Passage, 3

When I was writing my dissertation, Alisa and I had a conversation that seems more poignant now.

“You know, I’ve always wondered what I would do, teaching all these young girls. What I’d do if I was attracted to one of them.”

She turned to me and smiled. “And what did you conclude?”

“That it is impossible to find anyone else attractive when I have you.”

It was a lie, of course. I found those young girls attractive all the time. One time, my mouth even dropped when one of my students walked in. she was wearing a short skirt with high-heeled sandals. I don’t know what she was doing wearing that to class and I didn’t care. At some point I realized that I’d stopped lecturing.

I could say that later that day, I went home and I had especially vigorous sex with Alisa. Or that I vowed never to look at another woman, no matter how young, again. But that isn’t the point. The point is that I respected Alisa. I knew it would hurt her to know I found other women attractive. So I kept it tightly coiled inside me. That day, I let it out. But after that, I became more vigilant. Wound that tendency tighter inside my chest.

Now, as I drive the fifteen minutes it takes to reach campus, I find myself looking at the women running around its ring. And walking to their classes from the dorms. It does little for me, perhaps because I shut that part of me off so well. Or perhaps because I am mourning my loss. Maybe I just need to give myself some time.

___

Passage, 2

It always starts this way. But when I finally appear, it is only something small she needs. A lightbulb stored in the cupboard just above her reach. I walked slowly towards the kitchen. She stood, leaning against the counter, thin arms folded tightly against her chest.

This time, it wasn’t something trivial. “We need to talk.”

So right there, standing in the middle of the kitchen, in bare feet, an old pair of shorts and no shirt, I learned that my wife of sixteen years was going to divorce me. Not that she wanted a divorce. No. She was going to get a divorce.

They say that this often happens to men. They are blindsided by the torrent of anger. Pain seems to leak from every pore. And the men have no idea.

___

As I stand and survey my new quarters, I realize how much my life depended on Alisa. The details that I took for granted and wondered why it made her so angry when I didn’t put something back in the right place or remember where things went. Now I know. I’m doing it all myself. I never knew that there were so many choices at the store for organizing silverware. So I just decided to forgo it altogether. Now I just open the drawer, a tangle of forks, knives, and spoons, reach in for what I need and quickly shut the drawer again lest their menacing sharp edges threaten more damage than just delivering fat foods to my mouth.

The children are gone, and we only had to work out the custody of the cats. I insisted there. I needed one. At least that. I got the boy, naturally. Alisa was close to them both but even in the midst of her anger, she had compassion. She knew I could not be completely bereft of all comfort. So I got Maxie. I picked him out, anyway, even though he was more attached to Alisa than he was to me. Not anymore. He sleeps with me every night. On top of my back or my stomach, whichever is available. I am an equal opportunity back or stomach sleeper.

Passage, 1

As I grow older, of course it seems that time speeds because relatively speaking, a year is progressively a smaller fraction of one’s life. But it isn’t just that. It’s that the memories of my youthful days seem so immediate. I’m not certain if this is because I constantly refresh those experiences in my mind through a retelling—not just to others but to myself—or if it’s the significance that I’ve attached to them. I wonder if this is what happens to people with Alzheimer’s as well, that the memories they have so firmly in mind from their youth is because they have repeated them to themselves so much more frequently. Or if it is the content that renders these memories more visceral. Because of course, one is learning at a much faster rate when one is young as well. Obviously.

And yet, despite those things, I have found that I know less and less. The patterns which I sought aggressively about people and their behaviors, that I was so good at identifying, which allowed me coincidentally to become the unofficial therapist for everyone I know. My insight. This has begun to fail me. I have begun to realize that despite all the patterns I recognize, which necessarily sets me apart as being relatively unique, render me quite ordinary as well. The dream, that one can be unique at twenty is one I am, perhaps, finally relinquishing. Despite the lack of rites of passage in this culture, there are simply some things that are inexorable if one chooses a particular path that includes marriage and children. No matter how unique one images oneself, there is a sort of mundanity to these stages. An ordinariness that cannot be escaped.

“Rupert, please come here.”

Now what? What can she want? “Yes. Coming.”

“Rupert, please, come here at once. I need you.”

It always starts this way. But when I finally appear, it is only something small she needs. A lightbulb stored in the cupboard just above her reach. I walked slowly towards the kitchen. She stood, leaning against the counter, thin arms folded tightly against her chest.

The Pillow

I’m sitting on the chaise longue, leaning against a pillow, scanning my phone for something wholly unimportant.

“Mama, I put something under your pillow!”

“Oh, yeah,” I nod absentmindedly. “Okay, baby.”

“You can look at it, okay?”

“Okay, baby. Mama’s looking for something on her phone right now.” Doing, clearly, something that I’ve since forgotten.

“It’s a surprise!”

Then she left it. I was clearly “busy” and for a six-year old, my daughter demonstrates an astonishing amount of patience. And discretion. In other words, she can keep her own council, which at the moment offers a welcome respite thought I’m certain I will regret that quality in the future.

I was tired. The previous day, we had had a party. I had cooked all day. Hong Kong-style soy sauce chao mian, a Vietnamese baked curry with quail eggs, some focaccia, a salmon mousse I piped onto toasts and topped with arugula pesto, mini banana bread with pecans and chocolate chips, a mango and strawberry salad, and panzanella. My daughter had had a performance at her school and I invited one of her teachers and her husband over to ask her about homeschooling for the year. Some other friends came over, too.

I was beat. Throughout Saturday, all I could think of was to lie down. My husband had taken my older daughter to a birthday party on Saturday to give me a little respite while the Bustle Butt napped. Of course, she woke the moment they left. So I didn’t get that respite.

When they returned, I made an executive decision. He could deal with them both for a bit.

“Honey, I’m going to go rest for a while upstairs, okay?”

I haven’t slept in my bed for a few days because I’ve been keeping the nightmares at bay for my daughter. By sleeping with her.

Ear plugs, or as my daughter used to call them, “ear clubs,” are essential for my sleep. Everyone snores and I’m really noise-sensitive. Sensitive to everything, come to that. So I keep a pair everywhere, including under my pillow.

As I reached under, I noticed that the pillow seemed a bit raised. I have a flat memory-foam pillow which helps with my occipital neuralgia, a result of the three whiplashes I had as a child. I lifted the pillow.

I saw what she meant. My pillow. Not the chaise pillow.

Underneath was a card that said “I love you, Mama” with a dollar bill in it, a piggy bank she had decorated that was filled with more money, two pieces of candy from her stash acquired at the birthday party piñata-grab, and a sunflower. We had given her a bunch of sunflowers after her performance the previous day.

Where does this child come from? She must be an angel. To me, anyway. As should all children to their parents. But this one. She simply floors me.

Blessed

This theme of emotional good fortune is really on my mind of late as our monetary fortunes decline. My husband's unemployment just ended and his field of architecture has laid him off for a total of three of four years. Honestly I have no idea how we will pay the rent this month.

From past experience, like the second time he was laid off after Miss Jiggle Butt was born, I know that my husband gets depressed. He functions but he becomes victimized by his old, now maladaptive behaviors he relied on when he was stressed as a boy. As most people do. They revert.

It's fatal for our relationship and for his relationship with now two daughters. He gets very irrational. Resorts to yelling a lot. Which results in crying. A lot. He doesn't notice things. A lot of things. Because the anxiety has made him check out.

So I know having been through this twice before that my previous interventions weren't successful.

This time I have a family pep talk. About love.

"Baby, mama and daddy are going to be a bit stressed this month ok? So here is what we're going to do to deal with it. We're going to love each other. So if you and daddy have a disagreement first you're not going to hit yourself right?"
"Right!" And then she smiles.
"Daddy is going to just take some time if he's really upset, okay? And I'll also help him and see if he's hungry or tired or of he just needs some time alone. Same with you, okay?"
"Yeah!" My daughter enthused, "and if mama is cranky I'll just ask you if you're tired or hungry or need some time alone." She gestures to me for emphasis, as if she is presenting me with a gift. Which it is.
"And do you know why? Because we love each other, that's why."
Here my daughter again made me marvel at her: "Yes!" She exclaimed, "because the whole world is full of love! And we love each other and everybody! Yea!" She twirled around on the floor to make her point and then proceeded to make the fatso giggle.

She was beaming the rest of the evening.

Goodness. I just don't know where this little one comes from. I just don't.

The Hummingbird

My six year old daughter has released many dormant sensations and feelings in me. Things that I have always felt, but honestly, it can be inappropriate in normal, adult conversation to say something like, “Bees are good!” Number one, there is no context, two, well, some people might vehemently disagree depending upon their own childhood experiences. In fact, my husband is one of them.

So it’s not exactly fodder for small conversation. However, when you have a growing toddler, these dormant appreciations can be brought to the fore without fear of judgment of any kind.

Bees, like spiders, are creatures I appreciate. I have long since overcome my fear, despite having been stung and bitten, respectively. Unless one has been attacked by a swarm, as my husband had when he was living in Annisquam as a little toddler himself, I think these fears of said creatures are inexplicable and disproportionate. They are, after all, struggling to survive as well and I cannot imagine what it must be like to be faced with such a large being as ourselves when one is a small being such as they are.

So bees I like because they pollinate flowers. And therefore propagate plants and flowers. And incidentally, I also happen to like honey so I’m grateful for that, as well. They make our lives infinitely more beautiful and, dare I say it, gracious.

As a toddler, my daughter showed an inordinate curiosity about them. I kept telling her that they were actually quite delicate and sensitive, but my daughter could not help herself. Sometimes she would simply play with those that lost their way in our backyard and end up killing them.

A related lesson of composting, pollination, and creatures was that hummingbirds also perform that service. Despite the presence of our two kitties, hummingbirds still visit our backyard, primarily because of all the things that grow in our rich soil, including strawberries, lilies, hydrangea, jasmine, tomatoes, cucumbers, and peppers.

One day, a hummingbird decided to offer us a more personal visit. The French doors leading from the backyard were open. The sun was inviting the little hummingbird in. So, it came in.

It promptly became stressed and began frantically attempting to exit. Which of course meant that it was flying frantically all around the living room and then kitchen whilst the kitties were looking ever more fascinatingly at it.

“Mama, mama! The hummingbird is trying to get out!” exclaimed my daughter helpfully. “Oh, no, look, Pinky keeps staring at it!”

“Yes, I know. It’ll be alright.”

After contemplating the dilemma for a moment, I realized I needed some sort of net because it was becoming increasingly distressed. It was not going to fly out of its own accord. We had no net.

Or so I thought. Turns out we did. In the form of our laundry “basket,” a mesh affair that would work just perfectly.

It did. I caught it and then released it out the front door, since that was closest.

“You did it, Mama, you did it!” Honestly, how can one not feel triumphant with those kinds of accolades?

Well, that was a year and a half ago. Every day since then, the hummingbird comes to visit us. I know it’s the same one because it looks in the kitchen window, the very one it looked out of when it was trying to escape. If we are outside, it hovers near us, a greeting. And we smile back.

I now keep more plants that flower. For it. And the bees.