Family – Page 5 – Don't Gel Too Soon

On the Arrival of a First Child: Thirty-five Years Ago

Two years ago I wrote this piece to honor the pending birth of a friend’s child. It’s about the first days after the birth of a first child. Yesterday marked the 35th anniversary of that birth – so, one more time, here’s the memory – with gratitude and love.

What an emotional shock it has been to write this. I need to start with that; the feelings, years later, are still there.

What an emotional shock it has been to write this. I need to start with that; the feelings, years later, are still there. Since this baby shower is for one of my favorite bloggers, and
friends, I’m grateful to be part of it. Our task is to share those lovely early
moments with our brand new children. That’s why I’ve added this – which
may be the most perfect photo I own because it says just what we all know.
The connection of a mother and newborn is so complete that it’s almost
impossible – even with writers as remarkable as this community — to describe.
At least I can’t find words that say what I know this photo says.

This is actually my second son, very soon after he arrived.
He’s 28 now and more extraordinary than even I, proud mama, could have imagined
that cold November day in Roosevelt hospital in 1979. He and his brother
both started off with beautiful souls though. They are beautiful still.

When I think of those early days, it isn’t all the getting up at
night (although it could be) and it isn’t that I had so much trouble nursing
that I needed to supplement (although it could be) and it isn’t the absolutely
perfect terror that I might do them harm that accompanied the first days of
their lives (although it certainly, indubitably could be.)

Nope. Here’s what I remember, and what I wish for the two
of you and all you other moms and moms-in-waiting: it’s a cold winter
night, maybe after about a week as the new parent of son number 1. It’s
dark, but out the window you can see the boats going up and down the Hudson
River (even though our windows leak so there’s ice on our windows, on the
inside.) You hear a cry and struggle out of bed, grab a robe, go retrieve
this new little person from his crib, change him and move with him to the
bentwood rocking chair (of course there’s a rocking chair) facing the window.
And you hold him in your arms and you feed him. The dark envelops you,
the dim skyline across the river in New Jersey is the only light you have,
except for the tiny pinpoints of light on the tug boats and barges as they make
their way. And it’s silent. Not a sound. And, with this new
life in your arms, you rock gently back and forth. The gift of peace of
those nights in the rocker was so intense that as I write this, I can feel it.
If I let myself, I could cry.

I remember watching my mother with each infant – can still see
her face as she responded to them, thinking to myself then “Oh.
This must be the way she was with me. How beautiful. How
beautiful.”

And I remember this. My parents came to us very soon after
our first son was born, helped put the crib together, celebrated with us.
Late one night, as I stood with our baby in my arms, my dad walked into the
room. Looking at the two of us, in perfect peace, he said to me “NOW
do you understand?” Of course I did.

Legendary Game Fable Previews #3 (ulterior motive, but you know that)

YES the first person on this video is one of my brilliantly talented, lovely sons.

Meryl Streep and “It’s Complicated” – As If We Didn’t Know That

Itscomplicated_4_1024

My posts seem to run in bunches. After
two meditations on marriage in the past month, here I am again.

It’s all Meryl Streep’s fault. If you know what it feels like when your kids run off together when you thought you were all going to dinner, or to struggle to remain your own person in a long marriage — whether it ends or it doesn’t, or just to be married for a long time and build a family with a partner – you know this story.

We went with another couple also married 38 years. It’s hard to describe the shared recognition, the warmth we all felt at the familiar moments on the screen – the rare family dinners with our adult children, continuing to learn and grow – together or apart, watching the accomplishments and weddings and occasional rages of each kid, accepting the fact that we’ve entered that part of life where they’re on their own – and so are we. Children grow up and earn their own lives, careers begin to ebb, and those of us who are blessed spend those years with one another. Or, if we must, search for and find someone else to ease the way.

It was all there, gentle, funny, loving and true. Like looking in a mirror. Oh – and lest you wonder whether a movie about a 50-something (or maybe 60) couple recovering from a divorce – in the torrent of high-profile films and stars, it’s in the top five for the holidays. It may be complicated, but loving it isn’t complicated at all.

Repost – Best of Don’t Gel 2009: Loving London

That old rascal Samuel Johnson told us that when we were tired of London, we'd be tired of life
I know it's summer when any city is inviting but this week is cool and
bright and breezy and London is full of British school groups and kids
from everywhere else too, and we have an apartment right in the middle
of Covent Garden (well NOT the market, God forbid, just the
neighborhood) and our older son and his new wife are only 40 minutes
away and we have friends here, too. So how could we be tired?

What you see here is the view from Waterloo Bridge (and yes that's St. Paul's Cathedral in the background.) This morning I went out and walked all along the , over where the trees are, then crossed a bridge just out of view on the right and returned via South Bank,
London's wonderful (relatively) new arts and museum area. My entire
walk was around three miles and I'm realizing that it's much easier to
do the walking when there are new things to look at, not just the old
neighborhood or, as lovely as it is, Rock Creek Park.

The wonder of a great city is that it's always changing, that even the most
trivial journey is full of surprises. On my way home tonight I came
across a group of teenagers – one of dozens of groups we've been seeing
ever since we got here. The reason they're all sitting on the sidewalk
is that they're exchanging addresses and spelling them out – different
nationalities, different spelling. Kind of an EU photo.

Of course there's lots else going on here. Huge waves of immigration, the
wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, what looks to me to be an appalling
amount of youthful alcohol consumption and unemployment all take their toll. There's something about the
place despite those issues though. The day after the2005 subway bombing that killed 52 people, Londoners got back on the train and went to work. They did that all during the Blitz as much of the rest of the world watched them face down Hitler almost alone.

Cities are supposed to change. That's what makes them exciting. Even so,
London has seen more than its share: waves of immigration that have
transformed it, an early history of wars and fires and plagues,
contemporary royal scandals and of course the "troubles" between
Belfast and the rest of Ireland and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
After all, who would have believed before it arrived to help celebrate
the Millennium, that there would be a ferris wheel right in the center
of town? They call it the London Eye to
make it sound fancy but it's still a ferris wheel, here in same town
that has a real live queen living in a real live palace? It's pretty
amazing.

I'm
thinking that while we're here I can try to get past some of what I've
written here and learn a bit of what it's like to truly live
here. It's got to be different from wandering around with no need to
be on time or face the traffic or crowded mass transit and infinite
numbers of tourists and, incidentally, deal with what appears to be an
enormous amount of alcohol consumption – especially by men. I'm hoping
to keep you posted as I make my way. I hope you'll come along.

New Years and Long Marriages: How Have We Done It?

It’s very hard to be married. This is no headline. But the Sunday New York Times on December 13th carried a piece by David Sarasohn; a meditation on marriage, moving from the first
lines: “I have been married forever. Well, not since the Big Bang but since the Nixon administration — 35 years — a stretch long enough to startle new acquaintances or make talk-show audiences applaud” to the last.

As you may deduce from the hair, we too married during the Nixon years, and we too are still together. We were married on September 12,1971 and have survived more than 38 years of complicated marriage about which I’ve written before. So why now?

Well, first of all because my husband asked me to write it. Just to see what came out, I think. How did we do it? How are we still doing it? Oh – and why have we bothered? We’ve seen friends split over much less than what we’ve faced, so what was different?

Here’s Mr. Sarasohn’s theory:

I am somewhat better with words than my wife is; she is infinitely better with people. In different ways, we translate each other to the rest of the world, and admire each other’s contrasting language skills. Being married to someone you respect for being somehow better than you keeps affection alive. That this impressive person chooses you year after year makes you more pleased with yourself, fueling the kind of mutual self-esteem that can get you through decades.

Not bad. I know we’ve been all over the world and I would never have had the nerve with out him; he is the one who was probably an airplane in a previous life. And that we met an extraordinary number of wonderful people because of the work he chose to do. And that he pushed me to write my book and never expected me to be anything but a working mom. And among psychoanalysts in Manhattan in the 70s and 80s that was pretty amazing. OH and he shoved and pushed and pulled me to spend money on myself once in a while, which was very hard for a girl from a Depression-scarred background. I know he’s got his own list for me as well.

Of course we’ve faced plenty of though stuff too. His chronic illness is a rotten burden and one that has colored much of our time together. And we’ve had professional and financial crises, and moved from Washington to Palo Alto to New York to another apartment in New York to Los Angeles to another house in Los Angeles to Washington and another house in Washington. We’ve had some challenges as parents and as partners, other health issues including open-heart surgery, loss of our parents and very tough moments even now. But leaving – that was never an option. We have many young friends who wonder at the
fact that we are still together and it’s one of the few times I feel a distance
from them. I’m so aware that it’s something you know more than you say, despite the beauty
and wisdom of the Sarasohn piece and despite my efforts here.

Once my dad told me that he was sure we’d never be divorced; we were both too stubborn. I guess that’s true too, but it takes more than that. We are never ever bored with each other. We share basic values that we’ve been able to pass on to our kids even though we may have
differed on the details. We trust each other. We have fun – and now, day-by-day, we share a history.

A collected set of joint memories is not a small thing. I always say it’s like quitting smoking – every day you accumulate increases the value of the commitment. Just this morning, listening to the blizzard weather predictions, I recalled an orange outfit we had bought our toddler in
Paris more than thirty years ago. “Remember the orange snowsuit we bought Josh in au Printemps?” I asked him. He smiled in fond recollection and said “Yeah, but it was Galeries Lafayette.” There are a lifetime of those moments.

That was, by the way, the same trip where Josh stared up at the Winged Victory of Samothrace towering at the top of the main staircase in the Louvre and said “pigeon.”

I’m telling you these small memories for a reason. The big things are cool too – watching a son get married, fancy parties with high-profile people, trips around the country and around the world. But within and surrounding the gigantic are those moments that make a marriage,
tiny and still; a quiet loving word from a son, or the sharing of a meal he has prepared, the deck of a beach house while the sun goes down, wonder at a great performance or a great meal shared. For the two of us, 38 years of those trump the aggravation and the stressful moments.

Frighteningly, I’m about to turn the age I always thought a subject for humor – after all, there is even a song.

When I get older, losing my hair,
Many years from now.
Will you still be sending me a valentine
Birthday greetings bottle of wine?

If I’d been out till quarter to three
Would you lock the door?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me,
When I’m sixty-four.

We knew each other when this song was still part of FM rotation – when we counted our ages in fewer than half those years. Between then and now, more has happened than I can describe – both in the “outside world” and in our home. And I know the answer to the question. Yes – from me and from him. When we’re sixty-four and, God willng, long after that.

Sisters and Aunts and Daughters and Nieces and Holidays

Thanksgiving always makes me think of the people who are missing.
By now that's almost an entire generation: my parents, aunts, uncles
and grandparents. We all came together at our house. As the oldest
cousin, I got to help in the kitchen and set the table. Sounds lame but
it felt very grownup. Not that that lasted for long. Over the years
we went from three to six to nine cousins, producing plays to perform
after dinner, playing Sardines and Murder, telling secrets and wreaking
civilized havoc.

My favorite memory, though, was time with the sisters: my mom and my aunts.
One lived nearby but the other came with her family from Cleveland so
when they were all together they wanted to talk. They'd sit in my
parents' room for ages; they let me hang around too. In a way, all of
us gathered on the bed those afternoons, and later in the kitchen after
dinner, washing dishes, is women passing along stories and traditions, preserving the wisdom of
the tribe.

I had no idea then of the value of those times. It
wasn't just being treated like "one of the girls," it was the sisterly
warmth, the laughter and sudden emotion, eye welling up, when one aunt
spoke of living so far from "home." Now, probably 50 years later, I
can see her leaning against the wall, her sisters looking toward her
with understanding sympathy. I can hear them talking about their
parents, my grandparents, one difficult, both disappointed with their
lives. For a little while, the burden of worry lifted a bit as they
shared it.

They were part of what is literally another world;
hats and gloves, scars from the Depression, government service during
World War II, an abiding sense of appropriateness. Like Betty Draper,
they left careers to stay "home with the kids." Their lives were so
different from ours, constrained and regulated — lives that many
daughters went to work to insure against.

What we forget is
that, even then, there was sisterhood. Maybe it wasn't as powerful and
certainly it wasn't as organized, but for me it still modeled a
solidarity, loyalty and love of the company of women that I still
cherish. And it's so exciting to see us all now, taking that example
along with the many farther afield, to enhance our larger community –
still a family of sisters – from one end of the Internet to – well – to
the whole wide world.

Cross-posted at BlogHer

The first time I ever heard Peter Paul and Mary I was 15 and spending the summer at a writing program at Exeter Academy – the first year they ever let “girls” into the school at all. I remember loving Blowin’ in the Wind, If I Had a Hammer and of course, Puff. I remember visiting another student’s home in Concord where her older brother, already in college, told me that the three were just “popularizers of Bob Dylan songs” and scornfully complaining that I should be listening to Dylan not them. (I didn’t find Bob Dylan until later – junior year, I guess.) I thought he was nuts To me, Peter Paul and Mary were an introduction to music that was about things I cared about: civil rights, war, peace and love — from a more political perspective.

From then on, through high school, into college and “out into the world” Peter Paul and Mary held a special place in my life. We seemed to cross paths often. We played their music all the time, of course. My sister and I saw them at a summer concert in Pittsburgh (my long-suffering mom driving us, of course.) I remember watching them sing at the 1963 March on Washington, and later seeing them at Wolf Trap with a blind date. And, most profoundly, I remember seeing them quite literally, save lives in Grant Park at the Democratic Convention in Chicago in 1968. Hordes of demonstrators were coming over a bridge into the part of the park right outside the Hilton. There had been trouble, lots of trouble, for at least days and this would be another terrible confrontation. Then, from nowhere, Peter, Paul and Mary started to sing. The demonstrators slowly converged around their platform, diverted from certain misery. It was quite a thing.

Here’s what else I remember. Mary Travers herself, who died today. She was a powerful model: not just her deep, resonant voice but also her powerful, sure presence, on stage and off. She was brave and funny and looked amazing. We all knocked ourselves out trying to have straight hair like hers: ironed it, slept with it wrapped around orange juice cans. She was a powerful presence.

Of course, part of her power, and that of Peter and Paul was their commitment. Where they were needed, they came. Civil rights marches, peace marches, the McCarthy presidential campaign” even regional and local union struggles. It was a signal to the rest of us: if we can show up, so can you. And we did. As another friend wrote to me tonight: “I just saw the news story. Can’t believe how much of our history was tied up with them.”

Making my way out of my office, thinking about writing this, I started singing to myself: “Leavin’ on a Jet Plane.” But I couldnt finish. I was close to tears. It’s happened so often this summer – icons of my life fading from view. Teddy Kennedy, Walter Cronkite, Robert McNamara, Don Hewitt, Ellie Greenwich, Patrick Swayze just yesterday, and now Mary. Each representing so many lives; so many memories.

I keep writing here because somehow I don’t want to stop. This ought to do it, though. (The other guy is John Denver)

Category: Family

On the Arrival of a First Child: Thirty-five Years Ago

Legendary Game Fable Previews #3 (ulterior motive, but you know that)

Meryl Streep and “It’s Complicated” – As If We Didn’t Know That

Repost – Best of Don’t Gel 2009: Loving London

New Years and Long Marriages: How Have We Done It?

Sisters and Aunts and Daughters and Nieces and Holidays

So You Say You’re Married, Eh?

Anti-Aging Clinics, Short Sleeves and Chocolate – Hit Blogging Boomers Carnival #139 and See Why

When Kids Grow Up: Their Landmark Birthdays and Mom’s Heart

Memories of Peter, Paul, and Mary Travers