Who We Are?

My husband James has begun a health quest that he has decided to post on Tik Tok. 

He was recently diagnosed with full-blown diabetes.  I say “full-blown” because for years he has been on the cusp, labeled pre-diabetic.

Because of this, James is starting to realize he needs to take better care of his health.  He decided he needs the accountability that he feels posting his journey on Tik Tok will give him.  Here’s the catch, he doesn’t want to read the comments, or answer back.  I told him, “I don’t think you understand what social media fundamentally is.”

My daughter, like most teenagers, is a Tik Tok pro.  She is witty and dry and great with a funny rejoinder.  I suggested he let her “manage” his account.  He just laughed. 

Now we come to the point of all this backstory.  James, my son Cole, and I took the dogs for a walk this weekend.  James walked ahead of us and Cole and I were left to our own conversation.  I told my son about my suggestion, adding that Hannah is great with those fast, witty comebacks. 

Cole said, “I always wished I was one of those people. That I could say the right thing at the right moment.”  This statement surprised me.  Was my 14-year-old boy actually telling me about his feelings?

I played it cool though. “I always think of something awesome, like, an hour later.”

His face lit with a smile. “Me, too!”

I added, “I think that’s true of like 80% of the population.  I’ve seen memes about it.”

He laughed and we continued to walk and talk. 

That conversation has stayed with me.  It broke my heart a little, because Cole is severely dyslexic. While most people know about the jumbling of letters that comes with the diagnosis, they don’t always understand that it is a processing disorder.  They don’t know that dyslexics can take longer to gather their thoughts and then find the words to express them.   

Could Cole have been that person he wished he could be, if he wasn’t dyslexic?  He’s funny, he’s smart, maybe he could have.  I worry over it, feeling that guilt and anxiety only a mother can feel.  The one that tells you, you made that child. Was it something you said, or did, or didn’t do, that led to him not having this thing he wishes he had?

Then I remind myself that while we aren’t always who we want to be, we are who we’re meant to be.  Cole is smart and funny, good looking and athletic with a few loyal friends. But, above everything else, he is kind and understanding.  Perhaps that is what he was meant to be, and without the dyslexia, would he still be those things?

Three AM Mayhem

Last night my husband and I were scrolling through the offerings on Netflix.  Since he is a lover of horror and I am a lover of police procedurals we almost never agree on a show.  Last night, however, we landed on something called Evil.  Sounds pretty horror-ific, but the description reminded me of The X-Files, a show I love.  We watched two episodes before calling it a night.  In the show, the main character is tormented in her nightmares by a slimy black demon, and I found myself jumping and covering my eyes quite a bit. 

Fast forward to three a.m. this morning. 

Ting ling…Ting ling

I awoke with a start.

Ting ling, ting ling

Groggily, I realized what I was hearing.  We have bells attached to our back door so the dogs can ask to go out.  My first thoughts were, either the dog needed to go out, even though she is usually asleep in my son’s room with his door closed, or my husband forgot to lock the back door and someone was breaking in. 

With a sigh, I threw back the covers and slumped out of bed. I was too sleepy to realize that if someone was breaking in, I didn’t want to confront them in my underwear. I opened my bedroom door and looked toward the bells. It was pitch black and images of the dark demon from the show made me wary. Our cat streaked out of the darkness and up the stairs. I yelped as he slid to a stop at my feet.  The cat had been known to ring the bells before and I thought it might be that, but then the dog, Harley, appeared, practically jumping out of her skin in excitement.  I looked towards my son’s room.  The door was closed.  Had he just put her out and gone back to sleep?

Well crap! Now I had to let her out.  I made it down the stairs and opened the sliding door for her, suppressing the fear that someone was lurking on the other side waiting to pounce.  She raced out into the night.  The cat wove in and out between my legs before dashing off into the dark house.  Both animals were wired.  I waited a few minutes then called the dog.  She came bounding up the steps and stopped just short of coming inside. I stuck my arm out, intending to wave her in, but she jumped several feet back. 

I growled and shut the door.  My dog’s favorite game in the word is “Chase Me”.

The only thing that works to get her in when she is like this is the laser pointer.  I searched the entryway, the TV room, and the kitchen, but I could not find the laser pointer.  I went to my daughter’s room and woke her up, but even though she was the last to use it, she had no idea where it might be. 

I resorted to turning off the outside light and acting like I was going back upstairs to bed. This was the most scared I had been so far.  Turning off the outside light immediately plunged the house and me into absolute darkness.  I stood rooted to the spot, certain that if I moved, a slimy black demon would slide up behind me and grab me. It felt like hours before Harley got the point and asked to come in, but it was literally seconds. 

The next step was to get her back into my son’s room or I knew I’d be hearing bells the rest of the night. I opened the door to his room and went to wave her in with a whispered, “Okay, Harley, inside.” But, again, as my hand came toward her, she excitedly jumped back about three feet. 

I gave up.  I would have to deal with the bells.  Angry, tired, and certain I would never be able to fall back to sleep, I stormed back to my room.  I forgot we had a fan going in the room and the door was pushed by the wind, causing it to accidentally slam closed after I entered.  My husband turned in the bed and said a groggy, “What, what’s going on?”

This was just the right question at just the right time. I started loudly ranting about misbehaving dogs and children who know better than to leave the animals out at night.  Luckily for James, he knows how to tune me out and was snoring again before I finished. 

I lay cocooned in blankets on my side of the bed, fuming and frustrated and knowing I would never get to sleep.  The sound of tinkling bells followed me into my dreams.

TMI Mom!

It is a common thing in my marriage that when one of us is “in the mood” the other is not.  I read somewhere that this is normal.  That everyone has their own internal rhythm and that includes when their body is most interested in “gettin’ busy.” 

Unfortunately, my rhythm is set for around 4:00PM when my husband is in meetings and —pre-pandemic— was at work. My husband’s is around 11:00PM when I am tired and done with my day.  As you can imagine this makes for some lackluster encounters. 

But, that’s not all.  My kids love to hang out in our bedroom.  More often than not, when I am lying in bed reading or lost in the endless void of Instagram, the kids, 14 and 16, are dancing around the room, lying next to me scrolling through TikToK, or sitting on the foot of the bed telling me about their day.  Synchronous rhythms or not, nothing’s happening when they’re around.

Two weeks ago, Sunday afternoon, I looked at my husband and he looked at me.  In one of those rare moments when we seem to be reading each other’s mind, we knew.  It. Was. On. 

I danced up the stairs, my husband trailing behind, each of us as giddy as newlyweds.  We entered our bedroom and almost dove onto the bed when I caught a movement out of the corner of my eye. 

My daughter was in the master bath, primping in front of the mirror. 

“Hannah!” I exclaimed, hurrying over to her.

“What?” She seemed confused as I used my hands to turn her and started walking her out of the bathroom and toward the bedroom door.

“What are you doing, I was—”

“You need to go to your own bathroom.”  I explained.

“But why?  I like yours better,” she whined.

Here’s the thing: Hannah is a very determined person who HATES feeling like she’s being left out.  I knew that if I didn’t answer her, she would be knocking on the door and asking questions.  She will know full well what’s going on, but in her bid to let us know how irritated she is with us, she will invariably be a nuisance. 

“Look,” I said, “It is very rare that your dad and I actually want to have sex at the same time.  We do now, and are taking advantage of that.”

I didn’t waste time watching her wrinkle her nose in disgust, but heard her laughter, her “Gross!” and her “My parents are so weird.” As she walked down the hall to her own room. 

It’s not Funny Anymore

I’m worried about my husband. 

At the beginning of the pandemic, I wrote about the fact my husband is an extrovert and I am an introvert.  It was humorous at the time. Hundreds of memes have popped up around the idea that introverts are in their element. But it is less funny when the man you love starts to look like this:

Although I would probably place his psychological state closer to that of Jack Nicholson in the Shining.

As I tried to talk with him about it, I realized that before the shutdown, he still struggled with not having enough social interaction.  He had his soccer game every Wednesday, lunches with co-workers, Tuesday game night with his friends, and at least one dinner a week with a buddy from work.  All this and a wife and three kids at home. Nevertheless, every Friday and Saturday I heard, “I wanna do something.”

It got me thinking. As a person with anxiety, I struggle to go out and do things, especially things that are new and unfamiliar.  Until now, that was seen as a problem, something I needed to fix.  Now that the world has become a marathon round of opposite day, does his unending need for social interaction need to be fixed?

I suggested, as kindly as I could, that we schedule a couple’s session with a therapist.  He said, “It’s not really a relationship problem.”

To which I replied, “Yeah, but I didn’t think you’d do it on your own.”

He nodded then brushed the idea aside, irritated that I saw his desire for all things social as something that could or should be changed.   

It’s not like he’s a hermit. My husband leaves the house to get groceries and has Zoom meetings all day where he interacts with people. We have a “bubble” with our neighbor’s family and we see them regularly.  Still, he has become sullen.  He has a short fuse and yells frequently.  His sleeping patterns are off, and I worry he is becoming depressed. 

As it stands now, there is nothing I can do.  Anything I say he runs through the filter of: she enjoys this, she doesn’t understand. So, I say again:

I’m worried about my husband.

He/She Names

When I was pregnant with my first child, I had already decided that if the baby was a boy his name would be Daegan.  I worked in childcare as an undergraduate and Daegan was a two-year-old boy with soft brown curls and large golden-brown doe eyes.  He was adorable and I wanted one just like him.

My husband and I knew that having a baby would be enough excitement and found out at 20 weeks that she was a girl.  With “Daegan” out of the running, we needed to come up with something else.  My favorite author in high school was Carson McCullers, a woman from the 1940’s who published several books and hung out with people like Tennessee Williams and Truman Capote. This name sounded pretty cool, so, we settled on it as the name for our little girl: Carson.

Due to her name and the fact that she didn’t have any hair until around the age of four, Carson was constantly mistaken for a boy.  It didn’t really bother me.  I had, and still have, a strong aversion to placing bows around the heads of small babies just to make it easier on others to identify their sex.  It never made me angry when she was mistaken for a boy, but it did make me laugh. Funniest, was when she would be wearing a pink dress and pink tights and someone would ask what the baby’s name was, and after we said, “Her name is Carson,” they would ask how old he is.

 Since naming our daughter Carson, we have met one boy named Carson and seven girls.  Still, the name Carson is most definitely associated with boys.  Throughout her childhood, doctors and dentists calling for appointment reminders would say, “This is a call just to let you know Carson has an appointment with so-and-so on Thursday May 10th.  He will need to be there ten minutes early.”

When I call the doctor or pharmacy for my daughter, as soon as they hear or see the name Carson, they immediately shift to he. 

Since my daughter is now almost twenty, I don’t get those calls anymore, but the last call I took was the best way to end an era of he/she confusion.  The gynecologist office called to let me know that his pap smear was normal.

Cat Litter Diary

“You should write a blog about this.”  My daughter looks up at me from where she squats down by the litter box, sweeping up the scattered sand from a very enthusiastic digger. 

“What?  About litter?” I laugh at the suggestion.

“Yeah, there’s gotta be something there.  How one kitten seems to take more joy in the digging than actually going to the bathroom, while another seems almost ashamed of himself, if he catches your eye.”

“I think you’re reaching,” I tell her, although I get what she’s saying.

I remember back to a time, several years ago, when I told my husband about a silly ephemeral idea for a story tickling the back of my brain.  It was something I would title: The 10 Things I Learned While Cleaning the Litterbox. One of which was going to be that I tend to stick out my tongue when I concentrate and another being that I concentrate too much for the simple act of cleaning a litter box. 

.

.

.

.

.

That idea went the way of many throughout the years. A writer’s mind is filled with random tidbits of small jokes, one-liners, and what-if scenarios.  The process of stringing these disjointed ideas together, into a coherent and entertaining message, is the true crucible. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

But, in the end, I suppose I took my daughter’s advise and wrote about cat litter. 

Kindness

This quote stuck with me last weekend:

“I would implore everybody who’s celebrating today to remember, it’s good to be a humble winner. Remember… four years ago? Remember how bad that felt? Remember, that half the country right now still feels that way.”
-Dave Chappelle

 I wonder and worry as this year comes to an end. Will the ever widening divide in this country, on this planet ever be set to rights. And if it is, what will the people have to endure to make it so.

To wrench myself out of these thoughts, I focus on kindness. That one random act of kindness that can lift my spirits as much as it lifts the spirits of the person on the receiving end. With kindness in mind I thought to share some of my favorite quotes on the subject.

“You can accomplish by kindness what you cannot by force.”
-Publilius Syrus

“One person can make a difference, and everyone should try.”
– John F. Kennedy

“Human kindness has never weakened the stamina or softened the fiber of a free people. A nation does not have to be cruel to be tough.”
-Franklin D. Roosevelt

“There are men and women who make the world better just by being the kind of people they are. They have the gift of kindness or courage or loyalty or integrity. It really matters very little whether they are behind the wheel of a truck or running a business or bringing up a family. They teach the truth by living it.” 
– James Garfield

“There is overwhelming evidence that the higher the level of self-esteem, the more likely one will be to treat others with respect, kindness, and generosity.”
-Nathaniel Branden

“Live simply, love generously, care deeply, speak kindly, leave the rest to God.”
– Ronald Reagan

.

As we venture into another holiday season, one where gatherings are limited and good cheer is truncated, remember to be kind. 

Sunday Stories

Remembered

“Are you ready dear?” My wife’s soft silky voice came from behind. 

“I think so. How do I look?” I held my arms out from my body, awaiting her inspection. 

Her small, soft hands smoothed my collar. “You look perfect.”

This was our routine—our ritual—and it calmed me. She wove her fingers with mine, and together we walked to the front door.  “Wait here. I’ll get a cab.”  My wife’s feet made little sound as she descended the porch steps.  The music of Manhattan, usually a cacophony of honking horns and noisy people, enveloped me.  Snow crunched under my boot and bells rang incessantly.  Christmas carols wafted from open doors.

My wife, Sophia, approached. “The cab is here. Ready?”

She had been asking that daily since the operation.  Are you ready to go?  Are you ready to see? Are you ready to know?

Sadly, my answer hadn’t changed.  I’m not sure.

I grasped the handrail and made my way down the steps to the cab. 

It had been five years since the accident that took my sight.  Two years since the groundbreaking operation that might bring it back was discovered.  I’d held back, not wanting to be the guinea pig.  Truth be told, I feared hoping.  Would it work? I wasn’t sure if I wanted it too or not.  I hadn’t seen my wife in five years. I felt her warm arms embrace me.  I heard the deepest love and patience in the timbre of her voice.  These were lost on me before. I didn’t want to lose them again. 

The cab ride was slow, but Sophia said we were still on time.

“We left early.” Her guilty tone made me smile. “I was excited,” she confessed, giving my hand a squeeze. 

The doctor’s office smelled of the artificial lemon scent added to cleaners and disinfectants.  Sophia led me to the chairs.  I sat and listened to her check me in. 

“Yes, surgery last week.” A mumbled question, then, “No, no issues.” 

She returned to sit beside me, clinging to my hand. I wanted to make a joke, tease her out of her nervousness.  “What color is your hair?” I asked her.

 “You know.”

“Oh yes, purple.  I specifically remember your long, flowing purple hair.”

“Don’t forget my yellow teeth and green skin,” she laughed, joining in.

“Ah, yes. I thought you were going to be sick the first time I met you.”

“I almost was, looking at your ugly face,” she teased, the smile in her voice infectious.

I remembered color.  Or at least I hoped I remembered it.  Color, like so many things, had softened through the years so that now I wondered if I even remembered them at all.  Yellow wasn’t a color but a thing, the feel of the sun on my skin.  Green was the smell of grass in the summer; red the sensation of my wife’s lips as they pressed to mine.

“Williams?” The nurse’s baritone voice cut through our joking, reminding us why we were there.

We stood, and my wife held my hand as we followed the nurse to our examination room.  The scale always unnerved me, like standing on the deck of a boat that shifted with the tide.  The crinkle of paper as I sat on the exam table engendered a feeling of embarrassment. Like if I had been more careful the noise would be less conspicuous. 

We waited in relative silence.  The sounds of electronic beeps, doors opening and closing, and garbled conversations seeped through the door to infect our space.

I heard the click of the door latch before the doctor’s voice filled the room. 

“Hello, hello!”  He was always way too cheery for someone who had a success rate of only sixty percent. “How are we today? It looks like you haven’t had any problems with bleeding or vertigo.”

“No, doctor, everything has been fine.”

“Well, let’s not waste any more time.”

I felt a hand brush by my ear and flinched.

“It’s all right. Just finding the edge of the bandage.” The doctor tried to reassure me. Assurance didn’t come.

I waited for my wife to ask if I was ready.  I knew my answer now.  No, I wasn’t ready.  Let me hold on to this hope a moment longer. Let me exist in this bubble of maybe for another minute.

The doctor began to unwrap the gauze.  I saw nothing. My eyes were closed.  I felt the cool air on my eyelids, the last of the bandage falling away. 

“Honey?” I turned toward my wife’s voice.  “Honey, open your eyes.”

“No. I mean, give me a minute.”

A small, soft hand, cool to the touch, cupped my cheek.  “Please, honey, look at me.”

The love in those words, the yearning, shamed me.  I had not seen my wife in five years.  But more importantly she had not been seen by me.

Slowly I opened my eyes.  The first thing that registered was that someone had dimmed the lights.  A bright flame of red stood before me, wavering in my blurred view.  I blinked and the flame morphed, becoming my wife.  Fair skin, red bow lips—and hair, red as fire, wild as the wind. Ringlets of burnished copper surrounded her oval face.  One lock of deepest red fell over her eye, and she went to brush it back. 

“No,” I croaked. “Let me.” I watched as my hand lifted, took the fiery curl between my fingers, and looped it behind her ear. While I had remembered her hair, I had not appreciated it’s depth, its vibrancy.

A tear balanced on her lower lid.

“Not purple after all.”  I whispered.

She laughed as the tear slid down.  Her lips tilted up in a watery smile.

Sweet Dreams

You know that moment, those several seconds, right before you fall asleep?  The moment where you have all your best ideas and your most awe-inspiring epiphanies?  It was at that moment, two nights ago, that I had an idea.  It was an idea that surprised and excited me.  This is going to be amazing, I thought. People are really going to want to hear about this.  Then I fell asleep. 

Like all great ideas that happen as we close our eyes, that game changer of an epiphany is gone.  Lost to the ether. 

All I can say, is that it involved Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and that’s it.  No matter how much brain wracking I do it is gone, never to return.  I wonder how many life altering plans have gone the same way?  What would life be like today, if even half of our brilliant sleep induced ideas actually came to fruition? 

Of course, it could be argued that those ideas, seeming great at the time are, in reality, nonsensical gibberish.  Illogical twaddle that our brain regurgitates as it starts the days downloading of information.  We may never know. But, for now, I will continue to believe that we could change the world, if only we could remember. 

Sunday Stories

Cottage in the Wood

A small creaky bed by a small shadowed cove. 

The torn tattered curtain of a window by the stove. 

A young pretty maiden quietly draws near

A dark forgotten stranger through the window he peers

Quietly she creeps, to the door she sees is open

Quickly he dashed to the bed from the kitchen

Hello! she whispers, to softly to be heard

“I’m here.” he answers though she did not hear a word

Sadly, she turns her face a mask of sorrow.

The man emerges from the bed looking forward to tomorrow.