Alas, all good things must come to an end.....

I'm not a summer person. Never have been. In fact, when temps get above 85, I'm bitchy. When we manage a heatwave, I tend to get profoundly depressed. I'm ugly in the summer: shiny face, flat hair (that is always worn up), unattractive clothing - the list goes on. Its not my season. Period.

I had big plans for the summer, much of which I pulled off. Yes, I would have liked to travel more, but don't we all. Where the time actually went, I don't really know. And I find myself not looking forward to school starting for Nico again. She is ready. Believe me! I think she's so tired of me, she could scream. But the school year is hard and I still feel like a novice at it. Thank god she only goes for three days!!

I enjoyed my summer with the Muffin Queen. We had a lot of adventures. And I intend to keep up those new experiences throughout the year! But this summer was hard for me, personally. I struggled desperately with feelings of isolation, suffocation and just plain ole being trapped. I feel like I operated as a single mom SO much this summer. I hated it. And hate doesn't really describe how much I hated it!! While my child is my favorite person in the world, I need the safety of my own sanity and soul to keep me afloat.  Without me, there is nothing.

So. This fall we make a change. A BIG change. Granted, I will shed a tear or two when I drive away from that first day of school on Monday. But that first day will be the first day of forever! I'm going to start running. I'm going to finish my bloody textbook! And I'm going to finish putting myself back together! This is going to be the Fall of Lori (akin to the Summer of George - for you Seinfeld folks). Change is good.

Away for the Night....

So, tomorrow night, I'm going away to spend a night in New York City - with my friend, Nancy. This is only the second time (the first being purely accidental) that I have spent the night away from my child. And, I have to tell ya, I am blown away by my ability to deny, compartmentalize, and avoid any feelings about it!

Frankly, I'm kind of proud of myself for being able to actually be excited about going. I'm such a control freak that the idea of my husband preparing meals, doing the bath and bed time routine...well, it should be creating a bubbling foam of anxiety/indigestion in my stomach. But you know, its not. I know Nico will correct him on anything she doesn't necessarily like or want. So no biggie there. And if I leave explicit directions with him on how to cook her meals, again, things should be fine.

Perhaps I'm a little disappointed that I'm so okay with it. Let's not kid ourselves, I do NOT give up control very easily. I mean, I'm a nightmare to work for because of my control issues. And yes, I do approach the running of the house as I do the management of a multi-million dollar construction project. Its speaks volumes for our babysitter that she's been with us as long as she has been. I've only kept ONE secretary longer than her. And the other babysitters we've had...well, none have lasted more than three months. Seriously. I'm psycho about the way people should perform that work for me. Poor Bob.

But I'm magically not worried. The way I see it is that what happens with Bob and Nico when I'm not here (as long as no one gets hurt) is their business - a Daddy and daughter business. I think all will go well. As long as she DOES go to sleep. I will be trying desperately not to feel guilty as I walk around unencumbered in New York City and sleep an uninterrupted sleep. I will miss my daughter terribly - but I will be home the next day, of course. What I think I fear most is that I will like it - a LOT! But then, I feel guilty for typing that.

Bottom line: it will be weird. I'll probably sleep like hell. But...Oh man. I can't wait.

Damned freedom problem again....

After my last post, a dear friend told me that I needed to blog more - that its good for me. Well, she's right. So, here goes: a sample of the torment in my brain right now. Be careful what you wish for, Nancy.

I own my own company. Its an architectural conservation firm that specializes in the conservation of North American architectural wood . The ailing economy has hit the field of architectural preservation pretty hard. No. That's an understatement. It has DECIMATED my field. I haven't had a call for a project in over a year. Its bad. As a professional woman, that spent a LOT of money on her higher education at Columbia, I NEED to work. I'll admit it: it validates me. AND, I like the money - and I made a lot of it. However, I've learned to roll with this a little. You know...don't get into that scarcity mentality too much.

I have made it known in a very casual way (to many colleagues) that I would give my right arm for a teeny tiny part-time gig - like 8 to 10 hours a week of conservation work. And nothing has turned up. Nothing.

And then, in the past 6 weeks, I have received requests for my resume for a job in Berlin, one in Italy and - my dream job - the Antarctic, working on Shakleton's hut. Oh-my-god, this is killing me! I had another email today asking if I would be interested in a 6 week assignment in Brazil? Really?! Seriously?! I can't do it. I can't. Its choking me. Suffocating me. I know opportunities like this will come again. And the Buddhist in me believes that I'm being tested. But crap! This isn't fair! Shoot me now.

Many of you know that I am the primary care giver of my kiddo. I run our house, now, like the master project manager I was before child. Without me, lord knows what would happen. Seriously. I have been a supportive partner in letting my husband's career take the driver's seat over mine - due to the economy. And let's be real, I'm not a person inclined to major upheaval: moving my kid to Europe isn't my style. She has a good school, amazing teachers, friends, a new big-girl bed! And the Antarctic, well...that's really out of the question - much to my chagrin. If you can't finish something, don't start it...I've always said.

But I'm choking on all this! I can't stand having a problem I can't solve. And THIS is a whopper! I know its just a few more years and I can travel more freely with my kid. Until then, I am totally preoccupied with the overwhelming stifling nature of being a stay-at-home mom! At times, I feel I will do something drastic! What? I don't know. But I would almost welcome anything to break up this monotony! Its horrible!

On the other hand, my child thrives in the constant stability I provide her with. She has confidence and security that I can't sacrifice to my own "selfish" (okay, I don't really believe its selfish) impulses. But the whole world beckons! Its there! Taunting me with its possibilities! When will the torment end?!!!

Maybe its the Spring. Damn.

Me, hanging off the facade, eight stories up, of a cast iron building in Soho, NYC

You can't see me, but I'm on one of those rigs, hanging off the Empire State building.

Ode to Jeannette

My grandmother died on April 14^th at the age of 90.  And let’s be specific: my father’s mother (because my mother’s mother is a whole different can of worms!) She was my Mawmaw. I was the first grandchild born and this is the name I gave her and it stuck for all the other grandchildren. This woman was the kindest, sweetest, dearest person to me throughout my entire life. I didn’t have a very good childhood. And my summers, left with my step-mother, were nightmares – until I would go to my grandmother’s in Houston for weeks at a time. She was a super woman, filled with wonderful stories that I never, ever tired of hearing. She was my savior in so many ways. And it was from her that I was always called Cinderella.

As a mom of one, solitary child, I think of my Mawmaw often with the three children she raised on a tiny budget that my grandfather eked out to her. But even more significant was HOW she ran her every day. I can’t know what things were like with the three children. I do know that when I spent summers with her, she was constantly moving, in addition to teaching me how to knit, sew, cook, crochet.  Her schedule went pretty much like this:

Get up at 5am to cook my grandfather breakfast. Clean the house (which was ALWAYS immaculately clean), do laundry. Fix me breakfast when I got up around 9:00. Do more laundry, go the grocery store, meet with a customer (she sewed on the side). She would then fix us lunch – a lovely meal that I still have fond memories of but have yet to replicate in its loveliness. After lunch, she watched her "stories", sewed a little, painted (she painted tiny oil paintings) before my grandfather got home at 4:00. Then, she put the towels out for my grandfather’s shower (at 4:00) and would have dinner – complete with dessert – ready for us at 5:00. On the dot, because Pawpaw liked to watch the news while he ate. After dinner, she would do all the dishes, sit down and knit/crochet for a few hours, go to bed and read until 10:00. And then get up and do it all again the next day. I am not exaggerating in the least. This was the schedule. Every. Day.

My grandfather made a decent living, but it wasn’t huge. They were not well-off people. But they traveled – something she loved terribly and always yearned for more. And clothes. She loved beautiful clothes and would often try to copy what she loved with her own patterns.

As the mom of one – ONE! – child, this is amazing. I don’t know how she did it! That house was SO clean. All the time! How can I ever complain about anything?! This woman did not complain. She was hard core. And I constantly try to keep my life in perspective when compared to hers. She had an 8^th grade education and came from a poor family. She was married around the age of 18 to an older man who died shortly after they were married. She then moved back home. My grandfather married her as a flirtation to supposedly piss off his own family – she came from the wrong side of the tracks. And so it stuck for almost 50 years.

She taught me important things about men: never go to bed with torn or ugly nightclothes. Men don’t want to see that. Always consider yourself fortunate if your husband is kind and smiles and loves you sweetly – so many men don’t. Dismiss their shortcomings if they provide these things because that’s what matters when you’re old – not how many chores they did. Keep a man if he makes you laugh. Keep a man if he tries.

My grandmother liked Bob for these reasons. She boiled things down to the simplest truth. It wasn’t about material possessions. It wasn’t about words, but actions. And she saw that Bob pulled his weight in this category. Whenever we would go through a bad patch, I would ask her advice and she would say, “But sweetheart, do you love him?” And that was my answer.

I will miss her terribly, but I hold her close in my heart. She’s always there. And always will be. I have treasured all the things she has given me because she knew how important the legacy of family is to me – because I have so little. I know from where I came because she filled in the blanks and made it all come to life. I knew the day would come when she would pass. It was inevitable. But you’re never ready and you certainly aren’t prepared to accept it. This post only touches on a few of the great things she did for me growing up. The list is too, too great to write.

I love you, Mawmaw.

With my father, when he went into the Army.

With her older sister, Rhea, who she deeply admired and found strength in.

While many say I look just like her, I never looked this good.

With my Pawpaw, whom she loved despite everything.

With my father, in 1950, in Crowley, LA during a rare snowfall. My dad was six.

And here, pinning my father's Eagle Scout award on him. She was desperately proud of my father. Always.

The Freedom Problem with Perfect Moments

I've been reading this book that a friend lent me: "Just Kids" by Patti Smith. Its about her relationship in the early 70's with Robert Mapplethorpe. She talks about all the places in New York City that I caught the tail end of when I moved there. Its a fantastic book - I recommend it highly - and although I haven't finished it yet, its evoked a number of things for me about my own youth.

I openly admit that I have, what I call, a freedom problem. Its dogged me since I was a teenager living on my own in Italy and Austria. Its related to the intimacy-problem-don't-tie-me-down issues I have. But its more about not being tethered to anyone or anything in order to experience life to the fullest - alone, on my own terms, fully. And while that equation has changed with the introduction of Nico (and my husband, Bob, for that matter), the fog of baby-ness is lifting and Freedom is there, promising the whole world in the palm of its hand. Its a drug. And I am the addict.

As a chicken in my 20's, I lived quite the life in New York City. My freedom problem wasn't a problem anymore. I satisfied every crazy whim I could come up with. I was bad. And it was good. I worked in the high-end art world as a curatorial assistant at MoMA. I regularly socialized with celebrities. It was the life. And I loved it. The best part - and the most addicting - were the "perfect moments" that would strike like lightning with crystal clarity. Tiny parcels of time where I was able to say to myself, "This is a perfect moment in time. And I am here - now. This is the most alive I can be. Right. Now." They came when I least expected it: in the middle of the night, on a hot summer day, on a desperately cold winter night, in the corner of a crowded room. When they arrived, I breathed it in. The Patti Smith book has reminded me of these perfect moments. Indulge me, while I share a few.

The one that sits at the top of the list was a John Cale concert in Central Park. It was a hot summer day with a stiff breeze. Bob dragged me to it. I hate crowds and this promised to be a nightmare of people - in the heat. I bitched profusely. But we found seats in the shade, up high, with a perfect view of the stage. And as I settled myself, he came on stage, all dressed in white. He sat down at the piano and began to play. And then it hit: I was watching THE John Cale play "Paris 1919" while the wind swayed the branches of the trees. It was beautiful. I was there. The music washed over me. The moment would NEVER be replicated. It was perfect.

Another was at an opening at the Guggenheim. Again, I was dragged there by a friend. I went for the celebrity of it. Maybe I could get another shot in the Style section of the Times. Why not? Right? It wasn't MY museum and I really didn't know anyone I cared about. As I picked up a new glass of wine, I noticed a gaggle of older men in one spot. One of them didn't have a shirt on - just a denim vest. He was portly and obviously drunk. I rolled my eyes and thought, "Great. Freak." As I approached, I could see that one was Lichtenstein, "Oh Jesus, " I said to myself and went to turn away. I must have made a face, because the denim-vest-dirty-old-drunken-man came up to me and asked, "Do you not approve?" I turned around and said, "I have no idea what you're talking about," in the bitchiest voice I could muster. "Walk with me," he said and he put his hand around my waist. And so, I followed him up the Guggenheim ramp. I consciously remember smelling his wine-y breath, noting the closeness of his face to mine and not being bothered by his proximity, pressed against me. It was dangerous and somehow, sexy. We stopped at a particular piece and I turned to him and said, "This is the only decent thing in this lame show."  His reply: "Thank you. I try." In slow motion, my head turned to look at him, my mouth went dry, my left eye twitched and I think a little pee leaked out. I was being attitudinal, opinionated with (not to mention pressed up against) Donald Judd - my idol. And in that instant, the crystal clear moment of perfection materialized. Shortly after that opening, Judd died. I mourned his loss. As a sculptor myself, he was/is the master. But that moment is mine. I will never forget it.

I could go on and on. There were many: the notorious drive across the Brooklyn Bridge at 4am, dancing at the Rainbow Room, hanging off the side of Empire State Building. But the book got me to thinking about moments I have now. Granted, they aren't like those from 20 years ago. They are different and yes, a little more fleeting: Laying in the grass at Valley Forge while Nico rolls down a hill, laughing; closing my eyes, with her little cool hands on my face while she sings a song about freckles, watching her master her fear of the gorillas at the Zoo. Those moments are frozen in time. And they are perfect, too.

I pray she doesn't have the freedom problem. I pray she isn't always chaffing at the bit of the moment for something bigger and greater. But, on the other hand, as I write, I know the truth. She has it. And that's okay. This summer we begin our "adventures" again: Traveling to places neither one of us has gone to. She is "excited to find rivers, Mommy." And I am, too. As I figure it, she'll be ready to do Antarctica by the time she's 13. Freedom, here we come!!!

The end is the beginning - somehow.

Today is my mother's birthday. And it begins this weird period of time I live through each year. I've tried ignoring it. But its there. No matter what. Today begins the series of events that ultimately culminate in the anniversary of my mother's death in April. And since having a daughter, it has this new weird twist on it - a new "angle," shall we say. A strange bifurcation of an experience that is outside and inside me all at once.

I remember telling my doula - when I initially interviewed her - that finding the right person to share the experience of birth with me was paramount. She tilted her head and asked, "Why is that - apart from the obvious reasons?" I replied, "Because I am having a daughter. And this will give me the opportunity to heal, to close some sort of circle." I didn't really understand what I was saying. It kind of just came out. But it was true. And I still believe that Nico picked Bob and I (more Buddhist thought) for this exact reason.

My mother died when I was six - almost seven. What my life became after that is a whole different story, but it colored ALL of my experience, decisions...everything. I don't think people recover very well or gracefully from such losses as adults. Children are different. They adapt. And I did. But my father struggled, despite being re-married. My step-mother did what she could. The only saving grace was my step-sister, who is the other half of my soul to this day. My mother was 26 when she died. I have far out lived her. I have tried over the years to assess the "facts" that I was told. I have struggled not to pass judgment on the decisions my grandmother made regarding her life support. I have really tried to put myself in her shoes and understand why she buried her - despite my mother's horrific fear of being buried alive. I have tried to understand the decisions my father and step-mother made. I don't come up with answers, though.

This year, like so many others, I struggle with the consuming memories of my room before she died. With the house we lived in before my parents divorced.  Until April 9th, when the spell ends (when her life support was turned off), I am awash in a six-year-old world of remembered smells, lost comforts, and voices long gone. I hate it.

But the flip side of the torment is I now know her point of view. A part of her knew she was leaving her daughter to be raised by a woman she hated. By a man she didn't respect. And that knowledge is worse than all the memories of her loss put together. This mom-thing is more powerful than anything I could have suspected. Having Nico did close a circle, I just haven't figured out how.

Since having her, there is one thing that is consistent with this time of year: I pull out pictures of Nico's sonograms. I don't why. Something about my mother's loss and my child's beginning are related. Call it some cheesy, 2001 thing. There is no denying that Nico picked Bob and I for specific reasons. And the child in me will be soothed and comforted somehow by Nico's force of life. I know it in my gut. One year, in the future, February 20th won't have the power it has now. And I have the patience to wait.

Modelling

I was having a discussion with my husband recently over some sticky family stuff and actually said this sentence, "You know, this is who I am. And I'm not going to change." I felt a shiver of fear when the words came out of my mouth. But it was true. I pressed on, "It might be rigid. But I have been very successful in my life because of this rigidity." And its true.

I was admitting to passing judgment on someone. It wasn't very Buddhist of me, but this person had crossed a line: one of decency, kindness and civility. For those that make it into my inner circle, there is an undying sense of loyalty that you get from me. Only the truest, most dear are valued in this way - and I will defend you to the end. I can't help it. I'm just that way. Hurt these people and I am done with you. I don't bother with anger. I'm just done. Judgment is passed and there is no way to change my mind.

I have felt bad about this rigidity in the past. My father is this way. I know it comes from him. But his rigidity doesn't allow for an inner circle. Even children are "eliminated" for what he perceives as a slight. I am not this way. Blood is thicker than water. And friends can become family. When things in my life have been so conditional, friends have to be eligible for "family" status. I value them, desperately. And I don't let them go.

There is a Buddhist writing that says that we have all known each other before. People in your life have been with you over and over again - but in different roles. This is the way you learn from each incarnation to the next - playing out the same dramas each time until you don't do it anymore. I am aware of this and keep it in mind.

At a certain point, however, you have to just accept who you are and be happy with it. I have to model behavior for my daughter. I want her to accept herself, wholesale. I want her to know when she's wrong but accept who she is. It is very liberating to say, "I'm wrong." At a certain point, though, we have to just stop that inner critical voice and say, "I'm good. I'm my own best friend. I'm okay with that." And so, I accept who I am - all angles, hard edges. With a soft, gooey center. Call me 'Sabra.' Hear me roar.