I really am a nice person.

Today I went to the plant store.

I have been to the plant store three days in a row this week.

 

Plant Store Lady is getting to know me now.

 

“I’m back!” I say as I pass Plant Lady on my way into the rows of plants.

She smiles and asks, “Did you get all your plants from yesterday put in?”

“YES!” I say. “I put them in right away!”

 

I am very excited about my new planting habit.

 

I am pretty sure Plant Lady remembers me since it was a torrential downpour yesterday and I was the only plant shopper in the whole place. Son was with me but he did not want to get out of the car.

 

“Come on!” I say.

“No.” he says. “There’s only one umbrella. I will get drenched.”

 

I hate umbrellas. Did I ever tell you this? When I lived in Brooklyn I would never carry a stupid umbrella. Now that I live here I have been somehow made to carry an umbrella.

 

I get out. Ok, I get THE UMBRELLA.

 

Are you thinking of that song right now? Because I just did.

 

I open THE UMBRELLA and go traipsing through the aisles plants to the place where the SHADE plants are. I see Ferns, Ginger and Hostas and Heuchera. I pick out the best ones and bring them over to the PAY place.

 

Plant Lady rings me up and calls Plant Guy to come carry the plants to my car in the pouring rain. Plant Lady apologizes to Plant Guy right in front of me for making him go out in the rain.

 

“Sorry.” I say, since now I feel like the obnoxious plant shopper.

She smiles.

 

By the time I get home it has stopped raining! I put all the plants in. I look over at the other side of the yard. It seems suddenly barren.

 

“We have to get more plants.” I say.

“Ok mom.” son says.

 

He doesn’t care since he is leaving to go on the bus back to Brooklyn soon.

 

I text Philly: We have to get more plants.

He texts: Ok.

 

Today comes and I here I am picking out more plants. This time, Plant Lady is helping me pick out plants. I tell her, “This is my new favorite place!”

 

Then I tell her, “We just cut down a bunch of trees, so now we can grow stuff!”

 

When I look at her face I can tell I have aid the wrong thing to Plant Lady. I should not have mentioned the killing of trees. She is, after all, PLANT LADY.

 

“The trees we splitting. And some were really gangly.” I say, trying to soften the tree-killer vibe.

 

I can tell she is not buying it.

I bet I am going to get charged the tree-killer rate now.

 

God!

 

I hang my tree-killing head and pay for my plants.

I think: I really am a nice person you know.

 

And I really like my new plants.

Yes I do.

 

Beach

 

 

Yesterday we went to the beach.

 

The whole family is here since it is Memorial Day weekend. Which also happens to be my year anniversary to Philadelphia.

 

We have wrestled with what we are going to do for our anniversary weekend. And I mean WRESTLED. Kids. No kids. Retreats. Workshops. Hotels. Dinners.

 

Too many choices.

 

Suffice to say we line it up to do a little bit of most of the things we have come up with. Still, I am not sure we are REALLY going to have a good day.

 

Philly asks, “What do you want to do for the ACTUAL day?”

“BEACH!” I say.

 

Philly looks at me. Philly informs me, “Around here we do not say: BEACH. We say: DOWN THE SHORE.

 

“Ok,” I say, “We are going to the shore.”

“DOWN the shore.” he corrects.

 

For GOD’S sake.

 

“DOWN the shore.” I say. With my best MAIN LINE accent.

 

Did you know about the MAIN LINE? I myself did not. In case you did not know, it means: MONEY. And pronouncing your vowels like a British person.

 

As in: We are gong to the OCEAN. “Oooooh – shun.”

 

As many of you know, I love the beach. The beach is my very favorite place. Better than the mountains or the lake or the desert even. The beach with her churning ocean water coming in at your feet and dragging out with each salty breath all your afflictions. Because she is big enough to do this, the ocean is. Whatever you have to give over to her, she can take it. And when she comes in swirling around your feet, she brings all the new possibilities to you.

 

Now that I live in Philadelphia she is much further away.

Now I cannot just hop on the Q on a whim to Coney Island or zip down Flatbush to Riis Park. Now it is over an hour drive and a COMMITMENT.

 

“We are going to have to pack the cooler.” I say.

And I go to sleep and wait for BEACH DAY.

When I wake up it is here! I get right to the sandwich making: Turkey and pepper jack for me and daughter. Cheese for Philly. Dairy free meaty goodness for son, with mustard.

 

Onions for everyone. Ok, I regret this a little bit later.

 

I also put in: Strawberries. Grapes. Wheat thins. Cookies. Carrots. Napkins. And water bottles.

 

I think that should be enough. You never really can bring too much food to THE BEACH.

 

I wake up daughter. “Beach time!” I say.

Son is already up and getting ready.

 

“We are leaving at 10:30.” I say.

 

Which is later than our original 10am departure time. But I can see as it is already 9:25, we will not make a 10am departure time. Not with a teenage girl who has to get ready.

 

10:30 comes and no one is ready. Really, I do not understand the time problem in this family. It is not just that I SAY we are leaving at a certain time. THEY also AGREE to it, then completely disregard the agreement.

 

Infuriating really.

 

By the time we leave the house it is 10:50. I skulk down in my seat. “I am wasting valuable sun hours.” I say.

 

We drive. We are going to Ventnor beach. Because it is closest I guess. Still, it takes us one hour and twenty minutes to get there.

 

When we get there my black cloud of sunless doom disappears and all I see is blue, blue sky and horizon of sea and sand. It doesn’t even matter it is windy and partially cloudy, and ok, we are kind of freezing. We are at THE BEACH!

 

I always go to the beach Memorial Day weekend. And always with Friend 1 to Riis Park. This is the first time I am without her, and not a Riis Park in a long, long time.

 

I look out at the ocean and think of her.

 

The day passes by. We eat. We talk. We stand in the bathroom line. We sun. We shiver. Son and daughter have a little brother-sister cuddle. Daughter says, “I am freezing. When are we going?”

 

“Not yet.” I say. Because secretly I have a rule that I must be at the beach for at least three hours. Maybe even four since it is so far away now.

 

But it gets colder and so I cave. “Ok,” I say. “We can leave.”

 

Daughter leaps up to go.

“Uh, you have to help pack up.” I say.

 

She helps.

Son helps.

 

We schlep all of the gear back the car, which is an easier schlep that the Brooklyn schlep I have to say.

 

We get home in time for me to make my meeting AND daughter to make her meeting. This leaves some quality MAN time for Philadelphia and son. When they pick me after my meeting I ask them what they did.

 

“Oh you know.” son says. “Man stuff.”

Philly nods. “Yeah. Man stuff.”

 

“Like what?” I ask. “What kind of ‘man stuff’?”

“Well, we could tell you but you would not understand.” Philly says.

 

“What?!” I say. “Come on tell me! Give me a synopsis at least.”

“Can’t.” he says.

 

Son says, “Mom. You are not a man. You are not going to understand the MANGUAGE.”

 

I look at him.

 

“Because that’s what we speak mom. Manguage.”

 

Oh for GOD’S sake!

 

“Forget it!” I say.

 

They smirk their secret Manguage secrets at each other.

 

Later I am lying around thinking about my anniversary beach day and sandwiches and Manguage and car rides with the whole family singing.

 

And I think: It was a good day for an anniversary after all.

Yes it was.

What is Happening to Our Girls?

 

Yesterday my Sober Friend from Brooklyn called me.

She lives in another town now, but her daughter and my daughter grew up together.

 

Sober Friend leaves me a message about HER daughter: Her daughter’s friend tried to kill herself. Friend is now on life support.

 

I sit down on the bed and cry.  I think about everything MY daughter has been through recently. I think about “L”, another daughter friend, who successfully hung herself at 13 after being cyber-bullied too much for too long.

 

I cry and I ask the air, “What is happening to our girls?”

 

When I call Sober Friend back I ask her the question. I say, “Is it really as simple as blaming the media?”

 

Maybe it is. I don’t know.

Is it an American phenomenon?

 

I tell her, “I don’t know the suicide rate increase for women around the world. I just know when I was growing up we did a lot of things that would be considered harmful like drinking and drugging and passing out and having sex.

 

Although the sex part was more of a moral judgment on female behavior than anything intrinsically ‘harmful’.

 

But there was not this clear sign flashing over our heads. A sign that seems to say: I hate myself.

 

“I know.” Sober Friend agrees.

 

Sober Friend and I are silent for a moment. Our daughters have self-harmed in various ways, like so many of their girlfriends. I tell her, “Last night, a 17 year-old I met had just entered Intensive Outpatient Treatment for an eating disorder.”

 

“I feel like everywhere I turn, there is a teenage girl self loathing herself out of existence.” I say.

 

Sober Friend wants to help. “What can we do?” she asks.

 

We hang up.

 

I think about this.

 

About the pressure on teenage girls to be perfect.

About how that pressure comes at them now harder and faster than ever before.

 

I think about Hollywood.

About the Porn Industry in the digital age.

About expectations.

 

About size 00.

 

And oh, to have a thigh gap, but with D cups.

 

To attain the unattainable, sans Photoshop.

 

It is not a feminist argument.

It is not an exaggeration.

 

 

SAVE (Suicide Voices of Education) reports:

Between 1952 and 1995, suicide in young adults nearly tripled.

There are three female suicide attempts for each male attempt.

Suicide is the 3rd leading cause of death for 15- to 24-year-old Americans.

An average of one person dies by suicide every 16.2 minutes.

 

I think about Sober Friend’s question, “How can we help?”

I think: Ask the question.

Ask now.

WHAT IS HAPPENING TO OUR GIRLS?

 

I hope we are not too late.

 

 

If you are in a suicide crisis, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline1-800-273-8255.

Space for Change

This weekend will be my one-year wedding anniversary.

 

Can you believe it already? One whole year I have been married to Philly.

 

A lot of things can happen in a year.

 

In this past year I have separated from son. I am still going through the process of letting him go. It has been much, MUCH harder than I anticipated. Somewhere along the line of the last year son says to me, “Mom. You have to let me do this. I have to do this.”

 

He is wise like that, the son. He recognizes his needs.

And so I backed off as best I could.

Not so secretly, I still wish I would get a “Hello” text once in a while.

 

Throughout this year I have let Brooklyn go, bit by bit. When I go back to visit son, it is still like I never left. I walk the brownstone blocks and I almost forget now, in Philly, I live in a driving culture.

 

Daughter is quickly, lovingly, and sometimes painfully, turning Philadelphia into a step-dad. If you are a parent you know that NO ONE can possibly explain to you the BEFORE and AFTER that becoming a parent is. When people say, “Say goodbye to your old life and hello to your new life!” They REALLY mean it.

 

A whole host of other miracles and challenges have happened. New friends have shown up who have gone way beyond to help us in transition, cleaning out a entire house, going through an intensive training, even surgeries and hospitals.

 

Really, in a way, the ground has been taken away this year. I left a recovery community who saw me walk in the door in tatters and loved me anyway. I left a career I thought I was done with and a work family who knew me through some of the most difficult years of my separation and divorce.

 

In her book, “When Things Fall Apart” Pema Chodron says, “We think that the point is to pass the test or overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

 

I am learning to leave space for change.

 

And through all this the miracles have grown. Sometimes quickly. Sometimes slowly.

Son has grown up. REALLY grown up. He did this ON HIS OWN.

Daughter has crashed and emerged willing to go to any lengths.

You know what I mean.

 

Philadelphia and I are learning how to co-parent together, a day at a time. We are learning how to BE together, committed to one another and to this life, emerging.

 

If you had asked me last year about my obstacles, I would have given you a list of traits I thought stood in my way, traits needing to be excised.

 

A lot can happen in a year.

Today the obstacles ARE the path.

 

Yes they are.

Worn out

Today daughter wore a skirt to school.

 

It is going to be a hot day here in Philly. And daughter attends a public school. Which is not really known for its air-conditioned comfort.

 

It is morning. Daughter yells from the top of the stairs, “Mom! I need you!”

 

For those of you who do not speak morning teenage daughter, this translates to: Please tell me my outfit looks ok.

 

I go stand at the bottom of the stairs. I look up at daughter who is wearing a swingy black mini skirt and a black tank top.

 

“Boots or Converse?” she asks.

 

“Well, it is going to be quite warm… Converse.” I say.

But then when I look at her again I say, “No. Actually boots.”

 

“Ok.” she says. And she trots off.

 

When she comes back she has a black and blue plaid flannel tied around her waist. “How punk rock!” I say.

 

She smiles.

 

And off she goes in her black and blue booted outfit.

 

Later, we eat dinner together. She tells me, “We got a dress code reminder letter at school today. You know, now that the weather is getting warmer.”

 

“Oh?” I say.

 

“Yes. And you should see it. The GIRLS section is about a whole paragraph longer than the BOYS section.”

 

“Really?” I ask.

 

“Yes!” she says, “Don’t show your shoulders. Don’t show your mid-section. Don’t wear low-cut shirts. No shorts shorter than arms length. The boys do not have all that. What am I supposed to do, boil to death in there?”

 

“Hmmm…” I say.

 

“It’s not fair.” she says.

 

“No, its not.” I say. And I am reminded of our previous conversations on women and dressing and how daughter feels very strongly it is not HER responsibility to ensure boys can manage their attentions.

 

“I am tired of this. I am going to write a letter to the school.” she says. “I am going to tell them the boys and girls dress codes should be equitable and they are not.  And THAT is sexist.

 

“You go girl.” I say. “You can get people to sign it!”

 

“Yeah.” she says as she gets up from the table.

“Maybe I will.”

 

I watch her walk away, all black and blue booted with a little fire in her step.

 

And I think: Go daughter.

GO!

Safety First

The other day son had a bike accident.

 

Son is going to play Ultimate Frisbee in some far away park in the city. I do not know why they have to go so far to throw a Frisbee around when there are plenty of parks in Brooklyn.

 

But ok.

 

Son is about to launch off on the TREK bike, which used to be mine but is now his.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“East River Park.” he says.

“All the way over there?” I ask.

“Yes mom.” he says. “That is where we are playing.”

“How will you ride?” I ask.

 

He tells me his ride path. Which includes the Manhattan Bridge.

 

I think about saying: be careful riding over the Manhattan Bridge. Because the bike riders on the Manhattan Bridge are NUTS.

 

But I do not, because I do not want to seem like an overly involved mother.

 

Ok, I know you are laughing.

 

He goes.

 

Hours pass.

 

When he returns he has a large bandage on his arm. I know this only because I happen to see his bare arm EVENTUALLY, not because he actually TELLS ME he has had AN ACCIDENT.

 

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

“Oh. I fell off my bike.” he says, all casual-like.

“What?! What?! You fell off your bike?” I ask.

“On the bridge.” he says. ”I had an accident.”

 

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 

“WHAT?! What do you mean you had an accident?!” I get closer to him to inspect THE WOUND.

 

“I am fine.” he says and he backs up.

 

“Fine?” I say. “Fine?! You know you could have fallen right off the bridge! When were you going to tell me about this ‘accident’?” I ask.

 

Daughter is here. Daughter says, “Mom. He could not fall off the bridge.”

 

Son says, “Yeah mom. They have a big rail around it to prevent things like that.”

 

They are teaming up on me. “Do not team up on me.” I say. And I give them the razor-mother eye.

 

I do not understand this casual oh-I-had-an-accident thing. I think about all the OTHER things I must not know due to not being here all the time anymore.

 

“You better clean that out.” I say, pointing to THE WOUND. “Did you clean that out?”

 

“Relax.” he says. “I will put some peroxide on it later.”

 

“Later?” I say. “Later it will be an oozing pool of Manhattan Bridge bacteria.”

 

GOD! These kids. I face my palms to the sky.

 

“Well, what happened? Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”

 

“Some lady tried to overtake me. There is only one lane for each direction and someone was coming the other way. So I instinctively swerved to make more room for her. And I hit the side of the bridge and crashed.”

 

“What the HELL? Why did she try to overtake you when someone was coming in the other direction?! JESUS! Did she stop to see if you were ok?”

 

“No, she just kept on going.” Hhe says.

 

“Oh my GOD!” I say.

 

Then I say, “What an asshole.”

Yes, I really say that.

 

“A few other people asked me if I was ok.”

 

“Is the bike ok?” I ask.

 

“Yes.” he says.

 

But when I go check the bike out one of the brake cables has come loose. It is not a big deal but it reminds me the bike really needs a tune-up.

 

I look at Philadelphia. “We have to get a bike tune up right now.” I say.

“Ok.” he says. Because he is a good husband like that.

 

We carry the bike down the stairs and roll it on down to Dixon’s Bike Shop. Some people do not like Dixon’s. I myself have no problem with them. Except for the fact that it is $69 to have your bike tuned up. That is kind of a problem.

 

Since I am now on a son-bike-ride-freak-out, we pay it anyway.

 

When we get back home I tell son, “You can pick it up Wednesday. And you have to attach the bike lock. Do you know how to lock it up properly? And do you know how to use the wheel release?”

 

“Mom.” he says.

I know he is going to say: RELAX.

 

“Don’t say it.” I say.

He doesn’t say it.

 

I go back into my old room, which is now his room and lie down on the bed that is now his bed. I look out the window I have looked out for ten years. Son was nine years old and in fourth grade when his father and I separated and we moved into this apartment. I remember it was that year when I began allowing him to walk to school himself. I remember every bone in my body felt like running around hiding behind trees, following him.

 

 

But I did not. Anyway, living in a city all crammed together has its advantages. One time my friend called me to tell me, “I just wanted to you to know son almost was hit by a car backing up as he was crossing in the middle of the street.’

 

You can imagine the conversation I had with him THAT day.

 

But that was then. He was nine. And now he is nineteen, almost twenty. And all my worrying will not keep him safe. Only he can do this. Only son can keep son safe.

 

I think: Be safe son.

Be safe.

Becoming Real

This weekend I went to Brooklyn.

Daughter broke a wire on the braces that should have been off months ago but are still on the daughter teeth. And so daughter needed to see the orthodontist. The one who put the braces on her teeth two years ago. The one we cannot switch out of at this close-to-the-end-of-braces time.

 

So in the KIA we go.

 

“Will you come in with me?” daughter asks.

“Just TELL HIM we have to get these braces off the teeth. We do not live here anymore. Didn’t you tell him last time? And the time before? Or are you not saying anything?”

 

I give her the questioning mother face of lying-by-omission doom.

 

“I told him!” daughter protests. “But he keeps yelling at me and saying I am not wearing my rubber bands!”

“Well, are you wearing them?” I ask.

 

 

“Hello?” I say.

“I am now.” she says.

 

I think about this seeming inability teenagers have to simply SPEAK and ask for what they need.

 

“You need to communicate.” I say.

 

Since she is trapped in the car she cannot stomp off.

But I know she is doing it in her head.

Yes I do.

 

Orthodontist day comes and I tell her, “First we are going to a meeting, THEN we are driving over to the orthodontist.”

 

Daughter does not look particularly thrilled about this. But I do not care. We are GOING.

 

“What meeting?” she asks.

“The women’s meeting.” I say.

“That is YOUR meeting.” she says.

“It doesn’t matter right now.” I say.

 

Which is and is not true. Daughter does need her own meeting in her own closely related fellowship that I also qualify for but do not attend. AND she can attend a meeting in my fellowship because she qualifies there too.

 

When we arrive at the meeting the long tables are filled with women of all ages. Most of whom I know. Some of who were around when I came in. Some of whom I saw come in. I take a big breath. I think: It is good to know. It is good to be known.

 

The speaker is a fast talking Brooklyn kind of gal. She makes me laugh. She talks about the bad decisions she made stemming from a life of unmanageability.

I relate.

 

Daughter s sitting next t to me. Friend 1 is sitting a few seats down. The format is a round robin until 2pm when it is opened up to a show of hands. The round robin starts a few people down, right next to Friend 1.

 

Friend 1 has known daughter since the day she was born. And across the room is Singing Coach. Daughter took lessons from her before she joined Brooklyn Youth Chorus. I look at them. I think how daughter is KNOWN here, even if she does not know it.

 

I whisper to daughter, “It is a round robin. It will come to you since it is starting only a few people down. You can pass if you like.”

 

She nods.

 

I look at her. I wonder if she will share.. If she will risk becoming known. I think back to how I felt in the beginning. I remember my sponsor saying, “When you share you are not only helping yourself, you are helping other people find the courage to change.”

 

But then the round robin does a weird and unexpected swerve to the back of the room. A few more people share and daughter leans in and says, “I thought it was coming this way.”

 

I shrug.

 

Soon it is time for a show of hands. Secretly I AM hoping daughter will share. Even though I know it is not my decision when or how or if. I just know how much better I felt when I began to peel away the layers upon layers of STUFF,  when I began to let people IN.

 

I peek over to see if the daughter hand is being raised.

A few more shares.

Still nothing.

And then…the hand! The hand goes up!

 

I feel like jumping up and down going, “Over here! Over here! Pick her! Pick her!”

But ok, I do not.

 

A few more shares and daughter is picked. However, she is picked just as we have run out of time! I cannot believe it!

 

Daughter whispers, “She just picked me.”

“I know.” I say. “Sometimes that happens.”

She looks at me.

“I know it is disappointing.” I say.

 

We stand up and say the serenity prayer. After the meeting daughter is slowly surrounded by people who know me and know her. They are congratulating her on her day count. They are wrapping her in the love of this fellowship and the safety net of this amazing program that has saved so many lives.

 

As we are walking out, I think about the story of the Velveteen Rabbit. And how after so many years of being loved so much his fur wore right off, he became REAL.

 

I stand back and I watch that daughter talking to the women of the fellowship.

I think: I see the beginning of REAL.

 

Yes

I

Do.

LUNCHBOX

Today I took daughter out for a little post-doctor visit 30-day celebratory lunch.

 

“What do you want to eat?” I ask.

“Japanese.” she says.

Because mostly we always want delicious Japanese LUNCHBOX.

 

Have you ever had one of these very special lunch items?

It comes with soup. The soup is in a separate bowl but everything else is in a nicely compartmentalized box. Each thing is different. Not too much. Not too little.

 

Just right.

 

So we go. We even find a NEW PARKING PLACE that does not overcharge the crap out of you to park. When we park in the new parking place we can see the river swollen and rushing past. There are even a few parked cars partially submerged.

 

“Wow.” we say.

We take a picture.

And a video!

 

“That’s a lot of water!” I say.

 

I watch the water carry tree branches as it rushes by. This morning daughter and I had all kinds of delays on our way to the doctor due to the torrential downpour yesterday AND because it’s all rolly hilly here and everything always floods.

 

Being a FLAT CITY girl, I do not have patience or real understanding of all this rushing muddy water. I find it very INCONVENIENT.

 

We walk up the hill and up the stairs to the restaurant. When we get to the HOSTESS WILL SEAT YOU SIGN there is no hostess. We walk around the corner. “Hello?’” we say.

 

A man pops out from somewhere behind the curtain. “Hello!” he says. And he seats us.

 

“We are the only ones here.” I say.

Daughter nods.

 

From the second floor window we can see way down the river. Finally it is sunny. I say to daughter, “Today is 30 days isn’t it?”

 

“Is it? I guess it is!” she smiles.

 

I smile back. I tell her, “I thought that doctor was going to fall right off her chair today when I was explaining the family bed idea to her.”

 

I laugh. Really, sharing sleep with my children when they have wanted it has been beautiful. I don’t understand the reaction, but ok. Whatevs.

 

The food comes and we get to talking about the last 30 days and our stories. Daughter asks, “What do I not know about your story?”

 

“A LOT.” I say.

“Tell me one thing.” she says.

 

I think. What to tell daughter. What to tell daughter.

I pick one thing and tell her.

 

It is not a dramatic, drama filled moment. It is simple a bad decision made when my priorities were seriously out-of-order.

 

As I am telling her, I think: Some decisions you will live with the rest of your life.

Yes you will.

 

“You are lucky.” I say. “To be young and willing to find out who you really are.”

 

We just look at each other across the table for a while.

“I want green tea ice cream!” she says.

“OK!” I say.

 

Green tea ice cream is a family favorite.

 

“Congratulations!” I say as the ice cream comes.

“Thanks!” daughter says.

 

I am watching her eat the green ice cream ball. She is so young, that daughter. I try not to worry. While we are eating I say a little prayer I learned from my teacher: Bless us that we may see what we are looking for.

Then I secretly add: QUICKLY.

 

When the check comes it is just over $30.

“$30 dollar for 30 days!” daughter says.

“All right!” I say.

 

All right daughter.