I have two moms. No, they are not lesbian partners, though that would be fine with me. They are ex-best friends who share a daughter and a son and a man, my father. They are my mom and my step-mom. Their story is interesting, tragic and funny as hell.
My dad married my mom's best friend.
This sounds horrible, but it turns out it was a wonderful idea.
My parents divorced when I was eighteen. They had endured twenty years of each other. After a final, horrific and impassioned fight, they finally called it quits. That is another story, one I need more therapy to tell.
My dad married my step-mom about two years later. She was his neighbor, and she stopped by one day to check on him. She was recently divorced herself and thought about him sitting alone in his big old house and out of sympathy and curiosity she pulled her car up in the drive one afternoon. I should also mention that she is a beautiful, tall, skinny blond with a great sense of humor and a sly, knowing smile. My dad was hooked, and they quickly became an "item." I imagine that my dad was surprised, complemented and ultimately grateful for her interest and attention. It's easy to see what my dad sees in her. As far as what she sees in my dad, well, she must like his innate goodness and his capacity for laughter, because she didn't choose him for his full head of hair or his sense of style! She became pregnant, and they married and my brother Richard, 21 years my junior, was born - to the great amazement and joy of his siblings.
My mother and father met when they were both acting in a production of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. My father played Romeo and yes, my mother played Juliet. I have the poster advertising the event, complete with their pictures on it, to prove it. I was born a little over a year later. I have always felt lucky that I have this proof of the fact that romance exists. How sweet, how perfect, how beautiful it is to know that my parents were once young, passionate and in love. They were also good looking. Again, I have the poster to prove it.
They began their life together having high expectations. This, I think, was the problem. After such a romantic beginning, there was nowhere to go but down. Can you imagine it? You are the lead in a play, and you fall in love with your leading lady. On opening night the crowd cheers as the curtain closes, as you pretend to lie dead upon your true love, whom your character has died for. You know the crowd is cheering not just for the play itself, but for you and for your love, your true love. Your real life love cannot help but fall short in this comparison. Where are the cheers when you have to return to the real life day-to-day work of a marriage? Where are the cheers when she asks you, for the umpteenth time, not to leave your wet towel on the bed? Honestly, I am amazed that they lasted as long as they did.
My mother remarried before my dad, to a man who, without fanfare, without cheering crowds, and completely without reservations, promised to love, honor and adore her. Which he has diligently done for the past sixteen years. He and my father could not be more different, and I think this is exactly what my mother needed.
But the story here is how much my mother has in common with my step-mom. The simple things are these; they are both beautiful, thin and strong-willed. They are both intelligent and successful. They are both social and they both love to shop. They both like parties and friends, good wine and good conversation. They both would die to protect their children. They are both generous and friendly to a fault. And they both love me.
They were friends before my step-mom became my step mom. As I mentioned earlier, my step-mom was also our neighbor. She lived less than a mile down the road from our big rambling farmhouse, in a lovely little yellow farmhouse of her own. She had a hairy, boisterous, Republican husband who my father had little affection for. He was a salesman, and my father detests all salesmen, with the exception of Willy Lowman. I remember them coming to our house for dinner and board games that got louder and more raucous after the kids went to bed. They were fun people, I thought, especially my future step-mom, who would shop on Saturdays with my mom. She would also often sympathise with me, and let me smoke cigarettes in her car. She and my mom had some good times together, and my mom helped her find the strength to kick that hairy Republican out of her house. (The final straw was when he cleaned the birdcage with her toothbrush and put it back by the bathroom sink for her to use. What an ingracious man!)
My future step-mom laid low while my parent's marriage went sour. She refused to choose sides as so many of their friends did. She has always been fair-minded that way. But I know when my mom finally heard that my dad was dating her, it must have been a bitter pill. It must have felt like a betrayal. My mom must have imagined the worst, she must have thought that perhaps it had all been an elaborate plan, spun out over months and maybe years. Yet everyone involved in their life knows that this wasn't true. My parent's problems came from within their marriage, not from outside of it. In the end the divorce was the best thing for both of them.
So after all of this, it is amazing to me that my mom and my step-mom are friends again. They managed to put aside their hurt feelings and do what was best for their children. They did what was best for me and for my brother. We are both adults now, and both of us could understand it if they hated each other. It would be reasonable to see them as rivals, bitter over the events of the past, of their broken marriages and broken friendship. But instead of hate, they have chosen love. Well, maybe not love, but at least understanding, empathy and kindness.
How do I know this? They have shown me in ways that defy contradiction that they have their priorities straight. When my son, their first grandson, was born, my mom was on one side holding my hand and my step-mom was on the other side, holding my other hand. When their grandson arrived, healthy and pink, I saw them look at one another and grin in relief. They have traveled a long, strange road, and they have come out on the other side of their travels as better, stronger and happier women. They both teach me what it means to be strong, what it means to be kind, and what it means to forgive.
I have two moms. And I like it that way.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
My New Year's Resolution
What am I waiting for? This is the question I ask myself daily, hourly even. I can't seem to get anything done (except reading of course.) The time flies so quickly between rising at 7:30 a.m. and the end of the school day at 3:30 p.m. That is when I pick up my son from school and my "real" work begins. The lovely, snack-homework-dinner-tv hour-reading-bath and bedtime time. This time flies even more quickly than the time I spend thinking about all the things I should be doing that I am not doing. The difference is that when I am doing things for/with my family I know what I am doing is worthwhile and valuable and I don't agonize over it. I agonize, truly, my mind writhes in agony, over all that I do not do when I have my precious alone time. I end each afternoon with guilt over all I have not written. (By evening my optimism returns and I assure myself that tomorrow will be different, tomorrow will definitely be productive, tomorrow I will write!)
So what am I not doing that I should be doing? Well, most of the day I am not writing. Even now, while I'm writing, I am writing about not writing. See what I mean? I have ideas for articles that I have toyed with for years and have yet to make notes on. I am not making those notes now. I am reading articles, occasional good articles, and very often mediocre ones. I am certainly not working on my first, second, or third stalled novel - that is just too depressing. I am reading novels though - recently I have been averaging one every 24 to 48 hours. This week I finished "Middlesex" (excellent) by Jeffery Eugenides, "A Girl Named Zippy" (very good) and Iodine (good, interesting, a bit overdone) both by Haven Kimmel.
What I want to figure out, what the question for me is - I think - is why just reading isn't good enough. Why do I feel the itch, the bubble in my belly, the ache in my fingers, to write? It's not as if I've ever written anything of true relevance. It's not as if I have anything different or original to say. What I do have to say is flat out, fall down, one hundred percent average normal and boring southern girl stuff. Well, except that I'm gay.
I don't want to write about that, at least I don't want to write about it in a way that says Read My Writing Because I'm a Gay Writer. That is, well, gay. I don't want to write about "Coming Out" or "Lesbian Sex" or anything that falls under the label of "Gay-ness." But (sigh, sigh) I guess it can't be helped can it? I can't not write like I'm gay can I? No more than I can not write like a woman or a Southerner (Though it really pissed me off in college to discover that everything I ever wrote would be viewed through these lenses, these labels of Woman and Southern.)
I wish I could say that this is my pathos, that this "gay issue" is why I don't write, and think about not writing, and then play a Beatles album, and then not write some more, and then think about not writing, and feel guilty, and then drink coffee, read my novel, check my Facebook messages, and then not write some more. But it has nothing to do with being gay. Maybe I fear labels? Writing is for reading, and reading words requires labels. To really understand any story we must put it in a context of personal experience, and this requires labels. We all label our experience throughout our life. Such as, Childhood, Adolescence, Adulthood, Parenthood, etc... And this is just for the average reader. If one has taken a literature course then the labels come hard and fast; Modern, Post-Modern, Gothic, Historical, Feminist, Contemporary, Classic, etc.....! These are just the big boxes. Inside each big box exists a thousand smaller ones, different, of course, for each reader, but there all the same. So anything I write, even this, falls under a label - This writing, for example, might be labeled Immaterial, or more generously, Inconscient.
So to write at all is to be a writer, I call myself a writer, what I am doing this minute is writing, and yet, this writing makes me feel guilty for putting off doing my real writing. which brings me around to my 2009 New Year's Resolution. (I know you've been waiting to find out what it is after the titillation of such an original and mysterious blog entry title!) I am going to write more and worry less. This silly blog of mine may be read by no one, but the fact that it could be read by anyone makes it more fun and more scary to write, and it also excuses me from having to incorporate deep, meaningful, timeless themes.
Happy New Year! As usual, I feel like tomorrow has tremendous potential for productivity. I will definately get a LOT of writing done tomorrow!
So what am I not doing that I should be doing? Well, most of the day I am not writing. Even now, while I'm writing, I am writing about not writing. See what I mean? I have ideas for articles that I have toyed with for years and have yet to make notes on. I am not making those notes now. I am reading articles, occasional good articles, and very often mediocre ones. I am certainly not working on my first, second, or third stalled novel - that is just too depressing. I am reading novels though - recently I have been averaging one every 24 to 48 hours. This week I finished "Middlesex" (excellent) by Jeffery Eugenides, "A Girl Named Zippy" (very good) and Iodine (good, interesting, a bit overdone) both by Haven Kimmel.
What I want to figure out, what the question for me is - I think - is why just reading isn't good enough. Why do I feel the itch, the bubble in my belly, the ache in my fingers, to write? It's not as if I've ever written anything of true relevance. It's not as if I have anything different or original to say. What I do have to say is flat out, fall down, one hundred percent average normal and boring southern girl stuff. Well, except that I'm gay.
I don't want to write about that, at least I don't want to write about it in a way that says Read My Writing Because I'm a Gay Writer. That is, well, gay. I don't want to write about "Coming Out" or "Lesbian Sex" or anything that falls under the label of "Gay-ness." But (sigh, sigh) I guess it can't be helped can it? I can't not write like I'm gay can I? No more than I can not write like a woman or a Southerner (Though it really pissed me off in college to discover that everything I ever wrote would be viewed through these lenses, these labels of Woman and Southern.)
I wish I could say that this is my pathos, that this "gay issue" is why I don't write, and think about not writing, and then play a Beatles album, and then not write some more, and then think about not writing, and feel guilty, and then drink coffee, read my novel, check my Facebook messages, and then not write some more. But it has nothing to do with being gay. Maybe I fear labels? Writing is for reading, and reading words requires labels. To really understand any story we must put it in a context of personal experience, and this requires labels. We all label our experience throughout our life. Such as, Childhood, Adolescence, Adulthood, Parenthood, etc... And this is just for the average reader. If one has taken a literature course then the labels come hard and fast; Modern, Post-Modern, Gothic, Historical, Feminist, Contemporary, Classic, etc.....! These are just the big boxes. Inside each big box exists a thousand smaller ones, different, of course, for each reader, but there all the same. So anything I write, even this, falls under a label - This writing, for example, might be labeled Immaterial, or more generously, Inconscient.
So to write at all is to be a writer, I call myself a writer, what I am doing this minute is writing, and yet, this writing makes me feel guilty for putting off doing my real writing. which brings me around to my 2009 New Year's Resolution. (I know you've been waiting to find out what it is after the titillation of such an original and mysterious blog entry title!) I am going to write more and worry less. This silly blog of mine may be read by no one, but the fact that it could be read by anyone makes it more fun and more scary to write, and it also excuses me from having to incorporate deep, meaningful, timeless themes.
Happy New Year! As usual, I feel like tomorrow has tremendous potential for productivity. I will definately get a LOT of writing done tomorrow!
Tuesday, December 9, 2008
Happy Birthday Daddy October 2008
Susan’s Thoughts and Discoveries
(Or) Happy Birthday Daddy
October 2, 2008
I have been feeling old. At 36. My brain knows this is likely silly, but the knowing doesn’t help the feeling. I wanted to reread a lovely essay Updike wrote earlier this year called “The Full Glass .” The story is about a man approaching eighty who reflects on the pleasure of small things. It is a lovely, small story, with beautiful images exquisitely rendered. There is one in particular in which he compared the stillness of his wife sleeping to the glassy stillness of a deep spring well, and his inability to sleep to the water-glider skirting across that glassy stillness. The old man is no monument to morality, and he freely admits this, which is why he hesitates to look inside himself too deeply. If the character isn’t quite lovely, the story is, and it is an excellent reflection of how age can make you a stranger to yourself. It also redeems the value of small inconsequential pleasures, for in the end the value of a cool drink of water is immeasurable. I really find something in this story, and I wanted to read it again.
I recalled I had placed a link to the article in an email I sent my dad, and found the email. My dad had replied that he had, of course, already read the essay, and that he agreed it was lovely and that it reminded him of James Leigh Hunt’s poem about Jenny. All I could remember about the poem was that “Jenny kissed me”, so I looked it up.
Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me .
James Leigh Hunt
I found it on the Rice University Website. It is a lovely poem that resonates, and I think I underestimated it the first few times I read it. I read the critique; the poem is “perfectly trochaic.” The reviewer, EB, points out, “The simple, unaffected lyrics hide the construction somewhat, and that is how it should be.” Like the story by Updike, the poem is more than it seems to be.
I began reading the comments . I was touched by this one, made by Pky Zztar;
I remember reading this poem in high school (40 years ago) and thinking
to myself "One day I'll have a daughter, and I'll name her Jenny." I
married a girl I first met in kindergarten, and 3 years later she gave
birth to our first child, Jennifer Ann... "Jenny".
I'll never forget the first time I saw her, the nurses pushed my wife's
hospital bed down the hallway toward me, and as we met, my wife reached
up and pulled down the sheet that covered her. In the embrace of her arm
lay our first child, our beautiful little girl. My feet could hardly
reach the floor! Her beauty was simply radiant. I leaned down and kissed
my wife and then my daughter. I lightly put my cheek against her lips,
and received my first of many kisses from this angel. I recited the poem
"Jenny Kissed Me" to her, and then watched as the nurses took them on to
their room.
That was 33 years ago, and she is still the light of my life. Is it any
surprise that this is my favorite poem?
Thinking about feeling old, and thinking about my dad, and how if I feel old, how must he feel? Coming across this, a father’s love for his daughter, knowing my father feels this way for me (most days), made tears well up. How could it not bring forth such a surge of emotion? As a parent, I finally understand how much my father loves me. A parent’s love is a great bottomless depth of joy and despair, of fear and euphoria. It is rarely the calm sea of quiet pleasure, the safe sailing a good marriage can become. It is plagued by wanting. You want to know your child is happy, and as one can never truly know another, there is always that lack of knowing that creates the want – like the unquenchable thirst. What more can I do to make her happy? But unlike a lover, whom you can directly affect with your actions, you cannot do more than wish for your daughter to be content, you cannot do more than hope for her happiness.
So I kept reading, thinking of my father, thinking of my own child, and thinking of love.
There was a man who read this poem on the wall of a bus, and it has been his favorite ever since. Another person commented on the staying power of the poem, how it resonates. Yet another spoke of the message of love defeating all.
And I came across this, posted by jalleva;
I am writing a biography of my father for his 80th
birthday party and I wanted to include some of his favorite sayings and
poems. Even though he's recited this poem to me a million times, I wanted to
get the wording perfect and I stumbled on this web site. I love this
poem--it will always remind me of the special place I have in my dad's
heart! Jennifer (Jenny) A.
An impossible and lovely coincidence? A message meant just for me? Has anyone else noticed? This must be father and daughter. I wonder if they even know that they have posted on the same website? Not just posted on the same website, but posted about each other. The daughter knows how the poem has always been a symbol between them. It has served as the way the father can express the inexpressible to his daughter. This is how much I love you.
I think of the father’s joy, of finally having at least that much knowledge – to know that she knows. She knows. She knows how much he loves her! A father thinks, if only she knew how much I love her …. If only I could love her enough to make her happy! If only she knew – and she does! She knows! And it does, it does make her happy! This is the father’s full glass isn’t it? This is the largest of the small pleasures.
It made me happy to read this unknown correspondence between people who were strangers to me. I wonder if it is a ruse to make the site more interesting? But, no, it couldn’t be, it is much too subtle. Today I am lucky rather than old. Or perhaps, rather than lucky, I am mature? No, I am both. Lucky and mature. I was lucky to find such a sweet and touching connection. I am mature because I realize the joy of small things. Of things like unexpected discoveries. It is nice to think of myself as mature, for it is not a word often used to describe me. Perhaps that is maturity? If I am mature, at least today, perhaps that will extend to my father a bit of peace. Today, dad, I not only know how much you love me, and know how much poetry can mean, but I am also mature. Not old. Mature. Writing this, thinking of you, knowing you love me, feeling mature … is as refreshing to me as a cool spring on a hot day. Today this is my full glass.
I love you Daddy. My love and appreciation for you grow more boundless each year. The longer I know you, the more I love you. Happy Birthday.
Susie
(Or) Happy Birthday Daddy
October 2, 2008
I have been feeling old. At 36. My brain knows this is likely silly, but the knowing doesn’t help the feeling. I wanted to reread a lovely essay Updike wrote earlier this year called “The Full Glass .” The story is about a man approaching eighty who reflects on the pleasure of small things. It is a lovely, small story, with beautiful images exquisitely rendered. There is one in particular in which he compared the stillness of his wife sleeping to the glassy stillness of a deep spring well, and his inability to sleep to the water-glider skirting across that glassy stillness. The old man is no monument to morality, and he freely admits this, which is why he hesitates to look inside himself too deeply. If the character isn’t quite lovely, the story is, and it is an excellent reflection of how age can make you a stranger to yourself. It also redeems the value of small inconsequential pleasures, for in the end the value of a cool drink of water is immeasurable. I really find something in this story, and I wanted to read it again.
I recalled I had placed a link to the article in an email I sent my dad, and found the email. My dad had replied that he had, of course, already read the essay, and that he agreed it was lovely and that it reminded him of James Leigh Hunt’s poem about Jenny. All I could remember about the poem was that “Jenny kissed me”, so I looked it up.
Jenny Kissed Me
Jenny kiss'd me when we met,
Jumping from the chair she sat in;
Time, you thief, who love to get
Sweets into your list, put that in!
Say I'm weary, say I'm sad,
Say that health and wealth have miss'd me,
Say I'm growing old, but add,
Jenny kiss'd me .
James Leigh Hunt
I found it on the Rice University Website. It is a lovely poem that resonates, and I think I underestimated it the first few times I read it. I read the critique; the poem is “perfectly trochaic.” The reviewer, EB, points out, “The simple, unaffected lyrics hide the construction somewhat, and that is how it should be.” Like the story by Updike, the poem is more than it seems to be.
I began reading the comments . I was touched by this one, made by Pky Zztar;
I remember reading this poem in high school (40 years ago) and thinking
to myself "One day I'll have a daughter, and I'll name her Jenny." I
married a girl I first met in kindergarten, and 3 years later she gave
birth to our first child, Jennifer Ann... "Jenny".
I'll never forget the first time I saw her, the nurses pushed my wife's
hospital bed down the hallway toward me, and as we met, my wife reached
up and pulled down the sheet that covered her. In the embrace of her arm
lay our first child, our beautiful little girl. My feet could hardly
reach the floor! Her beauty was simply radiant. I leaned down and kissed
my wife and then my daughter. I lightly put my cheek against her lips,
and received my first of many kisses from this angel. I recited the poem
"Jenny Kissed Me" to her, and then watched as the nurses took them on to
their room.
That was 33 years ago, and she is still the light of my life. Is it any
surprise that this is my favorite poem?
Thinking about feeling old, and thinking about my dad, and how if I feel old, how must he feel? Coming across this, a father’s love for his daughter, knowing my father feels this way for me (most days), made tears well up. How could it not bring forth such a surge of emotion? As a parent, I finally understand how much my father loves me. A parent’s love is a great bottomless depth of joy and despair, of fear and euphoria. It is rarely the calm sea of quiet pleasure, the safe sailing a good marriage can become. It is plagued by wanting. You want to know your child is happy, and as one can never truly know another, there is always that lack of knowing that creates the want – like the unquenchable thirst. What more can I do to make her happy? But unlike a lover, whom you can directly affect with your actions, you cannot do more than wish for your daughter to be content, you cannot do more than hope for her happiness.
So I kept reading, thinking of my father, thinking of my own child, and thinking of love.
There was a man who read this poem on the wall of a bus, and it has been his favorite ever since. Another person commented on the staying power of the poem, how it resonates. Yet another spoke of the message of love defeating all.
And I came across this, posted by jalleva;
I am writing a biography of my father for his 80th
birthday party and I wanted to include some of his favorite sayings and
poems. Even though he's recited this poem to me a million times, I wanted to
get the wording perfect and I stumbled on this web site. I love this
poem--it will always remind me of the special place I have in my dad's
heart! Jennifer (Jenny) A.
An impossible and lovely coincidence? A message meant just for me? Has anyone else noticed? This must be father and daughter. I wonder if they even know that they have posted on the same website? Not just posted on the same website, but posted about each other. The daughter knows how the poem has always been a symbol between them. It has served as the way the father can express the inexpressible to his daughter. This is how much I love you.
I think of the father’s joy, of finally having at least that much knowledge – to know that she knows. She knows. She knows how much he loves her! A father thinks, if only she knew how much I love her …. If only I could love her enough to make her happy! If only she knew – and she does! She knows! And it does, it does make her happy! This is the father’s full glass isn’t it? This is the largest of the small pleasures.
It made me happy to read this unknown correspondence between people who were strangers to me. I wonder if it is a ruse to make the site more interesting? But, no, it couldn’t be, it is much too subtle. Today I am lucky rather than old. Or perhaps, rather than lucky, I am mature? No, I am both. Lucky and mature. I was lucky to find such a sweet and touching connection. I am mature because I realize the joy of small things. Of things like unexpected discoveries. It is nice to think of myself as mature, for it is not a word often used to describe me. Perhaps that is maturity? If I am mature, at least today, perhaps that will extend to my father a bit of peace. Today, dad, I not only know how much you love me, and know how much poetry can mean, but I am also mature. Not old. Mature. Writing this, thinking of you, knowing you love me, feeling mature … is as refreshing to me as a cool spring on a hot day. Today this is my full glass.
I love you Daddy. My love and appreciation for you grow more boundless each year. The longer I know you, the more I love you. Happy Birthday.
Susie
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