60 is the new 40

When I turned on the TV yesterday morning, Today Show host Ann Curry was presiding over a segment called "60 is the new 40." First on was a 67 year old model, discovered at age 63. She's now working for Eileen Ford's modeling agency and living a most unexpected life. She said it was wonderful and looked very happy. I loved the color of her hair-- white-- but thought the style was pathetic. No way the Ford Agency would tolerate that hair on an under-40 model, but I guess they were relieved that she still had hair.

Next, Ann Curry interviewed Raquel Welch and best-selling author Gail "Passages" Sheehy. They both agreed that 60 is the new 40 and that the older model is bound to be very inspirational to aging women. Yes indeedy, I feel better already and know I'll sleep good tonight.

Raquel talked about, uh, Raquel. Sheehy trumpeted her new book Sex and the Seasoned Woman. My favorite moment of all came when one of them said-- are you ready for this-- "But getting older is about more than sex." I was overcome with shock and heard myself shouting at the television, "It is? Oh noooooooo!" In other words, I was profoundly disappointed. My mood did not pick up when Curry closed by inviting the viewers to stay tuned for a feature on depression. But I suppose I can rationalize that not only is getting older not just about sex, it's also not just about depression. Sigh.

I was ever-so-slightly impressed with a phrase spoken by Racquel. She seemed to be regreting her pattern of "living life on the surface" for so many years. Since she's presenting herself as an example of how good an older woman can look-- as opposed to be, for example-- I'm not sure she's much deeper than she's ever been. But perhaps she's trying, and that's all any of us can do.

The Zone

I spent a couple of hours Thursday playing with two of my best buddies. Their mother, who had a lunch meeting to attend, is also a friend of mine. I never know exactly how the boys and I will spend our time together, because I am definitely not the one in charge. What I can be sure of is that we will have fun and that I will learn something new. Learning something new is a very fortunate thing-- otherwise I might turn into an old fogie.

That afternoon we spent almost all of our time in the boys' bedroom. They had removed the couch and chair cushions and carried them from the living room to their room, where the cushions began new life as a tall tower. That this tower was quite wobbly and was being climbed upon by two wiggly bodies made me a little nervous at first (I imagined myself telling their mother when she returned, "I'm sorry, but they both crashed through the window and I haven't seen them since!"). As time passed, however, I relaxed and entered The Zone.

The Zone is a place where thoughts of schedules and obligations do not exist. In fact, I think they're banned. While in The Zone, my voice switches octaves easily and my body participates in activities that I Do-Not-Attempt-At-Home. Words like poo-poo are funny in The Zone. New ideas and scenarios flow seamlessly, interrupted only occasionally by a call from the bathroom ("Miss Ann, come wipe my bottom!").

We usually play with Sock Monkey, whom I bring from my house. Interestingly enough, I am the one almost always chosen (ie., ordered) to hold Sock Monkey and be his voice. The boys prefer doing things to Sock Monkey. In other words, Sock Monkey is a perpetual victim, doomed to yelping and whining about the unfairness of his plight and begging the boys to make things better for him-- which they invariably refuse to do. Nearly every toy in the house is brought forth to inflict some sort of torment upon poor old Sock Monkey. Thursday he was mashed by couch cushions. Even Lucy the cat was summoned to the bedroom in the hope that she would introduce her claws to Sock Monkey. Instead, Lucy was unimpressed with her potential role in our drama and quickly escaped to a-- relatively-- safe spot under the bed.

Eventually my time in The Zone must always come to an end. Mommy or Daddy arrives home to a joyful reunion, and Miss Ann climbs into her red Bug and waves herself away.

Worth the Wait

Today is my daughter's birthday. There's so much I could say but so little time to think about saying it. Her birthday is always that way, but surprisingly she has never blamed me for the poor planning! Years ago I wrote this piece during the Advent season, so I'll recycle it again.

The baby came two days after Christmas-- out to meet a gasping mother and a pale, shaken father. The baby’s face was unbelievably red and indescribably beautiful. She had been expected for several weeks. While her father had slept, her mother had walked. Down the hall, into the living room, around the Christmas tree, the mother plodded silently. The baby inside was silent but not still. Stretching, rolling, reaching, turning, she reminded her mother, I’m here, I’m here, I’ll come, you can wait. Her mother reminded herself, it will be worth it. Worth all this. Yes, worth it.

Was this really Christmas, the mother wondered as she looked out the window of an empty nursery. Lights blinked outside. Christmas for me will be late this year, the mother thought. But worth the wait, the baby, still spinning, told her.

Years later the mother learned what the baby was doing during their wait. A swimmer from the beginning, she was arching her back, ready to push off, waiting for a good start. A good start is worth the wait.

Christmas is a start, a good start. Worth the wait. Yes, worth it.

Stalled

A few years back, walking out of the ladies' room of an American department store, a British friend of mine remarked, "The doors to your toilet stalls are not fitted properly! There's a rather large gap!" That's true, but I'll take too large a gap over too small. Here's why:

Years ago a stall door closed so tightly that I couldn't open it when I was ready to leave. I really couldn't and I began to panic. Fortunately, there was another woman nearby washing her hands. Unfortunately, she was from Thailand and neither spoke nor understood much English. I was one of the English teachers in the class she was attending in the building.

Her name was pronounced Noy-nook, though I'm sure it was spelled differently. "Noy-nook!" I cried. "I can't open this door!" I repeated this several times as she struggled to understand. Finally she summoned all her English skills and shouted back (though there was really no need to shout-- we were only a few feet apart), "Turn latch! Turn latch!"

"I've already tried that!" She came closer and began pull on the door. No luck.

"Turn latch! Turn latch!" We repeated this exchange several times.

I felt like crying. I looked down and saw a small space between the bottom of the door and the floor. I was skinny-- and younger-- back then and decided I had to go for it. I began to bend down toward the floor, as Noy-nook continued to shout "Turn latch! Turn latch!"

I didn't get very far. The stall space was so small that I bumped my forehead hard on the door, on my way down. As I yelled "Ow!," the door flew open and I exploded from the stall.

Noy-nook smiled with relief. "Ah, you turn latch!"

Making Faces in the Psych Unit

Daughter #2 formed the face you see in the photo on the right. I don't remember where we were living, just that we were overseas and it was about 20 years ago. She brought it home and I was amazed. Never had I seen such a face. I wish I could remember how she described it at the time. Much later she recalled that the piece was not originally designed to be a face but rather a little bowl of some sort. Somehow she changed plans and pinched it into a human (?) image.

Clay is a remarkable thing and not only when used by artists. It's very basic-- just you and the clay. No paintbrushes, needles or knives are required. Not even a potter's wheel. Your fingers can roll it, squeeze it and punch it, and most of the time it feels good. Most of the time.

I spent a couple of weeks in a psychiatric unit when we lived in Germany. As a patient, I should add. At this point in my life, over 18 years later, the experience is filed under Been There, Done That, Glad I Did- Though It Was Awful. What my experience has to do with clay is this: A smug occupational therapist, in his daily session with us, assigned the task of making someone out of clay. The Someone had to be the person we hated most in the world and, consequently, blamed for our misery.

I remember being surprised that I was the only one who formed my own self-- sitting down, legs extended, head bowed, hands in pockets. My comrades-in-distress came up with: husband, boss, ex-husband of fiance, former friend, and parents. Then there was Victor.

Victor was on staff, a psychiatric technician or "psych tech." Which means the Air Force may have given him one hour of extra training on how to be with crazy people. Victor's mouth, when it wasn't making an inappropriate remark, was shaped into a permanent smirk. I loathed him. . . him and his blonde buzz-cut, wispy little mustache, macho posturing, and icy blue eyes. He was probably no older than 21.

As I was being urged by the therapist to explain my model, I heard snickers. To my relief, my new friends weren't laughing at me. They were looking at Victor and his creation. Victor had made a lumpy-looking dog. The dog was squatting. The dog was, yes, you guessed it, defecating. Victor was still rolling little turds. (I know that's a nasty word to use, but there's just no other way.)

I don't remember the therapist's reaction, if he even noticed. I just remember feeling a new bond with Victor. Yes, Victor, that's exactly how I feel about this stupid exercise and about life in general right now.

Victor secured his improved status with me by helping us order pizza, then organizing us into a band of leering idiots before the delivery person arrived. When the unsuspecting pizza man stepped hesitantly into our game room, our crossed-eyes, stuck-out tongues and wild grimaces awaited him. He hurriedly took our money and left.

As I said before, isn't clay amazing? And aren't faces even more so?

Holded

All my talk about hand-holding must have made me go mushy. You were already mushy, I hear some of you saying. Okay, fine, agreed, but sometimes I am more myself than other times. This morning is one of those times.

Do you ever feel incapable of self-care? Or, maybe, just tired of doing it? Years ago, when Daughter # 2 felt sad or needy or, more likely, was in some sort of trouble, she would throw her head back and wail, “I need to be holded!” She was about 3 or 4 years old and life could be difficult for a middle child. Her older sister bossed her and her little brother bit her. She prayed about it (dear-dear-God-help-her-not-to-be-so-mean-to-me-and-help-him-not-to-bite-me-so-much).

And when relief didn't come quickly enough, she'd go for being "holded."

I dreamed last night that we had a huge party at our house. Being a typical dream, it was a party I hadn't known about, hadn't planned and hadn't wanted. People kept streaming in, oblivious to my confusion. My family wandered in and out of the rooms, vaguely happy it seemed, yet not really helping me give this party. I so wanted to be somewhere else but I couldn't leave.

I think I needed to be holded.

I Wanna Hold Your Hand!

One of the main reasons I enjoy reading the New York Times is the quirky articles. By that, I mean that the Times-- and the Washington Post to some extent-- frequently explores issues that, at first thought, don't seem significant. But they are, and the Times reminds us of that.

Who would've thought, for example, that hand-holding merits serious attention? True, it is a relationship issue and a behavioral issue and a cultural issue. But it seems so minor. When I think of those kinds of issues, I expect to read about AIDS, or cohabiting, or sex education. Last week, however, the Times reported that the practice of holding hands is being studied.

I'm glad. Hand-holding is something I have experience with! On my first date many years ago, the boy I was with asked if he could hold my hand. How quaint, how sweet, you might think. But at the time I thought, How yucky. It's hard to explain my negative reaction, except to say that his asking took all the romance out of it. A few years later my husband-to-be didn't ask to hold my hand on our first date-- he just reached for it. Much better.

And I always loved holding my children's hands when they were young. I remember walking with my little boy in our small town in England, holding his gloved hand as we ran into a tea shop to waste time and stay warm while his sisters were having their weekly piano lesson. This won't last forever, I thought. Shortly after that, this same little boy was having a fight with his uncle as they toured Framlingham Castle. My brother-in-law instinctively reached for my son's hand. Castle walls can be dangerous places for children. My son was having none of it, and they proceeded to have their own battle inside the castle. (Having already been there several times, I was obliviously browsing in a nearby bookstore, though I may have heard some screams.)

I believe hand-holding is welcomed more often than resisted. Almost nine years ago my family lined up to be seated for my mother's memorial service. I saw my brother take my father's hand just as they began to walk up the aisle of the church. It was my dad's hand and not mine, but I felt reassured. We're together, we're all here for her.

And now studies tell us that holding hands makes us feel more secure and protected. Our brains really like it! I think I already knew that. But it's good to be reminded.

Group Hug

When it comes to something a group of people can do together that isn't illegal or immoral, nothing much can beat the Group Hug. I am absolutely, terrifyingly serious. I say "terrifying" because sometimes I realize I'm so needy it scares me almost to death.

Monday was such a beautiful day. Absurdly inspired, I once again decided heaven must be like a big front porch where you can sit a while, then run out and play like a child in the front yard, or maybe with a child in the front yard. The sun shining through the leaves felt so fine on my face that I almost threw my big unstylish sunglasses into the street.

I was driving around with my friend and we had some spare time between our scheduled activities. So we made a stop at her daughter's house and that's where my front porch reverie began. I felt awkward at first because I didn't know anyone but my friend. Different people kept coming out and going back into the house, and children who belonged to who-knows-who were running everywhere. Cats, some wearing collars and others obviously wild, were lolling all around, stretching and yawning. The ice cream man jingled by. I remembered I had my camera in the car, so I retrieved it and began taking the children's pictures. They shrieked "Cheese! Cheese!" before I even had it out of the case. The adults I didn't know began to laugh and so did I. I promised to give them copies of the pictures.

Our next stop was at the home of my friend's former son-in-law. He has custody of her grandchildren, a court-ordered fact that she finds it hard to forgive him for. She'd been telling me how he won't let her see the children and, in fact, she hadn't visited them since January. We drove by his house slowly. She saw his truck but didn't see the former son-in-law himself sitting in the front yard smoking. But I did.

"Why don't you try asking him if you can make an appointment to see the kids?"

"No! He might throw something at me."

I'd never seen this man act violently, so I persisted, "Ask very politely." I promised to circle the block but not leave her for long.

She got out of the car and began to walk up his driveway as I pulled away. I drove around the block slowly, waving at strangers who were outside enjoying the lovely weather.

When I pulled up again at the house, the ex-son-in-law waved me into his driveway, and my friend was already hugging a grandchild. Another grandchild was on his way out.

I had missed them, too. Even after the first hugs, the ten year old stood between my friend and me, patting us both. Finally, he put his arms around us and said, "Let's stand real close to each other."

I could restrain myself no longer. "Let's have a group hug!" I cried. The six year old ran over to join us.

We were standing in a driveway. But as I've prayed my thanks today, I've pictured us holding onto each other on a heavenly front porch. Absolutely, terrifyingly beautiful.

The Other Birthday Girl

Growing up, I enjoyed telling people that I was born on my mother's birthday. I didn’t know many others who could say that, and I liked feeling special. But really, that was almost my only childhood acknowledgement of her birthday. The fact that she was part of my birthday story made her birthday slightly interesting. But only slightly!

My paternal grandmother used to tell the story of how I once said to my mother: “Guess what? We have a surprise for you!” To which my mom replied, “What is it?” My enthusiastic answer: “We didn’t get you anything for your birthday!”

That story has not improved with age.

As I grew older, my mother and I cherished the occasional birthday we celebrated together. Usually we lived far apart. We would talk on the telephone, though, and tell each other about our day—what we had done, who we saw, how we celebrated.

And my mother always said, before we ended our conversation, “You were the best birthday present I ever got!” I can still hear her voice.

On her last birthday—when she turned eighty—she was sitting up in her bed in a hospital room as she laughed, talked and opened cards and presents. As a joke, we had signed the name of her quiet, humorless physician on one of the cards. She loved it. Smiling nurses wandered in and out of the room, sometimes leaning against the wall for a few minutes to talk. My mother said, “Everyone wants to be where we are, because we're having so much fun.”

I think all of us knew it was her final birthday, herself included, but I couldn't bear to think of it then. After being her favorite birthday present for so many years, how could I have imagined a birthday without her?

Now she’s gone and, of course, I miss her and what she said to me every September 8th. For the first several birthdays after she died, I didn’t want to celebrate. The other birthday girl wasn’t there.

But time and memory can re-ignite the imagination, often out of necessity. Now I can picture a special birthday card just for me. It’s from my mother. You can guess what it says.

The First September 1st

You’ve heard the expression, “She didn’t know what hit her.” That describes the beginning of my first labor pains—I didn’t know what was hitting me! By the time my husband and I had figured it out, we were glad the hospital wasn’t farther away. Several hours later the most beautiful baby in the world—up until that time at least—made her first cries. Her father and I fell in love with her at that moment, and we’ve never fallen out.

She looked so much like her dad that he and I both began to laugh when we saw her. The same chin exactly, with the dimple.

I was 23 years old, a baby myself, and my husband was only a few weeks older. We had been through childbirth classes, read books and listened to stories, but we knew nothing. I repeat, nothing. The Beautiful Baby began tutoring us, her sometimes reluctant pupils, on that September 1st.

We soon discovered that she enjoyed straightening us out. Her way was the only way! She took her role as Firstborn very seriously and would grow into it even more as her younger siblings arrived. She became counselor, teacher, disciplinarian, leader and—dare I admit it?—her mom and dad’s guinea pig.

Now she lives across the country, working at a job I can’t understand and doing things I can only marvel at. To me she’s still like her dad—beautiful blue eyes and determined jaw. The same unmistakable laugh. When I see her, which will probably never be often enough, I stare at her with the same longing, awe and aching love that I felt on that first September first.

I’ve heard that in some ways a child’s birthday means more to the parent than to the child herself. Who knows? Now that she's no longer a teenager, she might not welcome this date every year. But of course, I do. Happy, happy birthday, sweet baby.