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Steps.

3119 Howard St. 

 

My granny lived in an apartment building for most of my life. It was in the heart of San Diego on a plot of land that once was her home. At some point after she had lost two husbands my grandfather had the house razed and they built a complex--with just 6 units. She lived in apartment A and managed the others as her income through a long lived life. The tenants were known to her and she would tell me about them. I got to be friends with many as I spent many days with her while my mom worked. She was 73 when I was born and yet she’d take me everywhere around town--we rode the bus as she never drove. We would go to the zoo, Carnation for ice cream and more often than not to SeaWorld. We would watch the killer whale shows and she’d let me get as close as I wanted. When we would return back to her home she’d have chores for me to do--I suspect so she could take a break but I never remember her nap or show that she was tired. She would make afternoon coffee inviting the downstairs neighbor in. I’d sit with them and have coffee with mocha Mix and sugar cubes. There would always be cookies. At some point I’d be bored and she’d say it was time to do the stairs. I wonder now if she cleaned the stairs when I wasn’t there or if it was a job she invented to keep a precocious 4 year old busy . . . She’d fill a tub of water with warm soapy water and place it at the top of the cement stairs. There would be a sponge and I would get it wet and wipe the dirt off the stairs. As I swiped the way she showed me, I’d sprint back to the top and rinse the sponge, sprinting back down to do the next stair. When the water would darken we’d dump it out together--over the ledge. As I got older, I could carry the basin down to the stair I was working on and take it with me as I cleaned. Once all the stairs were wet--and I say wet because it was cement--they didn't sparkle--I could then turn my attention to the ornate handrail and railing. It was pink and metal and super grimy. It was where you could see your work progress. I never missed a spot and when it came time for her to review my work--she’d emerge from her 2 bedroom apartment that I can still picture in my mind and she’d smile and tell me it was a job well done. Did I want to do the backstairs too? I’d insist. She reminded me to be quiet as I worked so I wouldn’t bother Mr. Rosa in the back because he worked nights and was sleeping. I’d rush off to fill the basin. Years later the job was passed to my brothers and then she moved to a condo at the beach and we’d use the elevator to reach her. I imagine someone walking by and seeing a bright eyed four year old cleaning stairs now and what our minds would do. I imagine my own children and the chores I have them do. I wonder if they would find as much satisfaction in those cement stairs.

Raising boys

 There are all these sappy, sentimental things going around on the internet about saying goodbye to the parts of your child that are gone forever and embracing them for who they are now. Becoming the mom that they need today. Well, I’m not sure that is even possible. You see, my child, my children, are complex and hard. They are loving and smart. They are sweet and articulate, but they are not easy and in order for me to be the best parent I can be on any given day means drawing on the children they were. I have to remember the sweet hugs and notes left in my room when they are torturing each other. I have to remember staying up late reading in a fort when they are not turning in their homework. So, while I understand the desire to skip forward, I, instead, think about who we have become together. 

I want to think that their childhoods have been a picture that we look back on with fondness but I know there are just as many missed moments as happy memories. I am a realist and I want to remember their childhoods for those moments when I was less than stellar right alongside the ones that were made for Facebook. And as much as I know and want to do, I can only be the mom that I am today. We can only be the family we are today and most of the time, it is pretty amazing.

Just this morning my 9-year-old put on blue sweatpants with a red and black shirt while I was holding black sweats--dude, this will match better. To which he explained that he goes to school with other 9 and 10-year-olds and they do not care. At all. I handed him the black ones and retreated. He emerged for breakfast in the blue ones. And I drove him to school in my PJs, kleenex in hand because if they don’t care, why do I?

The sentimental will say that they want to remember the kid that slept like a champ and the toddler that gave sloppy kisses, the preteen that struggled with friendships and the teen that learned to embrace them. Unfortunately, that isn’t our story, but I still love my memories of raising up these crazy boys.

As we begin to say goodbye to the one that made us parents, I do have memories of the days gone by, regrets as well, but I know we did the best we could.

I do miss the little dude that I could carry around but who always wanted to do it himself. The one that could sleep like a champ, but too many times, we listened to cry it out while our cat sat at the top of the stairs meowing along with him because why were we just sitting there. He learned and even now sleeps like a champ. I can still sneak a glance at his sweetness while he is asleep if I don’t first trip on a week’s worth of clothes as I navigate his room. 

Why do some memories stand out more than others? Like the day when he was 6 weeks old and we were moving from Seattle to Duvall and all the people came to help but all I could do was weep. He in his bucket and me next to him. Something fell over and almost hit him in the head. I’m pretty sure it was a gun, in a case, but whatever, I was so stressed so I got in the car and drove with him and that cat, the three of us crying the entire way. Or the times when we would let him go to the end of the block on his own, then finally all the way around without us. I would race up to the back window to try to see him as he went. Then later when he would be gone for hours investigating the neighborhood in East Wenatchee with the twins--they were like 5 and 6, but we let them go. Or the time when he was too sick to trick or treat. Or the time that he became a big brother and his dad went to war.

My life is completely intertwined with that of my oldest child. Completely. I’ve spent more time with him in his 17 and almost a half years than I have with his Dad. To say that he is my person is an understatement. To say that his brothers aren’t would be a gross overgeneralization, but there is something about your first born. About our first born.

Today he is huge. Partially grown. Kind. Caring. Godly. And an absolute pain in the ass. He knows the exact right tone to use to trigger his brothers and me with just one statement. He knows how to roll his eyes before speaking that will set me off. He knows when to offer a hug and when to keep the space. He knows these things but he still doesn’t use them skillfully. But he will learn, he has a great example. I’m still learning.

So, no, I won’t say goodbye to any of the boys that he once was. And I will hold the memories close. I will continue to coach and guide and harass and set limits. I will be proud of what he has accomplished and I will worry about what he leaves undone. I know that I will miss him when he moves to Arizona in the fall, actually the summer, but until then I don’t mind that our lives are completely intertwined. I don’t care that we moved too many times for him to have actual real friends because we have accomplished what we set out to do--to make the family the core, the center point for who we all are. The five. It is always weird when one is missing but we carry on, we grow, we learn and we come back together better and stronger than we were before. I am excited for the next adventure with this kid.

And he speaks my language. He asked if I had written anything lately and when I said no, he said, oh. I think that when I’m gone you should write something each week and then I can call and we can discuss. REALLY? WHAT? OKAY? So, between you and me, Thatch, let’s get to it. 

So, Thatcher, what should we talk about . . . moving, being raised by wolves, girlfriends, politics, education, crazy stories about kids at school. Do I have a deadline? To the rest of you, join us--tell us what you think, what topics we should cover, and join us in telling your own point of view--pull up to the table, we will meet you there!

Paul (the lyft driver), a little fiction fun

 As Paul enters his apartment he is greeted by his small dog--a gift left to him by a girlfriend. He pauses--who was that? Was it Tammy? Valerie? No, must have been Angel because she was the one who always watched bachelorette and the Kardashians. She always wanted a purse dog, she said so. He had gotten this one for her and still, she left. He’d had thought she’d take the dob with her but she didn’t. He can’ remember why she left. Was there a fight? An argument? While he picks up the dog with all his matted hair, he snuggles her close and then sets her outside to take a break. Back then there were a lot of women and a lot of arguments. He always wanted to get married but he’d never gotten to ask anyone because he’d give up because there was always something wrong with them--they chewed with their mouth open, they interrupted him, they thought he needed to change or move or believe something different. Or they left--sometimes in the middle of the night or at least that’s what he thought then. 

His life is so different now. He wonders how many women he’s actually loved and how many were just because he was sad and lonely. He opens the door for the dog and she comes inside, sniffs her food and lies down on the couch. He grabs a soda and starts for the couch. He sets the soda on the counter considering if he needs the extra sugar before bed. He shifts the dog into his lap and joins her on the couch. As he looks at his hands holding her small body he suddenly feels his age. Where did these age spots come from?

Since he moved to Arizona he’s been in the sun more but he doesn’t remember his hands looking like this before. He goes through the day’s receipts on his phone and tries to see if he can picture each person that he encountered. He moved to Arizona from Birmingham two years ago and he’s been driving for ride sharing companies while also working for mechanics around town. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do when he got to Arizona but he knew he’d figure it out. He was resourceful, bright even--that’s what the teachers always said but he didn’t apply himself. He hated the teachers--who the fuck were they--how did they know what we was thinking? They sure never asked him. They would call home and he'd get whacked. No one at home asked him either.

His mom left when he was six--he remembers her shoes and the way the laundry smells after she brought it in from outside--she’d place it on his mattress and he’d roll around in the still warm clothes and fall asleep as he heard them arguing outside. He never asked why she left or how it made his Dad feel. It wasn’t until a few years ago after his time in rehab and then the AA meetings. He then started to wonder so he’d show up early to his DAd’s place before the drink took hold and he’d ask questions. He learned that they met in elementary school and their parents had been friends. He learned that his Dad had a younger brother who was cuter and more talented and two days before he was born, his Dad’s brother, his uncle, killed himself--he was a talented kid, an artist even, but in the late 60s in Alabama the economy didn’t need an artist so he learned about cars. 

Paul found out that his grandfather worked at the local college and the boys could have gone if they had wanted, but by then his dad had already messed around with his mom and she had gotten pregnant. By then his uncle, who he never met, had started to drink with his buddies and they say his brain got stuck. Even on the days he didn’t drink--it seemed like he had--they didn’t know when he’d be home or when he’d be gone for days. When Paul would go see his Dad, he’d go early because by noon the beer and the pain had switched his brain into the same off position as he heard had happened to his uncle. It was as if all the emotions were on a dial and his dial was stuck on anger. At that point there would be no more stories or understanding. He wouldn’t learn that his mom left because he had a breakdown and her family actually took her away and put her in a home. She had always been fragile but when her husband drank and got angry she would shut down. She never really left because even now in the home that they have paid for decades all she does is draw pictures of Paul at every age. He wouldn’t learn that the way his uncle died was not suicide but a horrible accident as he entered the freeway--there was a car already going the wrong way. While he was drunk, he was not at fault. He wouldn’t learn that his uncle was an amazing artist nor that he dreamed of painting his car. No, Paul, would not learn these truths because the opportunity to move to Arizona came and he left, it would be years before he felt ready to ask any more questions.

Paul now was a reformed alcoholic. He woke up one morning and realized that he was missing his life. He wanted something more. He had started to sketch pictures each night and was capturing the faces of the people that he had met throughout the day. It was an exercise for him to try to remember each person that he saw through the mirror of his Kia xx that had 437,000 miles on it. 

Today was different, the woman in the car, she mentioned something that struck a chord. She was interested in what he was saying. As he sketched her face, he thought about his mom, his uncle, his dad, the grandparents that died of heartbreak on both sides. He had shared with this woman in the car today about his uncle, about the art, about his desires to create something beautiful and she had listened. Tomorrow, tomorrow Paul would call his dad, he’d try to picture his mom, he’d consider the women in his life, but tonight he would sleep better than he had in years.

Scone Truck

Just now, Tim, my cute husband drove into Redmond to pick up some scones from the fair scone truck while I took another Zoom meeting. I’m anxious, I keep checking the family finder app to see if he made it. I look at Facebook. I’m a wreck and I can’t figure out why. I hear from a friend that he was spotted in line, the app says he’s on the way back. I take a deep breath and focus on the Kindergartener that we are talking about and yet I’m still distracted. I see him pull in while I finish up the call. As it ends, I race out of my chair to see if he has been successful. Yes, there are scones on the counter and I take a deep breath. Really, was I that hungry for a scone. I don’t know, what is going on?

I sit back down at my desk and take a bite. It is still warm. Delicious. And then it hits me. 

Ten months ago we saw the scone truck and stopped for it. We had a great adventure which ended with a bag of scones in the car and eating them while they were still warm. And that next day everything changed. Covid had struck for real. School was shutting down. Everything has been different. I lost my job. I lost my dad. We have lost our way. Everything that we used to accept as our normal is gone. I’m so sad.

Remembering back to that day, we weren’t perfect then and everything wasn’t great. My uncle had just died and we were worried about a pandemic but our lives had gone on. We were at a baseball tournament and we were laughing with our friends while others sat in all day meetings trying to figure out the next steps. I texted with those at the meetings and dreamt up what it all meant. 

A year ago this week, I sat at this very desk as we mourned the loss of Kobe and the implications of that loss. My brother’s wife was pregnant and we talked about my parents not being able to visit if the pandemic really happened. It was a different world with different worries, but somehow the same.

As I sit here today eating a warm scone wondering if I can sneak another without anyone keeping track, I think about all that we have lost and all that we have gained. Two friends shared with me this week that they are getting divorced. I told Tim that I’m so exceptionally glad that we are going through this pandemic together and how sad I am that others don’t have someone to share it with like we do. 

As I sit at my desk trying to get our 9 month old puppy to not eat my chair, I’m reminded of what a great addition he has been to our lives and how we wouldn’t have even considered him during our old life--too busy, too much travel, gone too often for baseball, too long during the day and yet, all of us can agree, he’s been the greatest addition to our family, the very best lining of this pandemic. 

I think of all the days I spent in San Diego this spring and summer and how we share pictures and messages now more than we ever used to. I think about how Uncle Bill and my dad would have loved Finley and how frustrated they both would be at how long this has all gone on. How broken it all is. 

Nothing is the same. And yet. 

As I look out the window I notice the tree that I’ve been staring at for 10 months and realize, it is all about to loop. Snow, maybe, there is still hope, but then spring will bud on the tree and it will be pink before it is green. I wonder when this is all behind us will we notice the warmth of the scone, the process of individual leaves growing on the tree outside our window, will we remember why we do the work we do, will we even be the same? Will we want to be?