Growing Up Is Hard to Do

“They say that growing up is haaard to do/now I know/ I know that it’s true…”—what Neil Sedaka almost wrote. A few days after my first child, Max, was born, my mother came to visit. Looking down on her grandson’s bald, red cone-head mom said this to me. “Now I can stop worrying about you. You’re a grown up.” To be honest, her comment baffled and insulted me, which is why it probably stuck with me all these 28 plus years. To my mind, I had already been a “grown-up” for years—since I was at least 16—quite capable of taking care of myself thank you very much.

Now that my babies are 28 and 26, I know what my mother meant. My grandmother had a saying to explain how mother love changes through the years: “When they are little they step on your toes, but when they are big, they trample your heart.” No matter how grown up our children may look, in a mother’s mind they are her babies to worry over and protect. But for how long? We mothers can tell ourselves to let go and let them do and be. We can tell ourselves they are their lives to live, their decisions to make and live with, but saying it and doing it are two different beasts.

I just received the following e-mail from my son. The subject line read: “Doris blew her Radiator.” Doris is Max’s name for our Toyota mini-van which he has decked out for camping and decorated with bumper stickers, thus laying claim to it (actually, while the title  and insurance may be ours, I guess that “our Toyota” should read “his” Toyota).

“i was about 70 miles east of encampment, climbing up the pass, and the radiator went.  I had it towed in to the cabin, because it is memorial day, and I'll have it towed to the Laramie toyota dealership for them to diagnose tomorrow.  I have only used 1 of my 4 AAA uses so far, and it reloads in august.  Tell me what you'd like me to do.

Love, Max”

It’s happened. Sometime between Max’s last emergency/disaster/situation and this e-mail, I did it! I let go! Upon reading the note I felt sorrow. I felt my bank account shiver as the dollars it would take to repair Doris flew out (shouldn’t “his Toyota” translate “his bill”? But my gut didn’t wrench, my heart didn’t heart, mother’s guilt didn’t ooze from every pore— “oh, I should be there, he needs me, what if something bad happens, I better call him, make it better, fix everything or better, badger him until he fixes everything exactly the way I want it” the way it always had before.

It feels good. Really good. I’m finally—at least, today—the kind of mother I wanted to be when I grew up. (Growing up, as it turns out, is elusive.) I’m feeling puffed up proud, and confidant that Max, is grown up enough to take care of this situation, and I’m grown up enough to sit back and let him.

Thanks Cynthia For Asking...

May 21, (Serendipitously the birthday of my honey, the best step-dad, Curtis) Cynthia Leitich Smith posted my guest blog "Kelly Bennett on Celebrating Fathers: Daddy, Father, Pop, Son, Shel, Cash and Cole." In asking me to write about what inspired my 2 new picture books, Dad and Pop, illustrated by Paul Meisel and Your Daddy Was Just Like You, illustrated by David Walker, she challenged me to undergo a little psychotherapy. Here's the link to my guest post. And whatever you do, don't stop there--Cynthia's website, Cynsations is as rich and luscious and smart and funny as Cyn herself! Indulge!

Just Who Do We Think We Are?

Anyone living in the USA whose ancestors weren’t immigrants raise your hands? Only Native American’s, First Nations People, should have a hand up…and then only pure bloods. My American heritage dates back about 150 years, post Civil War, post slavery. (I like that part—it’s nice not taking blame). My father’s family came from Sweden and England, and were part of the Western Expansion. (Indian Relocation? Guilty). My mother is of Portuguese ancestry (with a little Scot-English we like to pretend never happened). Our Portuguese ancestors came here from the Azores in ships much like Columbus’s Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria, small, crude, wooden. The ships sailed around the Horn—Cape Horn, the tip of South America, a journey called “a great challenge” by sailing aficionados—stopped in Hawaii and finally arrived in San Francisco Harbor. Immigrants who traveled this route were called “Green Horns.”

My grandfather’s mother, her husband and children left the Azores in the late 1800s. Long months later, my grandfather’s mother was the only one in her family to step ashore. Her husband and children died during the crossing. A “green horn,” alone, poor and grieving, she took the best job she could get, doing laundry. She remarried and had one son, my grandfather, Joseph Thomas Silva, born in America.

When I was 8 or so my grandparents were visiting and my step-father, having recently joined the Elks Club, proudly took us to his Club . As Elks do, the men got to comparing how long they had been members. My grandfather, also an Elk, pulled out his card. The man he was talking with whistled. “Wow! You’ve been a member a long time,” he marveled.

My grandfather looked at him. “I would have been a member longer, but back in my day, you wouldn’t let my kind join.”

My grandfather’s story is far from unique. If you’re descended from recent immigrants, you may know first hand how hard life is for anyone coming to America who does not speak American English with a USDA approved accent—aka one traceable to a southern, northern, Midwestern or eastern state—or  broadcaster bland. Others, like me, look back through American history, through your own family history. You’ll uncover layer upon layer of injustices and difficulties new immigrants endured before finally being accepted as Americans. Sure, we love, love, love having “them” --African “them” to plow our fields,  Chinese “them” to build railroads, Italian “them” to build our cities, Mexican “them” to harvest, clean, sweep, paint, garden, do all the “dirty jobs” we don’t want to do. But who do they think they are wanting citizenship? That may have been our ancestors’ right, but its not theirs…

What about that statue in New York Harbor, Lady Liberty, officially “Liberty Enlightening the World”? Should we sandblast the words off the base of her statue: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses?” Or paste a new sign over it: Only the wealth, white, and those under “work/study contracts" from Eastern Europe need apply, the rest of you immigrants—especially those of you already living and working and paying taxes here—shut up, do your job then get out. History be damned, the good old US of A is Full Up so Get Lost…

The Longer, Winding Road

With regards to making my way around, after five years living in Jakarta, I thought I had it figured out. Feeling quite capable and confidant about riding in a taxi--many of our friends take taxi’s everywhere—I had Sugiman, our Friday driver, drop me at the SOS Medical Clinic, and continue on his way to the airport to meet our friend, Justus’s flight. Justus and his sister Trinity are visiting us for a few weeks. While they are here, we are flying to Kalimantan where we’ve organized a weekend-long boat trip to view the orangutan in the wild. Although malaria is not much of a risk, the trip organizers suggest participants take malaria prevention medication. As expected, I zipped into the clinic, and a half-hour later zipped back out, Malarone in hand, and asked the car-call attendant to hail a taxi.

Blue Bird is the preferred Taxi company in Jakarta, because the drivers are supposed to be trained and know their way around. Borrowing on Rick’s line from Casablanca, of all the drivers in all the taxis in all of Jakarta, I had to get the one driver who didn’t have a clue where I wanted to go.

In basic, gramatically incorrect but servicable Indonesian, I rattled off my street, nearby main roads, the neighborhood, even Pasar Mingu, a large traditional market near my home (which every Jakartan knows well. It's like saying at the base of the Eiffel Tour in Paris). He shook his head at every possibility. Was he saying no, that he didn't understand me? Or no, that he didn't know those places?

“Ask the guard,” I suggested, pointing out the window to the main opening the clinic gate.

The driver looked back at me, “Where is this place?” He asked. He didn’t know where he had picked me up?

“SOS Medical Clinic” I said. I felt my eyebrows rise and tried to keep the duh…out of my voice.

He nodded, and then asked the guard something, but whatever answer he got, it was not satisfactory.

“Tidak apa apa,” I said, “no problem, I’ll call my house. My maid can tell you where I live.” So I pulled out my handphone, called Rusnati, and asked her to  give him directions.

The driver pulled the taxi to the side of the road, took the phone and listened for a second before turning back to me.

“What road is this?” he asked.

Needless to say, it was a longer, winding road home...

What Kind of Excuse is “Too Busy”? or If Only Thoughts Transmitted…

I am disappointed. After committing to posting a blog entry every week, and faithfully keeping that commitment for more than a year, I dropped the ball. Not just once and not with a good reason—“good” meaning the Internet crashed or I did.  What’s my excuse: I’ve been too busy… How busy have I been? I’ve been so busy Kelly’s Fishbowl was booted from my list of “most visited” internet sites. That’s disgusting. How can I expect anyone else to remain faithful to my blog if I can’t even do it myself?

Those unblogged postings belong on a list along with letters I never wrote, calls I didn’t make, stories I never finished, revisions I didn't make, friends I didn’t keep up with.... It’s not that I haven’t thought about doing these things. Oh the things I have thunk! If only the head letters I’ve written and head chats I’ve held could be transmitted… Unfortunately (or fortunately) these mind writings and chats usually take place while I’m driving or waiting somewhere away from my computer, however never far from a pen and paper, as I always keep those in my purse. But, I get carsick if I write in a car, the economy section on a plane is so tight that I’ll gut-elbow the passenger next to me if I try to write on the plane or pull out my computer. Yes, I could have opted for the smaller size laptop. Yes, I have tried talking into a tape recorder while driving. No clue how those road stories and letters turned out as I have never transcribed them—I can’t stand listening to my own voice. The excuses go on….

You know the adage “if you want something done, ask a busy person to do it?” I’m one of those busy people. Aren’t we all? Busy as I am, I seem to be getting done only “what’s expected” i.e.: the things others (except my husband) ask me to do, and things others  tell me are important. Isn’t that how it is with so many things? We stay really busy doing what we should, so busy in fact that we are often too busy to do what we want. Never mind what we promise ourselves (or our husbands) we will do.

Take writing, for instance. During the two years I worked toward a Masters Degree in Writing for Children and Young Adults at Vermont College of Fine Arts, I committed to 25 hours a week of work on the program. During those hours, and more,  I read copious books and maintained a summarized biography, wrote at least 20 pages of new work and 20 pages of revised work, along with an essay (or the equivalent) every month. Many things got in the way of my completing my monthly packets, but somehow, someway, I found the time to do the work. Illness, travel, family issues, surgery, moving…baaahhhhhh, I was never too busy. Upon graduation, I said to myself: “Self, you’re used to this schedule. You like it. You’re happy when you are writing, reading, creating…so stick with it.” But did I?

These missing blog entries are a prime example. I love writing the blog. When events in my Jakarta life stir me, I can’t wait to blog it. Blogging allows me to consider issues and vent.

(Boy howdy, if you could have read the blog I thought while watching the anti, anti-immigration law protest in New York last week…)

But you can’t, because I only thought it. To paraphrase my friend Beverly: “spit in one hand, think in another, rub them together and what have you got?”

Until they do connect thought transmitters directly to my brain, as depicted by M.T. Anderson in his book Feed, I need to get really busy pleasing me.  So, I’m renewing my vow:  I here by commit to unbusying myself enough to do more than only think it; I’m going to write it.

Tra-La, It's Here, That Lusty Time of Year!

"It's May, It's May....the lusty month of May/The time of month when everyone goes blissfully astray....It's time to do a wreched thing or two/And try to make each precious day one you'll always rue..."--from CAMELOT,  Music by Frederick Lowe, Lyics by Alan Jay Lerner.

This is a gloroous weekend!  Isn't it grand when spring blooms!!! NYC is fabulous! I'm visiting my daughter, Lexi. We spent the day day walking around, shopping, looking at people in all manner of costume, eating...such fun! We even stumbled upon a bunch of merry makers hoisting a ribbon and flower festooned May Pole. Loved it!. You can smell life in the air! Love blooming! Everyone and everything growing, streching up to the sun...love that! We are having an al fresco dinner in her tiny Soho apartment with the windows open and the music playing. The neighbors downstairs have pointed their computer/tv to the wall and are projecting car races on the side of the building. I am heading outside to sit on the fire escape, drink a glass of wine and enjoy! It's May, It's May...a Lively Lush Display!

Come on... Fluff Up! Spruce Up! Perk Up! It's spring....time of rebirth, regrouping, revitalizing... The time of "Yes You May!" Make it your YES YOU MAY!!!

I am saying Yes!....yes, Yes, YES!!!