Help! I've fallen, and I can't get up!

I am reading an interesting book -- Getting the Love You Want, by Harville Hendrix, Ph.D. -- which postulates that the majority of people seek out romantic partners who closely resemble the character traits of their parents.  The reason for this, says Hendrix, is that children, as helpless little people, are at the mercy of their parents; so, as adults, we seek to "fix" whatever dysfunction we were subjected to at home.

This theory is not new, of course; Sigmund Freud said about as much in his many writings.  And, even before I heard this theory, I often complained that Big Bren seemed to encompass all the things I hated about my parents -- sometimes he is cold, emotionally unavailable/neglectful and impossible to please.

I was making dinner today when I decided that I absolutely had to have grilled steak.  It was drizzling outside and our wooden deck was dotted with raindrops.  I carefully made my way over to the grill and put the steaks on the fire.  In my eagerness to get back inside, I neglected to dry my feet and rushed onto the marble floor.  I had taken two steps when one foot hit a patch of moisture and I went careening toward the floor.  I tried to break my fall by putting my arm out and instead fell on my hand -- hard.  My knees quickly followed.  The whole house seemed to shake when I finally hit the floor.  I just stayed there, reeling from the pain shooting through my legs and arm.

Then something unprecedented happened:  my husband gently raised me, placed me on his lap and held me to his chest.  With as much tenderness as I have ever seen him exhibit, he rubbed my knees and hand until the pain went away.  Tears rushed to my eyes (again! For those of you keeping count, that's twice in two weeks -- I fear that I am losing my iron maiden edge).  Not so much from the pain -- although I told him it was -- but because when I fell as a child, I was never the recipient of such kindness and love.  I felt about 7 years old again, but instead of being told to get up, brush myself off and not dare cry over something as insignificant as a fall, I was being nurtured and even coddled.

When I felt better, I brushed away the tears and rushed off Big Bren's lap (old habits die hard).  But I was left with the knowledge that each person should be judged on his/her own merits and not based on a projection of what others may have done (or failed to do).  

Thank you, D.

Tired

I have a confession to make: I get tired of being "Mommy" sometimes. There are days when I don't want to hear whining or complaining or backtalk. When I don't want to be the keeper of shoes, the bather, the dresser, the feeder, the cuddler, the goodnight storyteller, the toenail clipper or the boo-boo kisser. Some mornings I don't want my eyes pried open before I am ready to awaken. I don't want to hear arguing over whose pretend friend is cooler. It is psychically exhausting to have your entire existence be about someone else.

Alec Baldwin got a lot of flack a while back for calling his daughter a "thoughtless little pig." While I don't think I could resort to calling a child that to his/her face, I will 'fess up and say that I have thought it. That and "ungrateful little pig." And that was just yesterday when, after working the full day, I picked Brendan up from daycare and thought it would be nice to take him out to a dinner that he would enjoy (pancakes at the local diner). No sooner had our food been served that Brendan started acting up, backtalking when I asked him to pick up his place mat and yelling at me that he wanted me to pick it up. He then took a few swats at me. I have to admit that this was atypical behavior for him -- and that resulted in his being punished -- but the hatefulness, the lack of gratitude and thoughtlessness (even for a 5 year old) was cause for disappointment.

I love my child more than anything in the world; I would give up my very life if he needed it. And sometimes I feel like that is exactly what I do every day.

Invisible

It is 2009. Long after Dr. Martin Luther King marched and died. Long after Malcolm X urged insurrection. Long past Jim Crow and “separate but equal.” And, yet, racism is alive and well.

I live in Putnam County, which – despite being a mere 57 miles north of New York City – is still predominately white. I have gotten used to getting the side-eye when I am out with Big Bren. The second glances my bi-racial child garners have become second nature. They don’t bother me anymore. But, no matter how many times one experiences it, once cannot get used to racism, whether latent or blatant.

Two times this week, I have entered a restaurant, waited patiently to order and when it came to be my turn, was skipped over by the host/proprietor in favor of the white patrons behind me. In the first case, the white couple gently reminded the hostess that I was there first. In the second case, the young boys glanced over then proceeded to place their order. Both times, my blood boiled over. I felt marginalized; invisible. And while another, self-respecting Black person would have walked out, I opted to stay, choking on my anger, along with my food.

What was worse is that in the second instance this week, Big Bren was in the restaurant with me. And I felt comfortable enough to say to him, through gritted teeth, “what am I? Invisible?” Only to have him minimize my feelings and my anger by saying “You moved, that’s why he skipped over you.” “Yeah, I moved from second place to first place, when the woman in front of me finished placing her order!” Sarcastically: “Oh, it must be because you’re Black then.”

The tears welled up in my eyes; not just because of the indignity, but because, after 10 years together, here was something he would never understand. It felt like the scene from that movie, Something New, when Sanaa Lathan’s character was trying to vent to her white beau, played by Simon Baker, about some injustice at work and he blows her off, saying that he was tired of hearing Black people whine about prejudice and racism all the time.

Before this, I had never looked upon Big Bren as something other than me. When I filed a discrimination complaint against Zurich Insurance Company – my employer at the time – when they wouldn’t give me an accommodation after I gave birth that they had given to numerous white parents, he was unwavering in his support. And when the EEOC issued its finding that Zurich had discriminated against me, it felt like a vindication for us. It was us against the world. In a span of 10 seconds, he became part of that world and I was reduced to invisibility yet again.

Mindy, Mindy, Mindy (and Serendipity)

My BFF Mindy always jokes that I’ve put everyone on blast in my blog, except her. Well, today is your day, Min.

I was bitching to Mindy on the phone about how I am never the beneficiary of serendipity. Why can’t I stumble and land into a quarter-million dollar position like one of our friends? Why don’t amazing things happen to me?? Her head-scratching response: “You don’t make them happen.”

Woman, please, that defeats the purpose of “serendipity,” doesn’t it?

Mindy broke it down for me like this: There is no such thing as “luck.” What we call luck is really one’s approach to life. For instance, there could be three people in a diner. Unbeknownst to the others, one is a tycoon, capable of making great employment wishes come true. One person is a “Mirna” – she sits there drinking her coffee and eating her muffin without so much as looking up for fear that she’ll actually make eye contact with someone and have to speak to them. The other person is a “Miles” (our friend who landed the job) – he sits there smiling, looking around, just waiting for a chance to chat someone up.

In that situation, take a wild guess who would likely land the dream job? Yes, Miles. Simply because he was open. And even if he didn’t land a job that day, no doubt Miles would’ve asked for the tycoon’s number and continued to befriend him, thereby increasing his network and almost guaranteeing himself a better job. And as soon as he did, the “Mirna” would be on the phone whining about what a lucky bastard he was.

I’d never thought of it like that before. But Mindy is absolutely right. Sure, there are things that God seems to thrust in your path, but if you don’t pick them up and make them yours (your actions), they won’t happen. Think back to the things that you considered to have been serendipitous and focus in on the things that you did to make them so. Kinda makes you feel powerful, doesn’t it?

On Aging

I was tying Brendan's shoes when he suddenly grabbed my face in both of his hands. With the utmost concern, he says, "Mommy! You have cracks by your eyes. Is your face breaking or something!??"

After I stopped laughing, I realized that the true fountain of youth -- whether it removes the wrinkles that alarmed Brendan so much or not -- is being around a child. My boy has such an innocent, refreshing take on life.