Practically There

A Letter to My Daughter

I was recently cleaning out one of those large clear plastic containers that had been stored down in the cellar under the stairwell. In it was a jumble of various papers and projects and drawings and Popsicle stick what-nots that I had saved throughout each of the kid's elementary school years. My intention was to rummage through the five or so containers that I have accumulated, then sort, organize and allocate to each child a box of his or her own; each containing a small chronicle of their own history and memories. In the process I came across a project from my daughter Taylor's third grade class. It had not been an assignment for the children but rather one for the parents of the children in the class. The task was for each parent to tell the class, in essay/letter form, a little something about their child: how the parent saw him or her, maybe some unique qualities that their child has and what expectations the parent might have for their child's future. It seemed a simple enough undertaking, until I was face to face with a blank and fairly inhospitable piece of paper and a profusion of thoughts. There was so much to say and too little time and space to say it in.

Now, so many years later, as I re-read my own handiwork, it dawned on me that the delightful little girl with the waist length café-au-lait curls, who stood in front of that third grade class and read all about herself through her mother's eyes, what seemed just a moment ago, was now a remarkable young woman; a remarkable and unaffected young woman on the threshold of a new beginning. With great hope, just one of many new beginnings to come.

So what follows is a bit of an excerpt from what I had written to my daughter and her third grade class. Is not the usual for this column - there is nothing particularly funny, no snarky remarks - just a keepsake, a reminder and a genuine and unguarded appeal - if you have children, or if you have someone, anyone, in your life that should know just how they have touched your soul and changed your existence - tell them. Tell each one of them. Tell them now. Because time is transient my friends, time is transient.

"As I ponder what words to put to page, humanity is the first word that comes to mind when I think of you, my darling Taylor. You have enormous humanity. This is not to say that you do not have an edge, no, you have your limits and do not suffer fools easily. That sharpness, though, is deep and only evident through the gradual erosion of goodwill by vanity and ignorance in others. Yours is a quiet spirit with a certain inner peace and a gentle humility that most will never find in a lifetime. Taylor, you have taught us what it means to be human.

Love always, Mommy"

"You may delay, but time will not."
- Benjamin Franklin

I Have Forgotten More Than I Remember

I believe that I am failing 11th grade Chemistry. The same can be said of Pre-Calculus and French. In fact, if I were my parent I would seriously consider getting me a tutor or placing me in a remedial setting. The absurdity of all of this is that I am, well, lets just say I am pushing Forty and it is pushing back, and I have not been in high school for, um, awhile. Now, please keep in mind that "back in the day" I was fairly literate and considered to be rather clever. The progeny of parents whom considered education to be the fundamental element in and of a successful life. They would be spinning in their graves (if they were dead) when they realized just how little assistance that I was able to offer when asked by my 16-year-old daughter for "a little help" with her homework. In fact, I can say with all sincerity that, college educated though I am, I was really more of a hindrance. All right, I was a down right encumbrance to my child, yes, that's what I was, a veritable human barrier to her educational development. Yup, thirty-some-odd years of ego down the crapper in the span of 40 minutes at the hands of a high school text book. Any sense of self-worth squashed in less time than it takes to dry socks. I simply could not believe that I was unable answer just off the top of my head the bulk of the questions that Madi had posed. At one point I actually began to make up answers so as not to look profoundly dim. I mean these were points that I must have known at one time. I must have! I mean, I graduated; they let me out of high school. They wouldn't have ditched me at the end of my four-year stretch, lobbing me onto the white-hot pavement of progress completely untutored, naked of the most rudimentary of facts with nary an inkling of such foundations of understanding as Recursion Theory, Reaction Dynamics or that St. Denis Cathedral was rebuilt in 1120 marking the birth of Gothic Architecture. Would they?

No, of course not. And, they didn't. I was coerced, as we all were to leave the warm, convivial (Hah!) and hallowed halls of high school with a modicum of information, at least enough to allow for navigation of a phonebook, the balancing of a check book and the ever popular procreation (remember the filmstrips?). What has happened is that, just as I had suspected all along, we must have a finite capacity for information storage in our cranium and over the last two decades the information in my particular noggin' has been slowly usurped by the day in/day out activities and the trivialities, import and pettiness that are part and parcel of this human existence. These factoids are then being systematically replaced with bits and pieces of virtually useless information like Friday's are 2-for-1 rentals at VideoMart and Hemingway's hat size. Honestly, all too often I cannot remember where I put my keys and many mornings I have to double check to make sure that I am wearing pants.

So, in retrospect, I am going to assume that I am not alone in the belief that society, technology and basically everyone under the age of thirty-five have already surpassed me intellectually and that I have forgotten far more than I imagine I will ever remember in this lifetime. Thus, I shall to choose to look at the whole humiliation as not so much the loss of my peace of mind or sense of self but rather as just maturing quite naturally. Oh, and one extra perk, my lack of usefulness so panicked my other offspring that they have avowed never, ever to ask me for help with their homework. Now, most of my evenings are free.

Hey, but that's just me talking.

Wisdom doesn't necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.
- Tom Wilson

Are You Regular?

Why is it that just when I think I have made progress on the societal and cultural fronts, inevitably I turn to find that I am three steps behind where I had begun and five steps behind everyone else? Now, stay with me on this as I will eventually come to a point. OK, little story - I was watching a television show, which will remain unidentified BUT the hostess is a lovely bazillionaire with a book club and a production company and a magazine and great hair and I think you know who I am talking about. Anyway, on this episode there was a segment devoted to personal reflection and, oh, I don't know, getting in touch with one's inside being or contacting your inner child or maybe it was poking an inland neighbor, something like that. Well, this one particular segment featured a very well dressed woman and her very well dressed daughter both of whom apparently begin each morning by lighting candles and meditating before the school bus arrives to instill a sense of purpose and tranquility to their day (no, the bus does not arrive to instill a sense of purpose; I have a syntax impediment and suffer from comma apprehension. Okay?!) So, I am watching this and all the while the camera repeatedly pans back to the audience, and they are all nodding their heads and “ohhhing” and “ahhhing” in concurrence, like they all do the exact same thing at the crack of dawn. Meanwhile, I am thinking, "Great, yet again have I failed my children."

You see, I have no morning mantra, aside from the occasional, "How many times do I have to tell you that you that root beer is not a food group or a breakfast beverage?" and "Is that shirt clean? It doesn't smell clean. Who do I write the check out to? Why do I have one lunch leftover?"

Nor do I meditate. I tried it once. I was awakened at the end of the session and told that my snoring was keeping the others from "centering", could I please not return. This, of course, brings us to why I certainly would never attempt to meditate AND light candles at the same time as I would most surely set something ablaze, but would sleep through it seeing as how I was “meditating” and all. I guess what I am questioning is just why is it that we are all so anxious to be something that, in our natural state, we are not. I am not a Martha wannabe; I do not have the energy. I mean if lighting candles and finding the focus of your day is your thing, great. Go for it! But please, please, please do not look down upon me and "my kind" because we are not enlightened or conversant in the ways of the culturally savvy. I still bake birthday cakes with extra frosting to fill in the basin-like depression in the center, I am partial to those little meals in plastic bags that you put into boiling water, I do not have a personal trainer (heck, I don't even work out), I am still not quite sure how to eat a pomegranate (or if I even spelled it correctly) and my children's morning ritual does not involve Neti pots and tranquility. What it really comes down to is that my ritual may not be your ritual; you seek peace and harmony, I seek two matching socks. And while we may not have much else in common, our goals, I suspect, are ultimately the same - we just want our kids to have a great day, make themselves proud and to come back to us safe and sound. Frankly, the rest is just window dressing.

But that’s just me talking.

"I wish they would only take me as I am."
-Vincent Van Gogh, Dear Theo: Autobiography of Vincent Van Gogh