Midnight Blue

07 Thursday Sep 2023

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Certain people leave lasting impressions on your soul…

I remember standing in my retro black and white tiled, lavender painted Santa Monica kitchen, pressing the ruffle on a sleeve of my white pirate shirt. The door to the rear courtyard was open and a cool breeze flowed through the bungalow. Applying pressure to the ironing board, I anticipated the evening.

Although we met relatively recently through work, I felt like I’d known Kent for years. Our business calls would begin with the professionalism necessary to hash out details on an artist contract for a concert recording, but before long he’d have me giggling like a teenager. I’d be drawing smiles and curious glances from co-workers passing my office.  

We had ‘business lunches’ where over salad and wine we’d segue smoothly from work to personal chatter. Being a curious creature, at times I felt I was peeling an onion as he modestly spoke about the fascinating life events that led him to where he sat. Had I not asked, I would not have known. Although he could have, he never bragged and didn’t boast.

He was unassuming, unphased by his numerous successes. He was intelligent, established, good looking, educated and funny.  Very, very funny.  And I was smitten.

The night was to be our ‘business is complete’ dinner. We both loved the ocean, so plans were to meet at his home in Hermosa beach and dine at a restaurant on the water that he loved — and he just had to show me.  

I drove down Lincoln Boulevard with my stomach in knots. But when the door opened, I was immediately calmed by his sparkling blue eyes. He poured me a glass of wine and showed me around the house. 

One drink led to another…and another…and another.  Being with him was effortless, natural…relaxed. Time flew.

Our conversation flowed easily, laughter punctuating every other line. We bared our souls and lost count of the number of corks we popped while he played DJ and we shared our favorite music.

When we stopped laughing and listening to music long enough to appease growing hunger pangs, it was clear that neither of us was in any shape to drive. So we ordered Chinese. Lots of it.  When it arrived, we sat on the living room floor feeding each other with chopsticks from a variety of white containers. Popping more corks.

“Hey, you gotta hear this one,” he said jumping up and heading over to the stereo. Lou Gramm’s Midnight Blue pumped through the speakers. Turning up the volume, Kent began dancing around the room. Pulling me up, we danced together – and played the song over and over and over again.

We danced through his living room, on the couches, around side tables, into the kitchen and back through the dining room while singing into empty wine bottles. It was magical.  An unconventional, uncomplicated LA date. No pretenses. Just heartfelt, childlike fun. It was refreshing, having the freedom to leave the adult world behind and just be playmates — in our thirties.  

After several repeats of Midnight Blue we collapsed onto the couch, laughing like children. Albeit very intoxicated, very tired children. Coincidentally it was after midnight and I was in no shape to drive home.  So, we grazed a bit more on the Chinese food and decided to have the rest for breakfast.

I paused at the staircase, contemplating my ability to navigate the flight up. “I got ya,” he laughed as if he could read my mind.  Without missing a beat, he scooped me into his arms and carried me upstairs to his bedroom where we fell into a deep drunken slumber.

We woke, skin on skin, with my head resting comfortably on his shoulder. His eyes were fixed on my face as my hand stretched slowly across his chest. The California sun streaming through the window glistened on his sandy blond chest hairs as I twirled them gently in my fingers.    

He was watching me intently with an anticipatory gaze. A knowing smile spread slowly across his face as my expression changed from relaxed to perplexed. My hand stopped on something that felt like a hard box under his warm skin.  Our eyes locked. 

“What the fuck is this?” I blurted out.

Laughing at my confusion and shock he responded, “A pacemaker.”

“And…you didn’t think to tell me!?”

“What?  And ruin the surprise?” he grinned.      

I drew back but he pulled me close.  “Don’t worry, I’m not going to die in you,” he whispered.  

As life so often does, our lives took us in different directions. Although I moved back to New York, we stayed in touch. We hadn’t spoken in a few months so I called to check in.

Fully expecting to hear his warm voice seep through the wire, his assistant picked up. “I don’t know how to say this,” he said tentatively. “Kent had a heart attack while driving. He didn’t make it. I’m sorry.”

The words sunk in slowly. Kent was gone. A childlike playmate would not be dancing anymore. Disbelief, sadness, sorrow…engulfed me. I left work and walked to a nearby church to sit in silence and say goodbye. 

Last night I awoke at 2am. For some reason my mind floated back to that night in Hermosa Beach – several decades ago. Replaying the evening, I began to smile…laugh…and cry.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand and pulled up Midnight Blue on YouTube.  As the beat took hold and memories replayed, I moved my cat off the bed and tossed the sheets off my legs. Then my feet hit the floor.

Turning up the volume, I relived that childlike abandon with a bittersweet tinge as I danced like a fool around my bedroom laughing — and crying.

And although I couldn’t see those playful baby blues gazing back at me, I know I wasn’t dancing alone.

(c) Septembermom 2023

Evenfall

17 Monday Apr 2023

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Your sun is setting
Slowly lowering over the horizon
Entering the peaceful night
Where you will live eternally
A twinkling star on a black velvet canvas.

My heart is breaking
During this twilight transformation
Unable to stop the sky from dimming
Surrender begets transition
The night sky brings me comfort.

(c) 2023 SeptemberMom.com

She Doesn’t Know

29 Saturday Jul 2017

Posted by in Lessons, Life, Love, Poetry

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I watch her closely.
Sadness engulfs her.

Her eyes glassy, her mind twisted, her heart breaking.

I offer a shoulder.
She turns away.

What do I know?
I’m old. I don’t understand. I’m mom.

What she doesn’t know is I’ve been there.
Watching her, I’m 16 again…, 32 again…, 40 again.

My heart breaking…
Over and over.

I want her to experience love.
The safety and sheltering from protective arms.
Feeling the depth of a soul through a gaze.
The euphoria of breathing life from another.

But I so want her heart protected from what she doesn’t know.
And she’s learning on her own.

It kills me to see her this way.
It kills me to relive the emotions I see in her.

She doesn’t know.

© SeptemberMom.com

The Struggle to Maintain Perspective

19 Friday Dec 2014

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It’s been a rough month.

Five years ago I had a double mastectomy. The girls turned against me so I had them taken off. My only concern was being here to raise my children, 6 and 7 at the time. There was no contest. I had the reconstructive surgery and moved on with my life and parenting my children. Till last month…..

Last month I went for routine blood tests and my cancer markers were high. Based on my history, my doctors are cautious and a roller coaster of medical tests began. X-rays, blood tests, sonograms, MRI’s, biopsies, Cat scans, PET scans….been there….done them…not happy to be doing them again.

The x-ray turned up a clear chest. I had an internal sonogram during which the doctor couldn’t find one of my ovaries. I joked that it was hiding – it knew what happened to my breasts when the girls turned against me so it was cowering in a corner. But ultimately, the sonogram proved to be normal.

What wasn’t normal was a breast MRI that showed a ‘suspicious mass’ in my mastectomy bed. I hate the term suspicious mass. I begin suspecting there’s bad news on the way. My mind goes directly to dark places.

In an effort to calm my nerves my oncologist assured me that if the biopsy ‘were something’ we’d just go in and get it. Although that was a bit reassuring, the thought of surgery and worse, the thought that cancer had reoccurred was far from settling.

It’s funny, not ha ha funny mind you, how you look at life differently when you think there may be less of it to experience. And it’s sad that the perspective gained when in that position is one that is difficult to maintain in the daily hustle and bustle of a ‘healthy’ existence.

For the second time in my life I began imagining my children without a mother. Wondering who would be there to care for them.  Who would rush in to cover Lara at 3am when she’d wake up calling out because she was cold.  Who would sit with JJ at night and talk about his day, what made him happy…what made him sad.

I began imagining missing their proms, graduations, weddings and the birth of their children.  It killed me to think there was a possibility I couldn’t be here for them.  To love them.  To mother them. I made myself have a little longer fuse when they acted out, let them stay up a little later at bedtime and looked at them….really looked at them – not just their faces, but their smiles, their eyes, the way their hair framed their faces.

I always hug my children and tell them how much I love them. But I hugged them a little tighter, conscious of their beating hearts. And when I told them I loved them I looked them straight in the eyes and followed it up with, “Don’t you ever forget that. Understand?” My heart was breaking.

With Christmas coming I began giving serious thought to buying the kids iPhones. I had planned to get them regular phones – no bells or whistles – just talk and limited text. But I was feeling extremely generous considering the uncertainty of my future.

“Don’t do it,” cautioned my friend Linda. “Don’t buy a guilt gift because you think you won’t be around next Christmas. Wait till you KNOW you’re going to die before you buy them iPhones. It’s a two year contract.” We both laughed at the absurdity.

My doctors scheduled me for a biopsy of the ‘mass’ and a PET scan. The biopsy was first. Not knowing what was lurking in my mastectomy bed just plain pissed me off. But needle biopsies are no fun and even though I was desperate to know what was there – I wasn’t looking forward to the procedure. I’m a big baby when it comes to physical pain so my doctor prescribed Xanax. I’d never taken it before. He suggested taking two before the procedure. I took four. They could have biopsied my brain.

Today was my PET scan. Although it’s not a difficult or painful procedure – fear of the results can be consuming. It’s quite the push and pull.  You want to know but you’re afraid of what you could find out. So all day I tossed myself into work and reassured myself that if something else were discovered “we’d just go in and get it.”

Tonight my children had their annual Christmas Concert at school. It was a jovial evening. I couldn’t help but smile while watching them sing Christmas carols with their classmates.  Then I felt my phone’s vibrating ring in my bag.  I checked quickly to see who was calling.  It was my doctor – it was 9pm. I hesitated, not wanting to ‘know’ anything that would ruin the night but my morbid curiosity had me rushing into the hall so I could hear his voice at the other end of the phone.

“The PET scan came back normal except for the area where you had your biopsy Monday,” he said. “But the actual biopsy isn’t showing any signs of cancer. They’re going to run more tests but you’re clear so far.”  Tears of relief rolled down my cheeks.

I have once again been humbled by fear, but I feel like I’ve been given another chance and I am grateful to God.  I have another opportunity to get this right.  I’m hoping I can be a better mother to my children, have more patience with them and myself.  Allow myself the time to experience their days with them – even when mine are hectic and I’m stressed.  I’m hoping I can stay in the moment and truly appreciate everything around me. I’m hoping that I can maintain perspective on what is and what is not important in life and for my children.  And I’m hoping that my children learn those lessons from me.

Oh, and I texted Linda immediately to let her know the outcome of the tests: “Lyn. Got my results. No iPhones for the kids this Christmas. : ) ”

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

My Little Black Belt

06 Saturday Dec 2014

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While folding laundry today my mind wandered as I hung my children’s Tae Kwon Do uniforms.  Both JJ and Lara have been taking Tae Kwon Do lessons since they were four. I can still see them swimming in oversized uniforms, pant legs rolled up and cinched tightly at their waists by a thick white belt. They didn’t kick very high or punch very hard, but as the years passed they have grown into larger outfits while earning higher degree colored belts.

When I left my children’s father I wanted to ensure that I didn’t leave little JJ or Lara without a positive male influence in their lives. A healthy, productive influence. One they could emulate.  So Tae Kwon Do classes twice a week, I thought, would help. They’d get exercise, they’d learn an art form that – one day – they may have to use for protection, and they would have a strong male teaching them.

It has been eight years of hard work for them but they thoroughly enjoy the ride. Honestly, I can’t say that I always enjoy the ride. Getting homework done while cooking, shoving food in them so they can make class on time, running out to drop them off, rushing back to wash dishes and toss in a load of laundry, then hiking out again to pick them up. In rain, snow, sleet or hail…you get it. There are many nights I just want to stay home. Stop the running, the rushing.  But we go twice a week with some exceptions. And it’s not cheap. I’d be lying if I said I never fantasized about what I would do with the extra money if I didn’t have to pay for the lessons, continual tests, higher ranking belts, wood to break, larger uniforms, sparing equipment, accessories….etc.

There were times when JJ and/or Lara wanted to toss in their belt. I’d make a call to their Master for guidance. He has always been there for us. He has visited the house to speak with the kids and help work through whatever hurdle they were up against. And he has worked his magic more than once to encourage them to continue.  Through the years, their Master has helped to instill morals and good behavior in both my children. I especially like his ‘be good to your mom’ speeches.

I have a deep satisfaction when I see their hard work and my hard earned money in action. Recently I moved to head slap JJ but before my palm could make contact with the golden locks on the back of his head, he instinctively jerked around and blocked my arm with a huge grin on his face. First I laughed. Then I made it clear that he was not to block my head slaps. They are my given right as his mother and the payer of his classes.

Lara is currently a red belt and she has her sights set on achieving her black belt. I smile to myself when I hear her boxing the punching bag downstairs. My son took a grueling nine-hour black belt test two years ago. He was the youngest in the room. The morning of his test I packed his cooler with water, Gatorade, bananas, sandwiches, a candy bar, extra clothing and a note that read, “I don’t care whether or not you pass the test. You are my little black belt and I am so very proud that you have come this far. I love you, Mom.”  JJ left the test exhausted but invigorated by the fact that he made it through the day – and yes, he passed.

A framed photo of JJ taken during his black belt test sat on our table at the black belt award banquet. The photo caught JJ mid-kick while jumping in the air. Sweat was flying off his long blond hair. I remember holding the photo, then looking up at my then 10-year-old who was standing tall on stage with his Tae Kwon Do Master, the school’s Grand Master and the Great Grand Master. JJ was beaming with pride as he accepted his hard earned black belt certification.  Applause filled the air.

As I surveyed the room, I became aware of an unforeseen gift that my children were receiving from their martial arts education. They had carved a place for themselves – a safe, welcoming place – within a group of individuals who started out as strangers and are sharing their lives as a very diverse, caring community with a common interest.

At that moment I knew that the years of running, rushing and yes – payments, for classes, uniforms, tests and belts…weren’t half as important or meaningful as the priceless emotions of pride and confidence that my son was experiencing – qualities that will hopefully shadow him and Lara throughout their lives.

(c) 2014 SeptemberMom.com

The Open Door

04 Tuesday Nov 2014

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The police just left my house. Not one. Not two. About eight of New York’s Finest.

I got home late tonight with my two children. As they rushed upstairs, I cleaned the cat litter and went to check the downstairs back door. My back door is always locked – and I have a metal bar jamming it so it can’t be jimmied open. Funny, I thought. The metal bar is not there. I walked to the door and reached to pull it open. I expected to be jerked back by a locked door, but it slid open to the backyard.

My mind raced back to when I lived in Santa Monica. My bungalow had one door in the kitchen that led to an alley and one door in the living room that led to the street. I used the kitchen door because I parked in the alley. One day I came in and heard something in my living room. I walked in and noticed the door was ajar. I rushed to the bedroom, called my friend George, and spat out what happened. Urgently he asked, “Where are you now?” I responded, “My room.” George never yelled – until that day. “Leave the phone off the hook and get the hell out of the house! Scream if anything happens and I’ll call the police.” It hadn’t occurred to me that someone could still be in the bungalow – or that the person would come back. Gripped by fear – I dashed out.

I don’t know why the door was ajar. Someone suggested it was the drug dealer who lived two doors down. When I first moved in I was leery of him, but he’d always been pleasant and respectful. Once I threw a Christmas in July party. I decorated my bungalow with a Christmas tree and all the trimmings. Green and red lights flickered in the kitchen and living room and Christmas music filled the air. But more than half of my arriving guests had mistakenly gone to the dealer’s house first. Turns out, when he had drugs to sell, he signaled prospective buyers by turning on the Christmas lights that hung outside his house year-round. So without even checking the address, some people were sure that’s where the party was. Who else would celebrate Christmas in July? Although he didn’t make any sales, the dealer was kind enough to point my friends in the right direction. And when he heard I was moving back to New York, he slipped a card under my door saying that he was going to miss seeing my smiling face in the neighborhood. Nah, wasn’t him.

But I digress. Tonight my mind was spiraling. Was someone in my house? Were they in the back room with the metal bar? Did they know I realized the door was open? Most important – could they be upstairs with my children? George’s words echoed in my mind. “Get out of the house.”

“JJ, Lara, come down here NOW.” They sauntered downstairs questioning my rushed tone. “We have to leave,” I whispered. “But we just got home – where are we going?!” they demanded loudly.

I was livid. Why couldn’t they just listen?! In my mind I imagined someone coming from the back room into the foyer wielding the metal bar. “Get the hell outside now,” I responded curtly shoving them both into the cold night – shoeless and coatless.

I know I didn’t leave the door open. I know I always lock my doors and check them twice, three times, maybe four times, and that’s even after turning on the alarm at night. Have I mentioned I’m a little OCD? So we walked to my mother’s house and I called the police. Then I railed on my children to come when I call, don’t ask questions and move quickly – especially if it’s something ‘odd,’ like leaving the house as soon as we get home.

Within 10 minutes four cop cars pulled up outside my house. I was and remain in awe of New York’s boys in blue. They combed through my house, looking under beds, in closets and in the attic. Thankfully, nothing was found.

But the unlocked door gnawed at me. It’s gnawing at me now as I write this. The only explanation is that one of my children left it open and forgot…or maybe decided it would be prudent not to tell me…that they left the door open. After seeing all the commotion it caused, there’s no way they’d come clean now and risk my fury. No, not yet. Maybe when they’re 30 the guilty party will fess up. But tonight I’ll be sleeping in the living room – with one eye open.

(c) 2014 September Mom

No Longer Cherubs

21 Tuesday Oct 2014

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I’ve been taking my son to visit high schools. It’s been a disaster. I didn’t realize how hard it would hit that so much time has gone by. I remember swaddling and holding him in my arms when he was a baby. We all know how that goes. I haven’t even put all my children’s photos in albums yet. I kept putting it off thinking there was so much time. Now, when I try to arrange a few, I can’t even remember if they were three or four-years-old – seven or eight. Thankfully, they remember.

I confess – I’m a crier.   I cried when my children took their first steps. I cried the first time that nursery school door closed behind them. I cried when they first boarded a yellow school bus. And the tears rolled the first time I went on a two-day business trip away from them. As I was packing, my son, three at the time, held up his beaten brown teddy that he never parted with. “Take it so you remember me mamma,” he said. Of course, I cried.

There are the sad tears and the happy tears – a distinction my children are much better at making now that they’re older. But one thing is constant with me. There are tears.

So here we are, my son and I, on a tour of a high school he is considering. Although he fiercely wanted to be apart from me, he stuck close in the crowd. Defying his actions though, he baited me. “You know mamma, after high school I’m gonna go to college and then get an apartment and live on my own. Not much time left to be with your baaabbbbyyyy.”

“Not worried,” I replied smiling. “You’ll always be my baaabbbyyy.” But his words danced in my mind as the tour guide’s words fell upon deaf ears. He was right. My little boy was growing up. I watched him walking in the crowd and pictured him walking the halls on his own. Putting his books in a locker. Hi-fiving his friends on the staircase. Trying to sit next to the pretty girl in class. No, there wasn’t much time left to be with my baby.

As the group began to ascend the stairs I pulled over to the side. JJ followed. “What’s the matter?” he asked. But he knew with one look at my face. “Oh no Maaaaaaaa,” he whined. “Not now. Not here.”

I didn’t want to cry. I just couldn’t help myself. “You started it with this I’m all grown up crap,” I quipped. “It’s your fault.” He hugged me and we both laughed. I dried my eyes, put on my sun glasses and we fell back into the crowd. But I spent the rest of the day on the verge.

When the tour was over I was elated. Time to go home where I can be his mother again. We had parked the car across a boulevard, one very long block down. Not wanting to walk to the corner to cross at the light, I stepped out between two cars and looked to my left. That’s when I noticed lights on top of the car I stood in front of. Thankfully they weren’t on. But the cops were watching. I would think that they were amused, either at my stupidity – or my gall.   Immediately I backed up pushing my son to the sidewalk and said loudly pointing down the block, “We’re down that way.”

JJ knew exactly what was going on. “Smooth move mamma. About to lead your son across a four lane boulevard by jaywalking in front of a cop car. With the cops inside! Almost as good as the time you were parking and hit the traffic cop’s car.“ He ribbed me mercilessly. His laughter was contagious. I was in awe of my emerging adult child.

Yes, JJ and Lara are growing up and each stage of their lives has brought different aspects to enjoy about their evolving personalities. It’s just that sometimes it is a challenge for me to celebrate the changes while mourning their babydom. Although it won’t be tomorrow, time flies, and soon they will be spreading their own wings. I know that if I spend my time pining for their younger years, I’ll miss the stage they’re in now. But the mother in me wants to stop the clock. So I console myself with the knowledge that I am blessed to have them in my life with a front row seat, to watch them grow.

My daughter is a beautiful headstrong young lady with incredible musical talents. Although she doesn’t like to hear it, she’s looking more like me each day. She’s starting to claim my clothes – old and new – and they look much nicer on her than on me. She acts much like me too. She has a definite mischievous side. But her smile, that attracts and disarms, lights up her beautiful young face. My son is a sweet, smart, young man with a wonderful sense of humor and deep empathy. Each night he asks me to sit with him before he goes to sleep. The conversation starts with, “How was your day Mamma?” Then we talk about books he’s reading, how he feels about life, his friends and yes, girls.

Still, this not quite adult but no longer a child stage is quite the challenge for me. While I embrace the young adults my children have become – it’s hard for me to let go of their hands. So yes, I’ll allow myself one night to cry. Quite honestly I’m not sure if they’ll be happy tears or sad tears, because my cherubs are now full grown angels.

(c) SeptemberMom2014

Seasonal Houseguests

19 Friday Sep 2014

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It happened most every spring. It started slowly and then took off like a brigade – an ant brigade. No matter what I did, they’d march into my house, across my dining room, into my kitchen, over my counters and quite honestly – they pissed me off, royally.

I tried everything to rid myself of the army onslaught. I strategically placed ant hotels – but they just enjoyed the stay. I researched ‘environmental’ and non-toxic ways to rid my home of the little warriors. I read hundreds of online suggestions and tried just about every one.

Someone suggested chalk. So I drew on my counters and walls where I saw the prancing army. Their inner GPS just re-calculated their direction. I sprayed them down with vinegar and water but they just enjoyed the swim. Glue ant traps only got my fingers stuck. Even worse, I imagined my cats stepping on the glue and all hell breaking loose.  So I tossed the traps immediately.

“Sprinkle cinnamon,” a friend said. But the ants only scurried away briefly.  And even though my house smelled nice, the floorboards looked like I’d swept dirt against the wall and into corners – yes, a chic dirt wood-floor look.

So frustrated and tired, I got an exterminator. I wasn’t happy about the chemicals even though the exterminator assured me they “were safe.” It was my last straw. I was tired. I was beaten. I was losing – to an army of ants. But it’s been two years now – and no spring houseguests.

Only now its Fall and as much as I love sleeping with a little chill in the night air, it seems field mice don’t. So I sit here and wonder if I’m on their hotel list this year. I hosted these seasonal guests two years ago. I can remember watching one dash across the living room floor with my cat in hot pursuit as I watched late night TV. And one day while working at my computer I heard one scurry under the refrigerator.

Although I feared the mice more than the ants, it was harder for me to consider a  mass murder of mice than that of the ant army – squashing them, swatting them, spraying them and wiping them out. I felt a little sympathy for the mice. After all, with the drop in temperatures outside they were just trying to stay warm.

“How many mice are in the house?” a friend asked, trying to help me deal with the little ones. “How should I know?” I replied. “They don’t wear name tags.” But no matter how many there were I feared the day my cats would catch their ‘little toys.’  I wasn’t looking forward to being on the recipient end of my cat’s gifts on my bed.

So first I tried ‘humane traps.’ Each morning I’d wake up and cautiously check the trap.  I was torn between wanting and not really wanting to find a mouse. Each morning the trap was empty.  It seemed the mice were familiar with that game.  But when one ran across my stove – the gloves came off. There was something about them being near my food prep / cook area that pushed me over the line.

I upped the ante. I got an real trap – inhumane, yes. Having read online that mice liked peanut butter I put a large dollop of organic peanut butter in the trap.  It eased my mind a little knowing that the poor unsuspecting mice would at least enjoy their last meal.  But still I felt a little guilty.

The next day I awoke to check the trap. Outside the trap door was tell-tale black rice, mice poop. But when I opened the trap there was no mouse – and no peanut butter. I was livid imagining that the mouse was having a good laugh at my expense. It had eaten the organic peanut butter and pooped by the door, basically telling me to go fu*k myself.

Realizing that I was dealing with a formidable opponent I tried one more angle – plug in devices that emit a sound the mice don’t like. Even though it said that we couldn’t hear it, I could.  But I didn’t care.  That was the last I heard from the mice.  It seemed too easy.  But it worked.  All was quiet – and stayed quiet.

A few weeks later I saw an exterminator truck driving down the block. I watched as it parked and the man waked up to my next door neighbor’s house. I guess the mice found a new home. Maybe the ants did too.

(C) 2013 SeptemberMom

698XNJ

12 Saturday Jul 2014

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I can still remember approaching that old beat up brown and tan Mercury Monarch. With its scratches and dents, 698XNJ would patiently wait for me, parked on 94th street under the old maple tree. Its motor running.

Inside it was warm on blustery New York winter days, cool on muggy summer afternoons and dry when the sky would cry. And there was you, smiling brightly as I pulled open its passenger door and jumped inside.

The aroma of freshly brewed java greeted me as you’d reach deep inside the crisp white bakery bag to hand me coffee – milk, no sugar. I’d hold the cup with both hands and sip slowly. Its warmth filled my body as I’d anticipate the black and white sugar cookies to follow.

For a few stolen hours every afternoon you’d be a child and I’d be a woman, as we’d lock out the world from inside our four door house. 698XNJ wouldn’t judge and didn’t care how others would view us. A silent accomplice to our love.

With an ashtray full of Marlboro and Tarrytown butts, 698XNJ would sweep us through the world in a protected environment. Part of the whole, yet apart from it all. Its aging tan leather seats would cradle us as we’d watch seasons change through two half moons on the windshield, speeding on parkways or just sitting at the airport watching planes in silence.

It wasn’t always silent. But 698XNJ would never tell. It would never spill our dreams to a world that would crush them with cold realities. It was tolerant of a relationship others would frown upon.

Sometimes our laughter would drown out its dashboard radio. Other times, when frustration consumed our thoughts, the sound of its gently purring motor would ease the deafening silence. Even when I’d slam its passenger door in anger, 698XNJ would return for me. Just as welcoming, just as understanding.

That old Mercury Monarch was there with us through it all. The good times, the bad. The beginning, the end. A good friend, a constant companion and trusted confident. 698XNJ was as much a part of our romance as you or I.

I’ve searched highways and interstates for 698XNJ. But Mercury Monarch’s are hard to find these days. And I’ve been in many other cars, but they’re just a means of transportation. If I’d only known that in no other car could I relive the emotions I experienced within the steel doors of 698XNJ, I might not have closed the door so quickly.

Father’s Day Fallout

21 Saturday Jun 2014

Posted by in Lessons, Life, Love, Uncategorized

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I think I’ve finally gotten over Father’s Day.  It took a week and a good amount of wine, but I’m glad it’s over.  At this age, and after the amount of therapy I’ve been through, you’d think I’d be past all this.  But I’m not.   

I’ve never been one for Father’s Day. I guess I feel like I’ve never had a ‘father.’ Sure there was the guy who lived with us, he put food on the table and a roof over our heads.  I wasn’t abused and I believe – or try to believe – that he did his best. But his best wasn’t anything near what the little girl in me needed. While other children’s dads doted over them, my father never hid the fact that he believe other children were better, smarter, more well-behaved. 

I’m well aware of how this affected my life. I spent early dating years with older men.  Then I realized what I was doing, began praying that I’d never marry a man like my father and to this day I question my judgement. No surprise, I never married.  Not even my children’s father. I like to tell myself that I just haven’t found ‘the one.’ But there are nights I lay awake wondering if maybe I’m just not good enough. Now, I’m old enough to know that I must take responsibility for my own life and move on. But it seems that no amount of therapy can change how I feel every Father’s Day. 

So my Father’s Day tradition is much different from that of many other people.  It starts in the card store while trying to find the perfect card.  One that’s not thankful for the support, love or example my dad set for me.  Tearfully I read card after card with Hallmark emotions I can’t relate to. If another customer catches my sniffle I casually brush it off by commenting how wonderful it is that writers can so beautifully describe  the love we feel for our fathers. Then I continue my search through the cards till I find the perfect one for me.  The one that just says, Happy Father’s Day. 

I wasn’t always this way. Way back in the day when I was still clamoring for his acceptance, I wrote an article for a magazine with quotes from celebrities about their fathers.  I closed it with a tribute to my own. I beautifully framed the piece and gave it to my father – sure it would be taken as the very special gift I intended it to be. It ended up in the garage before making its way to the garbage. 

Facebook made it markedly worse this year. I should have known better than to log on last Sunday. My heart broke with every post I read that gushed about who was daddy’s little girl, who was the best father in the world and how special dads made their children feel. Then there were the photos. The father daughter dances at weddings. Fathers walking their precious little bundles down the aisle. And the sad remembrances about dads who had passed – and were so missed. 

When my father passes, I’ll cry.  Not because he’s gone.  But because I’ll never have the chance to have the father I needed. The father I wanted. The one who made me feel special. The one who thought the sun rose and set on me. The one any little girl deserves.