Close Knit

In fifth grade, my friends and I had a midpoint where we would stop to warm up on walks to school. A gaggle of us walked the half mile (no, not uphill both ways, but yes, in the snow) to Mann Elementary huddling for warmth before the crossing guard bid us across the street.

Jocelyn's house was cozy. In fact, we stayed long enough to get beyond warm to hot and then went back out in the chill. It didn't feel so bad then, and school was in sight before we felt the urge to huddle again.

It's a cold morning walk still. I have several scarves and hats for different temperatures, but my favorite ensemble is one my mom made for me: an extra long, heavy duty, hand knit pink scarf with fringe and a matching skull cap. From under the winter armor, only my eyes peer forth and barely. (I confess I've walked with my eyes closed down Wabash many times, even counting the paces.)

I don't know how to knit but I'm grateful my mom does. I love my scarf that wraps around my neck three or four times before it's run out of yarn. It's my size: big. I also don't know much about cooking, other than I know what I like and want to be able to provide the same bounty of meals my mom did for my kid/s some day. I have less time to cook now than I ever have. . . and that may not change.

I don't know how to sew, nor do I know much about the best cleaning products. I've somehow lost touch with any form of domestication and I'm not happy about it. I have my mom's generation to thank for liberation, and prefer to read or work though I do fancy organizing. I'm not hard on myself about these things, but I do lament that the penchant isn't present. If it was in me, it wouldn't get lost as the genes and personalities are passed down to the next generation.

I suppose instead of knitting or darning or soup-making, I will teach my daughter how to write a resume and work with her strengths; how to ask for help and give too; how to tell the truth about who she is and hope she learns how to sit quietly better than me. Though probably not until well past puberty.

Mind you, I still haven't given up on making good soup, stews and sandwiches. But my time for learning will have to wait, hopefully not until it's too late.

The Great Momini

Photo courtesy of Miriam Doan (www.miriamdoan.com)

My mom looked a hot mess when she picked me up for my surgery appointment yesterday. Bags under the eyes, unkempt hair, weary demeanor. "I couldn't sleep worrying about you. I can't help it. I'm a mom."

I've explored my relationship with Ruthie a lot of late, especially as I look to Marc and his relationship with his parents and my friends' discussions of how their parents are eager for them to wed, have babies, come home for the holidays or just take better care of themselves. Family dynamics are fascinating to me, especially since mine have always seemed so simple. I've discovered recently that it's precisely because my mom didn't ask me to move home, or beg and plead and insist, that we did. That we wanted to. That we couldn't wait to be back and have Sunday dinners or Saturday lunches or anything in between.

Calling my mom is like a reflex, like startling awake after a nightmare or throwing a hand across the chest of a car passenger when you've braked too hard. It can't be helped. When she was admitted for triple bypass surgery in October, reflexes went into overdrive. I didn't know how to tell her that she had to fight this and fight it hard because I need her around. For a long time. Sometimes I don't understand how she can be so generous, thoughtful, strong and magnetic all at once. I saw her weak and sad and vulnerable and still she was The Great Momini, even more so for being human?

I wanted her with me yesterday because there's this reflex of calm from having her near. There's just no other place she should be than close to me. And that's final.