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Is That How It’s Supposed to Look?

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I’m sure there are people out there who look forward to family get-togethers with nothing but joyful anticipation. I’ve seen them on Facebook, so it must be true. I love my family, but a certain amount of anxiety springs up for me around a few of them.

Like my Grandmama Irene. I never know what’s going to come out of her mouth–whether she’ll tell me I am darling, give me the wisest advice ever, or cut me to the quick. Over the last few years, the ones between 90 and 100, she has gotten sharper with me. When I kiss her cheek, she complains that my children don’t speak to her. When my children speak to her, she asks who they are. It’s fun.

I get it–age takes a toll. Saturday, we gathered for Grandmama Irene’s 100th birthday party. It was lovely to see all the old faces from our town again, and I enjoy spending time with my cousins and their kids. But the morning of the party, I realized that I was bracing myself against what she might say. I rarely assume it will be nice. I wrapped up a purple paisley scarf that I bought in Egypt and had the kids sign a birthday card, all the while with a knot in the pit of my stomach because I never think that any gift or gesture will be good enough.

All that worrying shook loose a memory of a Christmas morning at my house, around my table, when I had invited her to be my guest after decades of us doing things at her table.

My entire childhood, Grandmama Irene was in charge of Christmas. And she left very little room for merry-making. We had to get dressed, brush teeth, and fold up sleeping bags before we could see our presents. We ate lunch at 12 on the dot, even if we were still full from breakfast or if someone was running late. As soon as you set down your fork, she swept away the lunch plate and slapped down a slice of dessert. Lunch was usually over by 12:35. After that, we all marched into the living room to take down the tree, which was then hauled out in the backyard with the ripped up wrapping paper and cardboard boxes and burned.

And that was that, so much for Christmas. After my parents divorced, we still spent Christmas morning at Grandmama and Pop’s then went to see Daddy and Gay. Daddy, having spent many Christmases on Grandmama’s schedule, would meet us at the door and ask, “What time was Christmas over this year?” I think her record was 12:50.

When I had kids, I got to shake things up and start my own traditions. My goal was to spend the day in pajamas and leave the tree up as long as we wanted and eat when we got hungry. One year, we decided that a big meal wasn’t as fun as finger foods, so our Christmas dinner changed to all appetizers and sparkly drinks. FUN! Mom and Grandmama Irene joined us and played right along, for the most part.

Another Christmas tradition that I wanted to introduce for my kids was a Yule Log, or Buche de Noel. It’s a chocolate creme roll that’s decorated to look like a log. I had joyful memories of the first time I had seen a Yule Log. Little Gay brought one down from DC. Her boyfriend was a pilot so he rented a plane to fly them down, the two of them and the Yule Log in a giant bakery box on her lap. I remember him joking, “Yeah, over North Carolina, I told Gay that we didn’t have enough fuel and we needed to get rid of some weight, so she started eating that Yule Log as fast as she could!” Fond memories and chocolate cake–what more could I ask for in a tradition for my family?

 

So one fine Christmas morning, with my family gathered around the table, I told them I had a special surprise for dessert. I returned with our first Yule Log held aloft on a gold platter, the chocolate frosting dusted with powdered sugar snow and tiny holly leaves made of sugar paste. The kids clapped as I set it down on the table. But Grandmama, the woman who had made a living and a name for herself making cakes sneered,

“Is it SUPPOSED to look like that?”

And poof. My joy disappeared. The magic of the Yule Log vanished and I was left holding a dumb chocolate cake from the grocery store.

I know it’s not a big thing, but it was just kind of mean. The dessert was obviously a big deal to me and she couldn’t let me have that moment. One little moment in a big life. I know, I know–she’s one reason I’m alive. She gave me a car once when I was broke. She made me birthday cakes every year. I know all those things. But dang. It’s the mean little questions that hurt.

 

Thinking about the holidays coming up and how feelings will get hurt, that phrase got stuck in my head: “Is it supposed to look like that?” That’s a mean little question that I ask myself inadvertently about EVERYTHING. I’m always comparing how things ARE to how I think they are supposed to look. I get my feelings hurt because I have an idea of how family is supposed to look and act and be. And we don’t always give each other our best.

Brett invited us to Thanksgiving dinner this year and told me to bring dessert. Red velvet cake is her favorite so I pulled out the cookbook of Grandmama Irene’s recipes that Little Gay made for us about 10 years ago and flipped through until I found the recipe. Mixed in with the recipes are photographs of our family. Pop with Joe’s boys on the front walk. Baby Vivi in her Papa’s arms. Aunt Dixie’s blonde granddaughters–Shawn’s smiling Mackenzie, Abby and Shelby riding their Barbie bikes, Isabella and tiny Sophia with their luminous eyes. 

The photo on the back cover was taken at Grandmama Irene’s 90th birthday party:

Looking at it made me sad–Daddy, Dixie, and Clayton are all gone now. Is our family supposed to look like that? There are also faces missing from this photo for a different reason–Carlos and Gabriel, who hadn’t been born yet.

Here’s the photo from Grandmama’s 100th birthday:

 

Is it supposed to look like that? Maybe. Maybe not. But we’re sticking together. And this year, I’m trying to be present in what IS instead of worrying about what life is supposed to look like. Because even if you don’t approve of how it looks, it’s CAKE.

 

Take the Ring Road First

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Warning: this is my first attempt at blogging on my phone. Beare wif mi.

This is Tamir. You know how in the movies there are men in suits holding signs at the airport for fancy people? I am now a fancy person!

Tamir met me at the foot of the escalator in the Cairo airport. I thought he was just there to drove me to the hotel, but this man took my passport, my visa, my luggage then hurried us through every checkpoint with a few words of rapid Arabic and an imperious tone. I felt like a very tired princess. I may have heard the customs agent mumble CIA.

Like I said, I’m fancy now.

Then Tamir handed my parched self a bottle of water and I now need to put him in my will. The driver, whose name is not My Collegio but that’s all I heard, whipped into 5pm Cairo traffic.

After a quick conference, Tamir said, “ok we take the Ring Road, you know faster, traffic?”

Of course! Whether it’s called ring road or beltway or perimeter or loop, we take the Ring Road.

As Pop would have said, “Gussie, hold on to ya hat!”

Driving in Cairo is not for the faint. It’s like a demolition derby in the desert. I had just begun to marvel at the desert flying by when sunset fell like a curtain.

We sailed past malls and apartment buildings and exit signs I couldn’t read and billboards mostly in English. Billboards for fancier apartments coming soon and beautiful actors on channel 10 and Skechers outlet now open. I saw a fellow southerner by the name of Sanders.

The we stopped, because traffic. And that’s when things got scary.

When traffic gets congested, horns rule. One beep means “I’m coming over” and five beeps mean “No no no you’re not.” I didn’t see any lane markings painted on the pavement. They may have been there somewhere but nine lanes of traffic wove itself over about 6 lanes of space. Toot toot beep beep screech vroom.

But here’s something cool. I didn’t see any road rage or middle fingers. Just people livingin a crowded place, together.

I saw motorcycles pulling trailers of Windows, tiny Toyota trucks teetering under an entire apartment of stuff moving to a fancier place, tags in numbers that I can’t read, taxi vans jammed with 15 young men going home from work. No buses or cops. No chaos either, except to my foreign eyes. This young man, like many others, stands in the road and sells snacks. Imagine standing in a traffic jam on 285 and selling crackers. Yipes.

I worried for his mother. On the side of the road in this not fancy part of town, people wait for a ride, or hop out anywhere on the street when their ride is done. There are narrow entries from highway to apartment rows.

IN the apartments, from the Ring Road, I could see the blue glow of televisions and clean laundry hanging from balconies, flapping in the wind from the cars flying or creeping by, because traffic.

I saw a football team stretching on a bright green patch of fake grass. Horses pulling carts. Popcorn stands. Minarets of mosques outlined in green neon.

But I was so immensely tired from all the flying and the lack of sleep because my plane seat was by the toilet and now I’d been trapped in this traffic for an hour and and and…

I had that ugly thought. “This is supposed to be vacation and I’m stuck here with these throngs of people and their traffic and their laundry and these incessant horns.” I got a little too fancy for my own good.

I had no idea where we were or how much longer it would take. Because traffic. I was about ready to cry.

Then Tamir said, “Have you seen our pyramids?” I thought he was making polite conversation. But he was pointing out the windshield.

Wait…what??

Yes, Tamir, now I have. Thank you. I have wanted to see them my whole life and now I have, in traffic. All three of us laughed at my pure delight.

We pulled into the hotel drive and I saw a sweet golden retriever there to greet. Nope. He walked all around the van, sniffing for bombs.

Tamir escorted me inside, through a metal detector where my bag was scanned. They have to live with this, the fear of bombs, because they also live with us, the tourists who bring the money in, all to see that, the pyramids. Sleepy towns without a Ring Road don’t get targeted by nuts with bombs.

I’m glad we took the Ring Road first. I’m grateful that I saw that part of Egypt, the part where a crowd is living together, before I went straight to the pools and the parties and the pyramids.

Thank you, Tamir and MiCollegio, for a safe and enlightening journey. Thank you for helping me make my way.

How Did You Learn Resilience?

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I stood on the dusty road at Washington Farms and worked through my work Inbox on my phone. As each long yellow school bus pulled into the gate, I checked for my kid and his class and if it wasn’t them, I got back to work there in the dust and the sunshine. Because this is what you do when you have a busy job but your son really really really wants you to go on the field trip.

We had a fantastic time at the pumpkin patch–a hayride, bouncing on the trampoline, playing in the corn box, petting donkeys and bunnies, even learning from the farmer how pumpkins grow. Carlos and I giggled through it all together. I took selfies with the quiet girl and tied one boy’s dusty shoe and listened to a wide variety of opinions about corn and whether it was good or nah.

But when the clock struck noon, I told Carlos that I had to get back to work. “Noooooo! I want you to stay!” he howled. I pried myself from him and made the long, lonely, and guilty walk to the car. I sat in the quiet for a minute and had a little cry about how hard it is, balancing work and life and kids and responsibility.

It HURTS to be absent sometimes when my kid wants me present.

It hurt a little less when we all got home, him with his tiny pumpkin and a string of stories about all the fun he had after I left.

He was fine. I got a little better.

Then I forgot to ask him to help cook tacos. The meat was already browned (his favorite step) and the lettuce already rinsed (his second favorite step). I was being efficient again and forgot that this was something special my boy and I do together. As he says lately, “I like three things–cooking, clouds, and nukes.”

I apologized for the taco incident and we went on with the evening. I made time for clouds since the cooking was a wash.

In the half hour after bedtime, Vivi had come out of her room five separate times with questions or to track down a lost book or to get a cup of water or to or to or to too. I was pretty frazzled with it. Carlos wandered out into the den and plopped down on the sofa. “It’s after your bedtime,” I snipped.

“You mad at me?”

“No, I’m not mad but I am frustrated that you and your sister seem to be having some trouble with staying in bed tonight.”

He rubbed his eyes and I saw that he was crying. “I’m not mad–go back to bed.”

He did, but a moment later, G came out and told me, “He’s crying because he said he’s going to miss you when you go on your trip.”

Well, dammit. There I go being efficient and not making room for my kid. ARGH.

I went back to Carlos’ room and sat on the bed with him in the dark. He told me that he was sad about missing me while I was gone. I told him that I was sad about missing him too, but that I was also really excited about this adventure and I needed it. We came up with a plan for how I would text and call and leave him notes to read every day that I’m gone. His tears dried up and all was well again.

And then I went to my therapist the next day to unload it all on her couch.

She was a working mom too, back in the day, and is familiar with the feelings. But her kid is grown and healthy now, so she also has learned that it’s important to teach our kids to be resilient.

She asked me to think about how I had learned to be resilient.

What’s resilience? It’s the “capacity to recover quickly from difficulties.” Toughness. It’s the wisdom you acquire by going through challenges and coming out the other side, knowing that you are OK.

Our conversation reminded me of a really low moment in my life, after Richard died and I was alone in our house. Specifically, I was alone on the kitchen floor curled up in a ball of snot and rage. I felt so alone and so tired of thinking I was safe and loved only to find out that I was neither. I remember howling, “I am always going to be alone. I am never going to have anyone to rely on. It’s just me.” And then I snot-laughed because I had a flash of insight. “Well, if I had to pick one person to rely on for the rest of my life, I WOULD PICK ME. Because I never quit.” I got myself off the floor and went on with my life.
Yes, my heart aches when my boy says he will miss me, that he would rather be with me than without me. I feel the same way–but I haven’t apologized to him for going on this trip. Both of us will be learning how resilient we are. I’m challenging myself with the newness of a foreign land. He’s challenging himself with the newness of 13 days without a physical hug from Mama.

We’re going to be OK.

Well, my shuttle to the airport leaves in an hour. I’ve written this to keep myself from curling up in a ball on the kitchen floor because it was so hard to give him one last hug at school this morning and hear him say, “I love ya, Ashley. I’ll miss you.”