weekending

♥  Taking a page from  Bella's book, and linking up to the weekending series hosted by Amanda ♥

Working from home means that weekends can easily become just another work day, and Saturday was that for me.

But it's okay.

I spent the day writing about people who have a lot more problems than I do, and sometimes that perspective is good for the whiny soul.

Sunday we played -literally and figuratively. I played bells at a local Methodist church, filling in for someone who was on vacation in my friend's bell choir.  I feel like a circuit riding church musician - seems I’m always cantering off to some church or other (besides my own!) playing bells or piano.

It’s amusing.

Then we drove to St. Clair, Michigan, a small town about an hour northeast of here, that runs parallel with the St. Clair River. My husband’s choral group was singing in St. Mary’s Catholic Church, and while waiting for him to finish rehearsing I took a walk along the riverfront, sat on a sunny bench, read Web of Angels, and spent some time visiting with Merle and Barbara, an interesting elderly couple who were enjoying the spring sunshine.

The concert was wonderful (as always) and the acoustic in the church was a singers dream with a heavenly natural reverb that put the listener right up with the angels. There was an afterglow at a local restaurant (little meatballs, little crabcakes, big quesadillas, oh my!) and then we drove home in the twilight.

It was sublime.

And I appreciate that after some of the ridiculousness of late :)

How about you? What did you do this weekend? 

Time Passages

Connor's getting his first teeth! Both of his lower central teeth are starting to show, and you can easily feel them with your finger...

This was on my son’s Facebook page last night, and I when I read it aloud to my husband we both made the appropriate “awww...” sound followed by a deep sigh.

“The next post will read 'Connor’s getting his driver’s license,'” I said wryly, “and then ‘Connor’s graduating from college,’ and then ‘Connor’s getting married...’”.

Yep, time does fly, and although it never seems like it when you’re knee deep in diapers it really is only an eyeblink before children are no longer children, but adults and off living in some ridiculous place like Dallas, Texas. (Or Burlington, Vermont, or Los Angeles, California, or Seattle, Washington - parents of these, you know who you are.)

I have to admit, I’m not enjoying this long-distance grandparenting thing. Whenever we’re lucky enough to get a new video, I watch it over and over until the iPad battery runs dry. When new photos pop up on Facebook, you’re liable to see me carrying the iPad around the house, clutching the image to my heart.

And yes, I have been known to kiss the screen.

As much as I love watching this adorable little guy growing up, it makes my heart ache that I’m not able to see it up close and personal. I imagine when I look back on it years from now, when Connor has in fact graduated from college and gotten married, I will count it as one of the biggest mistakes regrets of my life - that somehow I didn’t find a way to be closer to him.

People tell me you can’t follow your children all over the place, and experience has proven this to be true. (Case in point - our lovely little plan for a Florida retirement with our family just down the road.) I suppose we could pick up and move to Texas, that maybe my husband and I could find work there to sustain us for the next few years until pensions and 401k’s kick in. But our son is young and life is unpredictable - he could very well find other opportunities elsewhere, in any part of the world, and there we would be once again.

Psychologist Eric Erikson talks about developmental stages we must successfully pass through in order to live a fulfilled and happy life. During middle adulthood (ages 35-65) he believes we must be concerned with “generativity,” which comes through caring for others and producing something for the betterment of society. Family and work, then, in somewhat equal measure, are the tasks to navigate in these years.

But as we get closer to the end of this stage, our relationships and activities change - children leave home, careers wind down, and it becomes more difficult to find meaning and purpose. Failure to successfully navigate this stage leads to “self-absorption and stagnation."

That sure doesn’t sound pretty to me, but I can see how it could happen.

Most of the women in my family have spent the waning years of their middle adulthood helping to raise their grandchildren. My mother, my grandmother, my great-grandmother and many of my aunts, have all been lucky enough to have a least some of their children nearby. I know that’s not the norm, especially in the 21st century, but I wish it were.

Being around children is one of the most “generative” activities I know of - what else is more reflective of "caring for others and producing something for the betterment of society”? It’s a sure and certain remedy for self-absorption and stagnation, and one of the best ways I can imagine to navigate this passage of life.

I only wish it were available to me.

Now We Return to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

When I was a young SAHM (an acronym you rarely see on this blog, so I will define it for you: Stay At Home Mom), I was hooked on the the ABC afternoon soap operas. The ongoing stories and family dilemmas provided a respite from the isolation I sometimes felt being the only new mother in the neighborhood as well as the first of my friends to have children. But occasionally the show was interrupted by “breaking news” or a speech from the President or election results, interruptions that were extremely vexing. After what seemed like an interminably long time, the station logo would flash across the screen and announcer’s voice brought the good news.

Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming.

The events of my life during the past month remind me of those obnoxious interruptions. A pile of nasty stuff kept coming my way, one vile thing after another. But I’ve turned the calendar on April (a cruel month indeed) and happily moved on to May.

Now we can return to our regularly scheduled programming.

And what is on the program schedule for Becca?

Some fun concerts to attend and participate in.

Social events with friends.

A wedding anniversary (our 36th).

An interesting work project.

Shopping for a new house.

And, best of all,  a trip in June to see Mr. Connor, whose very existence is the one true thing that makes life - with all its obnoxious interruptions - worth living.

How about you? Has your life been on a regular schedule, or have you been bothered with nasty interruptions?

Never Forget

There are several versions of the story about my grandfather’s arrival in America. Some of them have him hidden away aboard a steamer trunk and smuggled onto a ship bound for the west.

Others tell of him running away from his village and hiding out wherever he could until he was able to meet up with an aunt and uncle who spirited him away.

Most of the stories have him ending up in France for a while, before making his way to the United States and through the portals of Ellis Island.

Though I don’t know all the details, I do know the reason for his escape. Beginning in 1915, a radical sect called the Young Turks rose to power in Turkey and embarked upon a mission to eradicate Christianity from the region. As a result, more than 1.5 million Armenian people were systematically murdered, my grandfather’s family among them.

But one son survived, and found his way to the Promised Land. It certainly wasn’t milk and honey here. He married young and had six children to feed during the Depression plus a chronically ill wife to care for. He might have wondered sometimes about the meaning of it all. Probably more often he wished for the support of his own parents and siblings, whom he left behind when he fled and never saw or heard from again. It would be hard to be on your own in a foreign land, where no one speaks your language or knows much about where you came from.

It would be even harder if you knew your family had probably been brutally killed while you had been lucky enough to survive.

April 24 is designated as  Armenian Genocide Remembrance Day, and the usual news stories have surfaced about Turkey's failure to acknowledge this episode in history as a true genocide, and the failure of other nations (our own included) to do so. I don’t pretend to understand the reasons for political palaver, but I do believe that any time a nation sanctions mass killings of innocent people they should be held accountable in some fashion - at the very least, they should suffer shame from the rest of the world.

Naturally I remember my grandfather and the members of our family who were victims of that horrible time, as well as all the other individuals who were persecuted because of their Christian beliefs. They are the very people politicians and religious leaders claim to care about, but who became the victims of misplaced ideology and rhetoric.

Any time a group of people with extremist views are allowed to gather power, innocent people are at risk of destruction.

Never forget.

Ouch

When I was a kid, I was never fond of band-aids. Oh, I know lots of children like them, especially like being  festooned with all the cute cartoon characters which adorn all sizes and varieties of bandages. Not even cute cartoon characters could make up for the things I hated about bandaids. Like the way they got all dirty and grimy looking. Or the way they came unglued when you got them wet, and would then hang limply from one end.

But by far the worst part of the bandaid was taking it off. Whether you inched it off slowly or pulled it off in one fast rip, it HURT.

Last night my husband left for Florida to pack and move our things from our home there. I was of course supposed to go with him, but because of my mother’s illness, I’m forced to stay home- at least for a few more days. As much as I’ve dreaded this week, it seems horribly wrong for us to be separated right now.  It’s one of the perogatives of marriage, I think , that painful tasks should be undertaken together.

This is definitely a painful task, and one we’ve been dreading for about a year. Our home in Florida wasn’t just beautiful and bright and new, it was also a symbol of hope for the future, a time when we would shed this gritty midwestern workaday world for the relaxed lifestyle of a tropical paradise.  It was our sanctuary, a place we could retreat and regain our sense of composure. In my darker moments I’ve likened the sale of this house to the sense of impending doom you feel while waiting for a terminally ill person to die. You know it’s coming, and part of you just wants to get it over with, even though you know it’s going to hurt.

Like the bandaid removal.

I was dreading and anticipating this week in equal parts,  just wanting to get in the house and start boxing up the dishes, taking the pictures off the walls, folding up the clothes. Have the POD delivered. Load up the furniture, the entertainment center, the dining room table and chairs. Ship it all off to storage, where hopefully it will get moved into a nice new condo out here about six or eight months from now.

Just do it all fast, quick, clean and dirty.

Rip that bandaid right off.

Because it’s going to hurt, and my eyes will fill with tears (as they are right now) and a few of them will spill over and run down my cheeks. The wound under that bandage will be red and raw for a while until a hard scab forms over it.

Eventually it will heal, and if I’m lucky the scar will be tiny. It might pain me on cold winter days when I remember the sunny retreat I once had. I might feel a twinge when people talk about southwest Florida or when I hear the word “snowbird”.

Friends will mouth platitudes about “new experiences ahead,” and I will nod politely. But it feels like in my personal grand ledger of accounts for the past five years, the loss column has mounted exponentially while the profit column remains nearly stagnant.

As I've learned from my previous experience with loss - time heals. The scar becomes just one of the many others inflicted by a disease we call "real life.” You stumble through each day, happy for the tiny moments of pleasure you get from seeing pictures of your grandchild or hearing him laugh on a video, anticipate the times when you’ll be able to pick him up and cuddle him next to you. You have dinner or drinks with friends, you listen to music, read good books, sit on the back porch with a glass of wine and watch the sunset.

The sticky residue from the bandage finally gets scrubbed away and the wound underneath pales and dries.

And then one day you’re back to normal (or whatever passes for that in your new reality), and you’ve forgotten how much it hurt to rip that bandage away.

I’m looking forward to that day.

But first this bandaid has to come off.

Ouch.