Storybook Dollhouse at the Thomas Hughes children's library
The best part of travel is always the experience that is unplanned. The thing that you think will be great is never the thing that is most memorable. (Like, it’s not the Leaning Tower of Pisa, but the pizza vendor near the tourist attraction!)
Yesterday, the kids had the most fun of their lives sliding in their winter coats on some long wooden couch/bench at the Hilton Hotel lobby. (I did my usual thing of walking away from them, muttering, “Whose kids are those?”)
The sliding bench in the lobby was almost as fun at the dollhouse tucked into the children’s room at the Harold Washington Library.
We met my mother in the airy atrium on the top floor of the library and she took us on a tour. She could be a professional tour guide for the city of Chicago, unlocking secrets hidden in plain sight. She showed us site-specific
There is a buoyancy when I have the kids to myself. I know I am not the only married person to feel this way. Lots of married friends tell me they love when their spouse travels for work. They can parent their own way — lay down the law or lighten the load.
But there’s even more relief when the chronically ill spouse is away for a few days. Around 11 pm, when I was unplugging our Christmas tree, my son asked, “Where’s Dad?” (He’d been gone since 7:30 in the morning.) “He’s playing Scrooge at a reading in a theater upstate. Will be back Monday.”
I felt guilty for feeling so happy to have my kids to myself. Mea culpa for not sugarcoating my situation and telling you that I love helping my husband pull on his shirt or tie his shoelaces.
Surely I could be more loving and patient. I am often in a rush, especially in the morning. Being married to someone with Parkinson’s Disease slows the caregiver down too. I need to shower. I need to launch myself and the kids into our day. I need to get to my desk at work with a focused mind. I would rather not remind someone to take their pills.
Last night the kids joined me at a Christmas party where we sang carols. We ate lasagna; they drank hot cider and I drank mulled wine. My burden was lightened — we were singing and sipping and chatting. And I chatted about deep things. My kids got bored. (I love when they get bored! I love giving them memories of hanging out at an adult’s party, eavesdropping and playing board games.)
My December goal — to throw and go to beaucoup des holiday parties is working out well.
I wish I could tell you to hang in there. I see you throw your body on the bed and weep into your pillow. Your boyfriend’s kind of a jerk. I know. He won’t be the last.
Stella Adler Drama School, photo by Lou Stellato
Have faith. There are rescue boats on the way. Do not live in despair. Some life preservers will be — affection for children, intelligence, desire (and ability) to lead, wanderlust, art, honesty, a 12-step program, and education — These are not dilly dallies or detours.
You are not a dilettante. You are a lover of the arts and a lover of creativity! Now get up.
I know people say this ALL the time, my dear younger self, but the journey really is the destination. There are going to be some tough times ahead, with family members confused, hurt, struggling and ultimately there will be grace and recovery. There are also going to be very tough times in your 40s with your second husband’s Parkinson’s Disease. There will be boats to help you stay afloat just when you think you are sinking. So hang in there and do not give up.
You have to guard against your penchant for falling in love with unavailable guys. You probably should ditch B.S. You will fail in relationships (like your first marriage). Okay, so you are not too lucky in love. Though eventually you will discover the sexiness of nice guys. With the not-so-nice guys, you will need too much or your needs will be ignored and this will be repeated. Find strength from friends, family, especially your sister, 12-step meetings, and oddly enough, the whole movement that came out of a book, Women Who Love Too Much. Do not be ashamed that you love too much. It is a good thing. You have passion and enthusiasm. You work hard.
Among the things that will save you, one of them is New York City with all its vibrancy, beauty and diversity. You will feel at home on a bustling sidewalk. Enjoy those Oak and Elm suburban trees for now (although they are prompting many allergies), because you will never live in suburbia again.
You will travel the world — China, Brazil, Chile, Italy, Ireland. You will go many places and learn to smile in many languages. Your love of learning will be one of those boats that take you to a different shore. When you return home, you will ask big questions and find new ways.
You will do good work. And that will be a source of pride and income for you.
Sadly, you will not make it as an actress, but you will have medium-sized success in comedy, local television and writing. And you will enjoy it. Though you likely will never land a part in a major motion picture, you will have a joyful life in and around the theater.
You will teach drama and creative writing. When you teach, you will learn how much you know and know how much you still have to learn.
But best of all, there will be an amazing gift when you hit your mid-30s — I don’t want to give away the surprise. Okay, here it is. (As you know, I’ve never been good at surprises.)
You will have three children. Unbelievable, right? They will root you to life in a way that you never felt rooted to life before. They will make you pause and yell and hug and cry and laugh, almost every single day. So that will be good and meaningful, although not easy.
To my self, I want to write more, but two of those three children are needing attention right now. And because you become a really good parent, you are going to be there for them. So, get out of bed and be there for yourself. Learn to be a friend to yourself. Adventures await.
This post was inspired by the blog of Adam Bird. We are part of a Facebook community, Post A Day (Week) Challenge, an open group of people who encourage one another to post in their blogs daily (or weekly).
When my twin girls were in the nursery school at the YMCA, we received a small scholarship for having two enrolled at the same time — it was something like $11,000 per child instead of $12,000.
We loved the Y. The girls had a great time going to school and learning to play. And we remain great friends with families from that class.
Around this time of year, the preschool staff put up a Christmas tree where you could pluck a paper angel off the tree and buy a present for a needy family. Feeling quite charitable, I went to pick an angel. And there hanging on a paper angel was my family’s name and the ages of my kids — for everyone to see. I grabbed the angel. I waltzed into the office.
“I don’t want anyone to think of us as needy,” I told S., the school director. I felt so ashamed. Seeing our name on the tree made me rethink my attitude towards my family and myself.
Me? I am the giver and the do-gooder, not the recipient of charity and generic toys. S. apologized. She said that all families that received scholarships were on the tree, but they would take those angels off.
So I remember this experience every year around this time. I felt shame when I was perceived as needy. And I don’t think most families are thrilled to be hanging on a Christmas tree. Sure, I would’ve gotten some free presents, and being cheap, that’s sort of appealing. But I would’ve had to pay with my pride. That’s expensive.
It was made worse because people knew us. I worried that if my angel stayed on the tree, we would become social pariahs. We would not be considered equal to other families. We would be helped, but we would be looked down upon.
One deadly sin in this society is to be a charity case. Families like ours have plenty of needs, but please don’t cross the line and consider us needy.
Last night, I went to the opening night of A Christmas Carol, sitting beside my husband who had played Scrooge for at least four years about ten years ago in this production at the McCarter Theatre in Princeton, New Jersey.
It is unlikely, due to Chris’s Parkinson’s Disease, that he could still act a huge theater role like Ebenezer Scrooge. We reminisced in the car about how he was making the M. Night Shyamalan movie The Village at the same time he was in Princeton performing as Scrooge.
Chris as Scrooge, watching himself as a boy.
Acting is an art, like painting or playing the cello. But in the US, unlike maybe Russia, the performing arts get short shrift in a culture that worships celebrities (and then delights in their demise).
Acting is hard work. It is physical labor. It is not putting on make up and posturing. It requires depth of emotion and focus and athleticism.
In this production, Chris as Scrooge flew down from the rafters and flew back up again. He foisted Tiny Tim on his shoulder and jumped on the bed. (He particularly disliked having to do those last two things.)
So watching the show last night, I think Chris felt pride in his past work, but also sadness, and a sense of letting go, a resignation to having physical limitations.
I have seen this production at the McCarter a billion times. Still, it makes me cry. Why? Because, like Scrooge, I discover again the reality that we are made to love another, not to dismiss our loving tendencies by criticizing Christmas or other people. I remember that I am mortal and my time is limited. I must seize this day. There is so much joy in the scene when Scrooge realizes it is not too late to live — never too late to love.
The play is so good. This adaptation by Tommy Thompson is beautiful and simple and elegant, as is the direction by Michael Unger.
Chris has recently had a lovely success with a play he translated, Cherry Orchardby Checkhov at the Classic Stage Company, so I don’t think he was not sitting in the audience wondering, Why aren’t I up there, playing Scrooge?
I drove back and forth from the city. Chris fell asleep, off and on in the passenger seat beside me. When we talked, I told him, “You have had a great life in the theater and I’m so glad I got to see so much of it.” And yes, his theater life continues in a different direction.
My take-away from last night? Be like Scrooge, seize the day, buy the biggest turkey, jump on the bed. Or be like us, see a play, reminisce, have a life in the theater, have dinner with friends, (thanks KP and Wayne!).
Last year I went cross country skiing at the Hildene estate in Manchester, Vermont. So fun. So pretty. The winter months don't have to be depressing.
It’s no wonder people find Christmas depressing. It’s a holiday in a dark month full of rabid consumerism and fake merriment.
Here’s how I’m going to power through the season:
1. I will be exceedingly good-natured, especially to crabby people. This is my passive-aggressive way — if I hold a door for you, a stranger, at the bank and you don’t say, Thank you, I will shout exuberantly, You’re welcome and have a beautiful holiday season!
2. Seriously, I will try to maintain a sunny attitude, even while facing layoffs, long lines, and disappointing gifts from my children.
3. I will give and go to a lot of holiday parties and have conversations with family and friends that are so deep and meaningful they cannot be summarized in a tweet. (But follow me any way on Twitter @MaryBethC — Self promotion? Not gonna stop!)
4. Delve into some childhood memories and try to make some damn good memories for my kids — but NOT memories of things like iPhones, but memories of experiences, like hanging out with cousins, eating fondue or looking at the Rockefeller tree. (We live in NYC and we never do any of the touristy, Christmas crap.)
5. Do some Christmas-y NYC things:
see the Renaissance angels at the Met
see the origami tree at the Museum of Natural History
I loved when I validated my word count at the NaNoWriMo website and a dozen nerdy people on a video clip applauded me. Their applause made me cry. I love them. I love all my cyber and real friends and family who supported me during my month of extreme novel writing. Thanks!
When I finished NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month) two years ago, I was in the small office at my husband’s family country house. And I cried then too. My tears surprised me. I didn’t realize that you could cry when you impressed yourself by doing something great. I thought tears were for extremes sadness or happiness, not novel writing. Why did I cry?
I cry all the time during commercials or at certain songs at church. I’ve cried twice today already (in a deep conversation with a work friend and then due to some family stress!)
Crying’s no biggie. I tell my kids, It’s good to cry; tears clean your eyes.
So, yes, I love my tears and my achievement. But I doubt I’ll embark on the adventure to write 50,000 words in one month again next year. (FYI, that comes out to about 175 double-spaced pages.) I think I’ll do it every other year for the rest of my life.
See, this year, I ignored my family, let my house fall into disrepair, and blew off my work peeps who wanted to chat by the water cooler! I’ll take December now to pay attention, to make repairs, and to chat.
Oh, one more thing, please don’t ask to read the novel, because it’s total drivel. It’s a sketch that needs hours, days, months of detail work. And I don’t know if I have that kind of attention in me.
Whether or not, I return to that novel, I’m extremely proud!!
Our family values the arts and to have dinner together and we also like to support each other in our ventures for example if one of us Jonesys wants to go hiking the next day we will have climbed mountains and we will complain and sulk and kick but we will have climbed the mountain and we will rise on top undefeated. Joneseys:1 Mountain: 0.
This morning, these words were open in my daughter’s binder. This was Cat’s answer to the question, “What are your values?” If you can get beyond the lack of punctuation and the run-on quality of the sentence, and I can, I think it’s a wonderful and inspiring piece of writing. (I know, I know, I’m not unbiased).
On top of Owl's Head, near Lake Placid, goofing around
I love the struggle and the victory over that struggle to climb the mountain.
The other day Cat asked me, “Why do we climb so many mountains?” I don’t know. The view is so beautiful from on top. The air is clear. We are all off our hand-held devices.
Why do we struggle? Why do we take on more struggle? Why am I doing NaNoWriMo this month? Why do I blog, plan parties, work my full time job, parent, cook, clean, care for my kids (two of them have been on antibiotics this week), be supportive of my husband (despite the reality that, due to his Parkinson’s, he drives me totally crazy), teach one night and take a non-fiction writing class another? Why do all that?
I guess I do it so that the next day I can say I did it. I have climbed a mountain. I have risen on top undefeated. MaryBeth: 1 Mountain: 0.
I like wearing a fancy dress and getting my hair blown out for the awards night where I finally might be recognized for all my hard work. For example, I totally had a blast at the UMAC (United Methodist Association of Communicators) awards dinner in Albuquerque last month. And yes, my name was on a few certificates and awards.
Recently, I’ve been published in some awesome venues. And last month, I did a reading of a couple of funny essays at a hip East Village club — Felt so good, like I was coming home. These were home runs for me and my writing — big wins in a lifetime of convincing myself to be content with small victories.
But I had one recent victory that I keep dwelling on. See, I started this creative writing workshop at lunch time. And I’m not very good at promoting it, so I’m sorry if you didn’t know about it. We meet on Wednesdays.
While I’ve led many of the sessions, (I am an unstoppable teacher), most of the time we rotate leadership. Last week, one of the shyest and most consistent members of the group, J.C., led our group of five people.
J.C. offered a simple suggestion for our time writing together: Make a list of five things you are grateful for. Then write about one or two. We wrote for 20 minutes. And then we read out loud. J.C. read hers, and it floored me. My jaw dropped open.
J.C. wrote that she was grateful for me and for our creative writing workshop. And she noted the exact date the workshops started, March 16, 2011.
Wow, it made me feel as if my life’s efforts — these little things I do, especially the ones that I take on when no one asks me to — mean something to someone. And my whole messy life makes sense. It feels great. Small victories? Small wins? I don’t know. Maybe the seemingly small victories are the biggest deals of all.
Yesterday, chilly, I was on the sidelines for CoCo’s 8 am soccer game. I was rewarded for this parental duty by seeing her score two goals. WTG! FTW!
I got thinking — being a spectator at a soccer game is not as much fun as being an audience member at a school play, as I was last weekend.
It’s better to be a theater mom (than a soccer mom):
1. The hours are more reasonable. (Theater would never start at 8 am.)
2. The seats are more comfortable. (There are no seats on the soccer sidelines.)
3. The show is indoors. (No need to wear mittens!)
4. The cast party has better food. (Last weekend, after the play, we had finger foods and oodles of fancy cupcakes. After the soccer game, we shared a box of Entenmann’s.)
5. The players are a bit more dramatic and entertaining. (There is drama and comedy — before, during and after the show. But before the soccer game, we hunted for the uniform; during the game, we cheered and tried to stay warm; after the game, we tried to stay warm.)
After the play, we lingered, carrying flowers for the performer, waiting for her to make her entrance. Of course, theater mothers have bad reps as stage mothers, controlling divas, whereas soccer moms are wooed by politicians, trawling for votes.
Writing about this — about being a supportive spectator at a play or game — reminds me of how I had to shift my attitude about my own importance once I had a baby. Suddenly, no one was that interested in me unless I brought along the baby. If I showed up empty-handed, people would ask, “Where’s the baby?”
I was no longer the star of my own show, I was a bit player with a walk-on part. Or maybe I was the dresser, making the star look good, staying backstage. At least now, with my kids as teens, preteens and tweens, I’ve moved from “back of house” to the “front of house.”
On the sporting event’s sidelines or in the audience, I want my kids to do well, look good and, God, I hate to admit this, but I also want them to, ever so occasionally, share the spotlight (with me).
The sliding bench in the lobby was almost as fun at the dollhouse tucked into the children’s room at the Harold Washington Library.
100 Days of Poems and Pics 