NO NO," she, of course, will respond "YES YES YES." She's figuring out how to do things her own way...and just for the sake of doing things her own way. I'm getting used to the rebellion and resistance, actually. I'm at the point where I can anticipate her NOs, and I know that if I ask her to hand me something she's holding onto, she'll throw it before she'll be willing to walk it over to me. I actually was starting to take it personally.
Until the playground. As we played on one of those climby-structures with the slides and ladders and bridges and poles attached, I missed a step and fell, scraping my leg on the step that I missed on the way down. It hurt. She must have seen the pain in my face because she became visibly upset. Not crying tears or anything, but her voice got really whiny and delicate: "Mommy fell doooown." She came over and kneeled next to me, looking alternatively at my leg that I was gripping in pain and into my eyes. I wanted to cry...not because I was hurt, but because for possibly the first time ever, in the subtle feeling of empathy seeping in through her voice and in her eyes, I could see that Gracie loved me...that it hurt her to know that I was hurt.
It's been about a week now since I took that spill and a 3" scrape down the front of my right shin often reminds Grace of our playground mishap. Whenever she sees it the whiny delicate voice comes back replete with the pained expression on her face and she says, "Mommy fell dooooown. Mommy got a boo-boo." But now she adds, "But it's okay." She got this last part from me. I tell her I'm okay, that it doesn't hurt, and that the boo-boo is healing. I told her tonight, "Don't ever worry about Mommy. I never want you to worry about Mommy. I'm always okay." I meant that, I think, more than I've ever meant anything I've ever said to her. I never, ever want Gracie to feel the burden of worrying about her Mommy.
I think as we grow up, it's one of the most painful and unavoidable responsibilities we have, to worry about our Mommies. Watching our mothers get older renders us powerless--we can't, after all, stop time. This is only complicated by the fact that Mommies are big girls who can take care of themselves, make their own decisions, and resent any (even subtle) shift from being the caretaker to the one who is being taken care of. This means that even though we worry about them, we have no real power to take care of them and protect them in the way that they spend their lives caring for and protecting us. This is why worrying about Mommy is always a burden.
Only moments after my little talk with Grace, my phone rang and it was my Mommy. She had bad news. My dad's cousin, Rosemary, died. A beautiful, vibrant woman, only 48 years old, with two college-aged children, she succombed to cancer earlier today. Truly, Rosemary's passing is a tragedy because she still had youth on her side (just one look at her would assuage any doubt about that), she was newly re-married, and much tragedy has befallen her immediate family within the past few years. But of course, the real tragedy isn't so much Rosemary's loss of life--she is, after all, joining her mother and brother in heaven--but Sarah and Scott's loss of their mom. When I think about the way they must have worried about their mom and prayed desperately for her to live, I am wrenched with pain. The pain makes my breath shallow, makes me want to tiptoe around life for a while until my own mortality and that of my mother isn't so near or so perceptible. The worry within me swells...the worry that I, as a daughter and as a mother, will never be disabused of. I'll always worry about my mother. And I'll always worry about my daughter worrying about me.
I try to work around Grace's current state of contrariness, manipulate it when I can. If I want a kiss I'll say, "Grace, don't give me a kiss. I don't want one," and I end up with a kiss, hug, and impassioned, "I LOVE YOU!" But really, I like inependent Gracie. Her sassy-ness makes me laugh and fills me with hope that she'll be just stubborn enough and have just enough will to be resilient through life's most difficult moments. As a mom, I know there will be times (hopefully very few and far between) when I see her brought to her knees by life. That's just what life does to us sometimes. I will pick her up the best I can and help her to regain her footing. I just don't want her brought to her knees anymore out of worry for me, for my safety, or my life.
I'm pretty sure I didn't know what love was before I had a daughter. I'm pretty sure this is it.
In memory of Rosemary Marasco Giavanucci.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
small bites
My dad had a mantra. It was mostly a meal-time mantra, but it was repeated any and every time I ate anything in his presence: "Maria," he would say with the gravity that only Papa can muster, "Take little bites, and chew your food well." As a child I heeded his wisdom, careful to take only small nibbles, but as an adolescent that changed. I'd look at him contemptuously and shove a fist-size-whatever-I-was-eating into my mouth as an act of defiance. As an adult, my dad STILL repeats his mantra, especially if I'm over-zealously devouring a Viola's steak and cheese sub or a slice of LaHacienda pizza. Now I just roll my eyes and go about my feasting.
Essentially, my dad was terrified of one thing--me choking, having my air passages cut off by a hunk of food, watching me gasp for air with my mouth gaping open as panic sets in, and him being faced with the dire responsiblity of saving my life with the Heimlich maneuver that would send the partially chewed wad sailing across the room and leave me panting to re-oxygenate. The details make it sound like I've been through this before, huh?
I had a moment not too long ago where I understood my father. These moments are far and few between so I figure I may as well commemorate it here. As Grace happily chomped french fries at Tom Wahls with me and Grandma she bit off a little more than she could chew--literally--and began to choke. Simple words cannot describe my terror. I reacted quickly and removed the enormous piece of french fry from the back of her mouth, breathed a giant sigh of relief, and then said sternly (complete with finger-wag): "Gracie! You take little bites and you chew your food well!"
What can I say, she loves her fries. I can certainly understand the feeling of such engrossment, captivation, and excitement that we simply overdo it. We think: If a little bit is good, more MUST BE better. It's this instinct that renders me immobile on the couch when I open good book that I just can't put down, a glass of wine at dinner turning into a bottle, a 2-mile jog on an injured hip becoming a 4-mile run if I feel unburdened by pain. It all feels right at the time, but I always regret it later--rushing through a book that could have brought me days of enjoyment, a hangover, even more hip pain.
I think Grace is learning about moderation too. The other night, in a fit of tears, she launched herself out of her crib. A kid who won't even climb down off of a child-size chair on her own hurled herself onto the floor from about 4 feet off the ground. When I try to get her to re-create her kamikaze maneuvers under my close supervision (hey-I'm curious!), she simply shakes her head and says, "Fall down. Boo-boo." Her tenacity scared her. It certainly frightened the heck out of me and Jeff...but it scared her too. We're looking into getting her a big-girl bed this weekend--a transition that I, for one, am not quite ready for. But her safety is at stake and we need to make sure that her acrobatics don't end her up in a body-cast.
My brother Michael always likes to say, "Go big or go home." If you're going to do something, do it, do it all the way, do it right, and do it well. Grace has a little GBGH spirit in her that I admire--with french fries and death-defying crib escapes. The GBGH mentality doesn't mesh well with my dad's little-bites philosophies, but I hope she can find a happy medium.
Go big or Go home, but on your way, take little bites, okay?
Essentially, my dad was terrified of one thing--me choking, having my air passages cut off by a hunk of food, watching me gasp for air with my mouth gaping open as panic sets in, and him being faced with the dire responsiblity of saving my life with the Heimlich maneuver that would send the partially chewed wad sailing across the room and leave me panting to re-oxygenate. The details make it sound like I've been through this before, huh?
I had a moment not too long ago where I understood my father. These moments are far and few between so I figure I may as well commemorate it here. As Grace happily chomped french fries at Tom Wahls with me and Grandma she bit off a little more than she could chew--literally--and began to choke. Simple words cannot describe my terror. I reacted quickly and removed the enormous piece of french fry from the back of her mouth, breathed a giant sigh of relief, and then said sternly (complete with finger-wag): "Gracie! You take little bites and you chew your food well!"
What can I say, she loves her fries. I can certainly understand the feeling of such engrossment, captivation, and excitement that we simply overdo it. We think: If a little bit is good, more MUST BE better. It's this instinct that renders me immobile on the couch when I open good book that I just can't put down, a glass of wine at dinner turning into a bottle, a 2-mile jog on an injured hip becoming a 4-mile run if I feel unburdened by pain. It all feels right at the time, but I always regret it later--rushing through a book that could have brought me days of enjoyment, a hangover, even more hip pain.
I think Grace is learning about moderation too. The other night, in a fit of tears, she launched herself out of her crib. A kid who won't even climb down off of a child-size chair on her own hurled herself onto the floor from about 4 feet off the ground. When I try to get her to re-create her kamikaze maneuvers under my close supervision (hey-I'm curious!), she simply shakes her head and says, "Fall down. Boo-boo." Her tenacity scared her. It certainly frightened the heck out of me and Jeff...but it scared her too. We're looking into getting her a big-girl bed this weekend--a transition that I, for one, am not quite ready for. But her safety is at stake and we need to make sure that her acrobatics don't end her up in a body-cast.
My brother Michael always likes to say, "Go big or go home." If you're going to do something, do it, do it all the way, do it right, and do it well. Grace has a little GBGH spirit in her that I admire--with french fries and death-defying crib escapes. The GBGH mentality doesn't mesh well with my dad's little-bites philosophies, but I hope she can find a happy medium.
Go big or Go home, but on your way, take little bites, okay?
Friday, January 22, 2010
stupid human-ness
I realize I'm a little (ok, a lot) behind on "The Great Church Search," but I will get back to it. There are more pressing things to blog about today.
Namely, I had a bad day at work. It was a really bad day. It was one of those days that I don't even want to talk about, one where I was reminded that I'm a mere human, replete with imperfections. These kinds of days are no good, but--as it turns out--life is full of them. So instead of sowing seeds of misery, I attempt to cope the best way I know how, by talking to God on the long ride home, a glass of wine, a big hug from Jeff, and memories of words of wisdom passed on to me in others of life's trying situations.
In particular, there was a poem that was once published--of all places--in the Ann Landers column back when I was in 9th grade or so. God knows why I was reading Ann Landers, but I happened across it and it became nothing short of my mantra in high school...words that carried me through many a adolescent storm. I printed the poem on pretty paper and hung it on the closet door of my bedroom and one simple phrase, "Accept your defeats with your head up and eyes ahead, with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child," was one that inspired me with hope on the worst of days. Today was no different.
So here's the poem in-full. I can only hope that it will bring you the same peace that it brings me today.
After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...
-Veronica Shofstall
Namely, I had a bad day at work. It was a really bad day. It was one of those days that I don't even want to talk about, one where I was reminded that I'm a mere human, replete with imperfections. These kinds of days are no good, but--as it turns out--life is full of them. So instead of sowing seeds of misery, I attempt to cope the best way I know how, by talking to God on the long ride home, a glass of wine, a big hug from Jeff, and memories of words of wisdom passed on to me in others of life's trying situations.
In particular, there was a poem that was once published--of all places--in the Ann Landers column back when I was in 9th grade or so. God knows why I was reading Ann Landers, but I happened across it and it became nothing short of my mantra in high school...words that carried me through many a adolescent storm. I printed the poem on pretty paper and hung it on the closet door of my bedroom and one simple phrase, "Accept your defeats with your head up and eyes ahead, with the grace of a woman not the grief of a child," was one that inspired me with hope on the worst of days. Today was no different.
So here's the poem in-full. I can only hope that it will bring you the same peace that it brings me today.
After a while you learn
the subtle difference between
holding a hand and chaining a soul
and you learn
that love doesn't mean leaning
and company doesn't always mean security.
And you begin to learn
that kisses aren't contracts
and presents aren't promises
and you begin to accept your defeats
with your head up and your eyes ahead
with the grace of woman, not the grief of a child
and you learn
to build all your roads on today
because tomorrow's ground is
too uncertain for plans
and futures have a way of falling down
in mid-flight.
After a while you learn
that even sunshine burns
if you get too much
so you plant your own garden
and decorate your own soul
instead of waiting for someone
to bring you flowers.
And you learn that you really can endure
you really are strong
you really do have worth
and you learn
and you learn
with every goodbye, you learn...
-Veronica Shofstall
Saturday, December 19, 2009
the great church search: Week 1-St. Agnes
Back in September of 2008 Grace was initiated into the Catholic Church by the rite of holy baptism. On that day, Jeff and I promised--along with her Godparents--to raise Grace in the tradition of Catholicism.
I all but had my fingers crossed behind my back when I made this oath. Until today, we hadn't stepped foot in a Catholic Church since Grace's baptism 14 months ago.
I will just come out and say it--I do not like the Catholic Church. God? Believe in him. Jesus? Love him. But the institution of the church once drove me to the brink of aetheism. Thankfully, I have come to understand that the church is run by man (literally) and that man (literally, but woman too, I'll concede) is flawed. The church is not a reification of God. It is, on the other hand, the locus of humanity's best attempts at making sense of Him. So it is in this spirit that I have found peace with my decision to raise Grace in the holy tradition that my parents worked tirelessly to teach me to appreciate, depsite its flaws. There are a lot of things I wish were different about the Church--conversations instead of lectures, negotiations of meanings instead of authoritive decrees from the pulpit, gender equality on the altar, tolerance and acceptance of marginalized social groups--but Grace and I can talk about these things--critically--and, from within, work to change them. Being a critical thinker and working to change the world she inhabits instead of fleeing from it--these are values I want Grace to embody. So here we begin our great church search.
Tonight we hit St. Agnes in Avon, NY. When I walked in, it reminded me of the church of my early youth, Our Lady of Lebanon in Niagara Falls, NY. Vast and beige. The architecture left something to be desired. From where we were sitting I couldn't even see the altar, my vision osbtructed by a giant pillar. The music was slow and dirge-like. With Christmas next week I thought we'd at least get some familiar Christmas Church tunes, but nada. No one was singing except for the high-pitched opera star wannabe at the microphone up front. Not a lot of enthusiasm. The homily was decent--good message (a point that could have been made in about half the time Father spent talking), but I wouldn't say inspiring or evocative. Not like Fr. Damien at St. Mike's in Warsaw. I think Jeff and I were spoiled by his out-of-the-box homilies and the upbeat folk music. So ultimately, I was not impressed by St. Agnes. However, there was one thing that really stood out--the frindliness of the people in the congregation. We were greeted warmly by so many people and, even after Grace spent the entirity of the mass squirming and, at time, shrieking, people commented on how cute she was and that it was fun listening to her. One couple even confided that they themselves were trying to get pregnant! Part of what I'm looking for in finding a church is to feel like I'm part of a community. St. Agnes seems to have this potential.
It's not that I'm looking to have fun in chuch. I know that we don't go to church to be entertained. But I do want to feel fulfilled when I walk out the door. I want to feel like I've had a spiritual experience. Good music helps with this and so does an inspired priest who gives thoughtful and thought provoking homilies. I didn't really find that at St. Agnes. I will concede that my attention was focused elsewhere for much of the service (on Squirrly McSquirmingburg) but I can't help but think that maybe SHE needs a great church as much as I do in order to stay focused.
I all but had my fingers crossed behind my back when I made this oath. Until today, we hadn't stepped foot in a Catholic Church since Grace's baptism 14 months ago.
I will just come out and say it--I do not like the Catholic Church. God? Believe in him. Jesus? Love him. But the institution of the church once drove me to the brink of aetheism. Thankfully, I have come to understand that the church is run by man (literally) and that man (literally, but woman too, I'll concede) is flawed. The church is not a reification of God. It is, on the other hand, the locus of humanity's best attempts at making sense of Him. So it is in this spirit that I have found peace with my decision to raise Grace in the holy tradition that my parents worked tirelessly to teach me to appreciate, depsite its flaws. There are a lot of things I wish were different about the Church--conversations instead of lectures, negotiations of meanings instead of authoritive decrees from the pulpit, gender equality on the altar, tolerance and acceptance of marginalized social groups--but Grace and I can talk about these things--critically--and, from within, work to change them. Being a critical thinker and working to change the world she inhabits instead of fleeing from it--these are values I want Grace to embody. So here we begin our great church search.
Tonight we hit St. Agnes in Avon, NY. When I walked in, it reminded me of the church of my early youth, Our Lady of Lebanon in Niagara Falls, NY. Vast and beige. The architecture left something to be desired. From where we were sitting I couldn't even see the altar, my vision osbtructed by a giant pillar. The music was slow and dirge-like. With Christmas next week I thought we'd at least get some familiar Christmas Church tunes, but nada. No one was singing except for the high-pitched opera star wannabe at the microphone up front. Not a lot of enthusiasm. The homily was decent--good message (a point that could have been made in about half the time Father spent talking), but I wouldn't say inspiring or evocative. Not like Fr. Damien at St. Mike's in Warsaw. I think Jeff and I were spoiled by his out-of-the-box homilies and the upbeat folk music. So ultimately, I was not impressed by St. Agnes. However, there was one thing that really stood out--the frindliness of the people in the congregation. We were greeted warmly by so many people and, even after Grace spent the entirity of the mass squirming and, at time, shrieking, people commented on how cute she was and that it was fun listening to her. One couple even confided that they themselves were trying to get pregnant! Part of what I'm looking for in finding a church is to feel like I'm part of a community. St. Agnes seems to have this potential.
It's not that I'm looking to have fun in chuch. I know that we don't go to church to be entertained. But I do want to feel fulfilled when I walk out the door. I want to feel like I've had a spiritual experience. Good music helps with this and so does an inspired priest who gives thoughtful and thought provoking homilies. I didn't really find that at St. Agnes. I will concede that my attention was focused elsewhere for much of the service (on Squirrly McSquirmingburg) but I can't help but think that maybe SHE needs a great church as much as I do in order to stay focused.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
a year, a blink, a lifetime
My baby is one year old. And at her birthday party in our backyard that we had on August 1st one of the most popular comments guests made to me was, "I can't believe it's been a year already." For them, time flew. Several of our guests had not seen Grace in many months so it seemed that in a blink of an eye she went from scooting along the floor on her tummy to toddling unsteadily across the yard on two feet. In one sense, I concur. Time flew. It's amazing how fast she learns new things these days. Each day she has new words (the latest: "nanda" for banana, "naa-da" for lay down, "na-naa" for night-night) and new tricks like walking, dancing, doing "flips," and "bumping it."
However, in another sense, the day we brought Grace home from the hospital seems like eons ago. Maybe it's because we weren't getting much sleep those days and learning how to parent a newborn was often trying, exhausting, and difficult. One day blended into another and it seemed like it would never get any easier. But, of course, it did. And today, it's hard to imagine that there was any point in my life that I did not know Grace. How can it be that I have not known her forever? What was my life before Grace? I can't help but feel that it was nowhere near as substantive, as important, and as exciting as it is now. Maybe I feel like it's been forever because it has, that somehow my soul was always bound with Grace's and her birth simply made tangible her existense in my heart that had always been present as a quiet love. It sounds corny, but I cannot wrap my head around the idea that Grace ever did not exist. So this is how I make sense of it all.
Happy happy birthday to our little nut. Thank you for filling our lives with so much joy every day. Bump it.
However, in another sense, the day we brought Grace home from the hospital seems like eons ago. Maybe it's because we weren't getting much sleep those days and learning how to parent a newborn was often trying, exhausting, and difficult. One day blended into another and it seemed like it would never get any easier. But, of course, it did. And today, it's hard to imagine that there was any point in my life that I did not know Grace. How can it be that I have not known her forever? What was my life before Grace? I can't help but feel that it was nowhere near as substantive, as important, and as exciting as it is now. Maybe I feel like it's been forever because it has, that somehow my soul was always bound with Grace's and her birth simply made tangible her existense in my heart that had always been present as a quiet love. It sounds corny, but I cannot wrap my head around the idea that Grace ever did not exist. So this is how I make sense of it all.
Happy happy birthday to our little nut. Thank you for filling our lives with so much joy every day. Bump it.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Thursday, June 4, 2009
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.
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.
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